by Olivia Myers
Licked by a Vampire
by Olivia Myers
© 2015
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Copyright
First Original Edition, August 2015
Copyright © 2015 by Olivia Myers
Publisher: Soft Kiss Books
Contact: https://www.facebook.com/SoftKissBooks
This book is a work of fiction. All names, places, events, and situations have been created by the author. Any resemblance to actually people, living or dead, places, or events is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
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Chapter 1
If Imogen had her way, the girls of St. Nocturne’s would be more like her. Shy, modest, polite, gifted. After all, it was a college for the arts, where lovers of poetry and music and art could go to pursue their interests far away from the rude interruption of the world. This was at least the intention of its founders, who three hundred years ago had built the college, a small series of fairy-tale turrets and buildings, on a hilltop nestled in the wilderness. For a while it had been that kind of place. An isolated place, devoted to the pursuit of the good and the beautiful.
A crumpled wad of wet paper came whirling through the air, slapping the back of Imogen’s neck like a bee sting. Any other girl would have turned around to see who the attacker was, but not Imogen. She already knew. This was the bad part about St. Nocturne’s, and chief among the bad part was the group of girls sitting behind Imogen.
They called themselves the Golden Girls, and for Imogen they represented everything that was wrong with the college. There were four of them—prissy, self-entitled girls with too much money but not enough to buy even an ounce of manners or kindness. The Golden Girls didn’t think they needed manners. They were the hot shit. They were the foxy mamas of St. Nocturne’s: the girls strutting the hallways between lectures, linked arm-in-arm like a battering ram subduing lesser girls who wouldn’t get out of their way. The clacking of their heels on the parquet could be heard all the way from town. Their perfume—Chanel, Yves Sainte-Laurent, Gucci—could be smelled from the top of the mountain.
Supposedly, the Golden Girls were at St. Nocturne’s because they studied music. A few of them sang and played the guitar. One girl was rumored to play pretty decent piano.
But anyone who spent a long enough time at the university knew that their real art was in torturing the smarter, more intelligent girls. Imogen did not know why they even needed to study. They were already masters of their craft.
“Did I hear something?” Miss McReddy, the classics literature professor, adjusted her thick glasses and turned her questioning glance to her class. Her gaze rested on Imogen. The girl was a favorite of the professor and it was no wonder—Imogen lived for literature, for romance and for poetry. In this field, she was Miss McReddy’s chief ally. Now she knew that a response was expected from her.
“No, Professor,” Imogen said, still wincing from the pain of the spitball.
“Well, good.” The professor’s pumpkin face broke into a wide smile. “And now that I’ve found you, Imogen, perhaps you’d like to contribute something to the topic?”
Imogen cleared her throat, embarrassed. She’d been distracted by her tormentors and hadn’t heard what the discussion was covering. “Err, professor?”
Helpless giggles broke out behind her. Imogen felt her cheeks turning red.
“Our topic, Imogen,” the professor said. “We were discussing Catherine’s visit to the Tilneys’s estate. What do you think Austen is doing in this chapter?”
“Austen?” said Imogen, still trying furiously to focus herself and forget about the laughter increasing behind her.
“Jane Austen,” the professor said, annoyed. “The book is Northanger Abbey, Imogen. Did you do your reading?”
“Yes—I mean, well—yes,” Imogen fought out. Had she done the reading? The book sitting open on her desk stared up at her awkwardly, like a stranger she’d accidently made eye contact with. She picked it up like she didn’t know what it was, scratching pages aside furiously, trying to find her place.
The professor leaned her elbow against the wall and waited. “Well?”
“The visit to the Tilneys,” Imogen repeated. At last she found her place. “Yes—okay. Well, it’s the place in the book where Austen makes the most obvious distinction between reality and romance.”
“Reality and romance,” it was the professor’s turn to repeat. “How do you mean?”
“Just that up until this point, we’ve seen everything through Catherine’s eyes and she’s been treating her whole life like a gothic romance. And everything prior to this moment at the Tilneys’s has sort of been the kind of thing that she’s read about. When she gets to the estate, she expects that it will all come together and she’ll become like one of the heroines she’s been reading about.”
“And what does she find?” the professor asked. Her annoyance was gone.
“That it’s not the case,” Imogen said. “All of her romance is pushed aside by reality. I mean, that there aren’t really any dead bodies to be discovered or horrible family secrets. It’s as though Austen is offering a critique of the genre by anticipating the reader’s expectations and then saying that reality is more powerful. And if we ignore the reality, we sort of just wind up looking like idiots.”
Miss McReddy’s pumpkin face was smiling again. She closed her book. “Very good,” she said. “Spoken like a scholar.”
The giggling behind Imogen had subsided, although she was still flushed. She was already regretting having said as much as she did. The Golden Girls wouldn’t like it. She knew she’d be hearing from them after class. Silently, she prayed that the professor would continue the lecture so that she could avoid the confrontation. Oh please let it go on.
But the girls were gathering their packs, even as Miss McReddy attempted to make a last announcement. “Class! Class! Don’t forget—art and literature competition in just two weeks! Enter any piece you want, be it essay or song or dance, and you’ll have the opportunity to perform it for the entire school!”
But whether anyone was paying attention to the announcement was difficult to say. Imogen heard it but she was packing her own things and trying to hurry out of the class as fast as possible. She kept her head bowed to avoid eye contact with anyone, as though she were fleeing a room on fire.
She made it as far as the stairwell before a voice stopped her. “Where do you think you’re going?”
That voice. Imogen knew it well. But unlike other girls, when she heard it her heart didn’t stop in terror. Instead, it beat at double the rate, as if it were trying to sever its connection to her body. Imogen went hot. Her fingertips turned wet. She was filled with terror but her terror held a stronger, more passionate emotion. Desire.
Before Imogen could turn around, the backpack was yanked painfully off her shoulders and thrown aside. “Are you even gonna answer?”
It was now or never. She turned slowly and confronted the chief of the Golden Girls herself: Cassandra. Golden-haired Cassandra with the soft blue eyes and the delicately rounded face that old artists would have killed to paint. Cassandra of the pillow-soft lips. Cassandra and her chameleon mouth which could twist e
ffortlessly to form such favorites as the Fuck-Off Smile, the Twisted Grin, the Smoldering Curl, and countless others. The other Golden Girls followed her in suit but it was Cassandra and no one but Cassandra that Imogen saw.
“Well?”
“Well what?” Imogen said quietly.
“What was all that shit about in class?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The shit about Jane Austen. Do you think you’re smart or something?”
Imogen bowed her head. She didn’t want Cassandra to see how much the anger excited her, how much she desired to be abused like this.
“No,” she whispered.
“No what?”
“No, I don’t think I’m smart.”
Cassandra had scored a minor victory but she wouldn’t stop until she had more.
“Well then, what are you?”
“Nothing,” said Imogen. The Golden Girls bubbled again into giggles.
“Nothing?” Cassandra smirked, before shoving Imogen in the shoulder. Imogen weathered the blow like a tree but the human contact made her skin tingle. Oh God, please let her go away soon.
“Nothing?” Cassandra repeated. “You don’t feel like nothing. You’ve got a bony shoulder. And you don’t look like nothing. You’ve got that short, inky rat-hair.”
More giggles. The noise seemed to fuel Cassandra. “Hey, I think we’ve found a name for you. Our little rat. Our little rat-a-tat.”
“Rat-a-tat! Rat-a-tat,” the Golden Girls chanted. Imogen blushed, not for her own shame but for the Girls’. The name sounded hopelessly stupid coming from their little singsong voices. But it sounded different in Cassandra’s voice.
The chanting might have gone on for ten minutes, but it was clear that Cassandra was losing interest and that Imogen’s little torments would be short that day.
“All right, Rat-a-tat,” she said. “No more of that Jane Austen shit. The next time you open your mouth, you better shut it pretty damn quick unless you’d like us to do it for you. And keep that down,” Cassandra barked, forcing Imogen’s head back down. The Golden Girls, still pealing with bright giggles, swept down the hallway with a chorus of clacks. Imogen didn’t hear them. She was thinking about the sensation of Cassandra’s hand on her head. She would remember the feeling for the rest of the week.
Chapter 2
In the waning light of spring dusk, Imogen tramped down the stretch of road that led into town, past the ugly square apartments that always looked to her like large rectangles of moldy, grey cheese. She came to Main Street, and from Main Street she continued down until she arrived at another square building that could have been mistaken for a bomb shelter were it not for its flashing name: “The Corner Shop” and its illuminated, pink and yellow graphic of a pole dancer jiving on the letter “P.”
Imogen’s mother Helena was a veteran at the strip club. She’d worked as a dancer for years, using the money to help Imogen through St. Nocturne’s. Because her mother had always been open about her profession, Imogen respected her and did not think anything strange of dropping by, whether simply to say hello or, like tonight, to deliver a change of clothes that Helena had forgotten.
“Just set the bag anywhere, honey,” Helena said, her gaze fixed on the studio mirror in front of her and all her attention focused on the mascara of one particularly difficult eyelash. There were a few other strippers in the changing room, all of whom waved kindly at Imogen when she came in. They’d known her since she was a baby.
“Would you believe it?” Helena was talking in that perky, glittery tone of voice she always used in the club. “Hadn’t even started my shift yet when out of left field in comes a whole tray of vodka martinis, wha-um! straight into my boobs!”
“I packed jeans, and this sweater that I hope will fit,” Imogen replied.
“You’re a doll,” Helena beamed. “Without you I’d be left smelling like olives and Absolut which is positively the last thing you could possibly want after a night of performance.”
The eyelash painted, Helena turned her attention to coloring in her lips. “So, my sweet, do you have any plans for the evening?”
“Well, I was supposed to have a poetry meeting, but it was canceled. I think I might just find a table and read somewhere in the back until you’re done.”
“Feel free as a bird honey-pie,” her mother chimed. “Fuel that big, beautiful brain of yours.” It was the cherry-red mouth doing all of the talking now. Imogen didn’t even see her mother anymore. Only a pair of plump lips.
“But now that you mention read, my sweet,” the mouth said, “you might have better luck at the joint across the street. Darla was the one who made mention of it. Small, quiet, hole-in-the-wall place. Might be a better place if you’re gonna be spending the evening with Miss Jane Austen.”
“Do you remember the name?” Imogen was intrigued.
“Sure do. The Red Red Rose. Pretty nondescript but I think you’ll manage to find it.” The lips clicked shut with a little pop. “Let me know when you finish, honey pie.”
Chapter 3
The Red Red Rose hung back in the corner off of Main Street, like a prowler waiting for its prey. Imogen walked past it twice without realizing that she’d missed it. The third time, it was still difficult to make the tiny building out in the budding night. It was so intensely covered in shadow that if Imogen stared at it for thirty seconds she could see it melt back into the darkness.
Well, thought Imogen as she ventured inside, if I get murdered at least I’ll be buried in a nice tomb.
But inside, the Rose was lively, vibrant, and exciting in the way a place can be exciting without being obnoxious. It was something between a bar and a café. There were lounge chairs everywhere, darts, bookshelves crammed with old, frayed volumes centuries’ old, and a large fireplace. Very little of it was being enjoyed, however. There couldn’t have been more than twenty people in the place. Imogen liked it immediately.
“My, my,” said a voice. “Is that a stranger I spy?”
The lilting voice startled Imogen. It seemed to come from nowhere and yet it was as intimate a whisper. She might have even felt the breath in her ear.
“Where—” she began, but before she could finish the owner of the voice materialized in front of Imogen, as clear as day. Imogen’s breath caught. The girl was stunning. Drop dead gorgeous. Her hair was a sleek and long, her jeans sealed tightly around her perfect legs, and her face was carved to perfection, like a marble statue at one of the world’s great museums. But so pale! Imogen thought. Even in the half-light Imogen could see how bare and white the face was, as though it’d never seen daylight. It filled Imogen with a strange fascination.
“My pet,” the other girl frowned, “you look lost. I don’t like people being lost in my club.”
“Are you the owner?” Imogen blurted out. She realized she sounded stupid but it had been the first thing that came to mind.
“Owner and patron,” the other girl laughed again. The laugh made Imogen edgy and yet she smiled. It was too pretty a face not to smile at. The deep, chestnut-colored eyes and their rosy tint stared back at Imogen with wonder and a kind of awe. They made her skin tingle.
The girl continued, “And you’re a newbie I take it.”
“I just came in to read,” said Imogen. “My mom is working and I have to wait on her to drive us back to our house further down the road and well, she said this might be a good place to check out.”
“You’ve come to the right joint then. The best place and the best people,” the girl smiled again. “But I was being quite honest when I said I don’t like strangers. What’s your name?”
“Imogen,” she said hurriedly and put out a hand. The other girl stared at it and laughed again.
“Imogen,” she ignored the hand, running the name over her mouth, letting her tongue fork out on the last consonant.
“Imogen,” she said again, and kissed her on both cheeks, like a European.
Imogen could not b
elieve how soft the lips were. And how cold.
“Okay, Imogen. I’m Cerise. And now that we’re acquainted, it’s my duty to inform you that I don’t like people loitering around looking as uncomfortable as you.”
“Oh, sorry!”
“Yes,” Cerise nodded seriously. “Be sorry. And after you’re done being sorry, let me make you more comfortable. Is that okay?”
Imogen nodded and suppressed a giggle. Cerise’s strange talk made her feel a little confused and light-headed.
“Good. So we’ve established that you’re going to make yourself comfortable. If you’ll follow me, I’ll do my best to help the both of us out. Oh, and bring Jane Austen, too. She’ll be the life of the party.”
Imogen laughed again and hugged Northanger Abbey to her chest as she followed Cerise through the maze of plush lounge chairs and tables, into private back rooms where there other guests lingered, drinking out of glasses filled with a night-dark red wine. They passed into a small, circular room with a knee-high divan surrounding a table. A heavy Indian curtain partitioned off the room from the hall.
Imogen took a seat on the luscious couch and set her book on the table. Cerise told her to wait for her and flew out through the curtain, reemerging a moment later with two glasses of wine.
“You’re awfully friendly,” Imogen said, taking a dainty sip.
“Old-world hospitality,” clarified Cerise. “Thing about it is that I don’t run a club or bar. This is a meet-and-greet. Every guest is an occasion.”
“And are all the guests ‘shes’?” Imogen said. She’d observed as Cerise led her to the isolated room that everyone they’d passed had been female. And not just female, she thought now that she was reflecting on it. Female, like Cerise. Gorgeous. Intelligent-looking. And pale.
“Mostly,” Cerise said. “Put in a couple of brutish males and what do you get? Another sleazy hook-up joint. Put a male and a female in the same room and you can bet that they won’t be talking about Jane Austin in thirty minutes. With just us girls it’s as near to a paradise as we can get.”
