Neko

Col Legno

To strike the strings of a violin with the wood of the bow.

My name is Rosalie Déclin, and this is the story of how my great love ended in murder.

In those faraway days, I was sure of but one thing: the only eternity was in death. I was not upset with my life, of course. I could even be called happy. I played the violin, and I was good at it, and well-liked enough by friends and acquaintances. I lived with my parents, who were kind but distant, and I had a fortunate enough upbringing. I had nothing to complain of, and no one had ever hurt me. I could even be called comfortably selfish. No, this desire did not come from some great and terrible agony. I was not afraid.

I wasn't unhappy.

I just wanted to die.

I wanted it like a lover wants a lover, like a flower wants plucking. On the night of the ball... Yes, on that fateful night, not long after my twenty-second birthday...

I smiled to myself, a little grimly, as I dreamt of it, slicking rosin down the length of my horsehair. I was to go out and dance, that night, at the castle that overlooked the village on the stark horizon. It had been some years since the last masque ball at the Laroche Palace, and all the girls in town were abuzz at the idea of mingling with the nobles, as their balls were famously open to all, on the condition of anonymity— always an enticing, romantic thing. I liked the idea of being a beautiful, mysterious masked unknown.

Perhaps my playing would attract a tall, mysterious stranger with poison on their lips. Or some other darkly romantic fate, some concealed blade. I had fantasized in a thousand ways to do it. Thrown from the balcony by a pretty woman and landing in the middle of a crowd, perhaps... Certainly memorable, but not intimate. No, I wanted to be held, and fade into that great stillness, pressed and preserved, eternally beautiful. Death!

I could hardly call it suicidal, as premeditating my own end was disgusting to me; I’d never dream of it. It was solely a romantic fantasy. It could only be a crime of great passion.

Yes, that night, as cloying moonlight made silver the sky... I did up my shoulder-length sleek black hair in a boyish ponytail and pressed to my face the ornate little mask I had purchased, lined in tickling feathers, and the same dark color as my modest black suit; I laced tightly my thigh-high sharp-toed leather boots, then placed my violin in its case and strung it up on my back. I looked somewhat androgynous, which I liked; I needed nothing else but myself and my instrument; the night was waiting, and I would be her great mystery.

I knew I would not die that night, but still, I wished. I sighed, dreamily, at the thought of such a great and lovely romance.

“Mama, I am taking the carriage,” I nodded to my mother, standing in the doorway. “I will return in the morning.” She sniffed at me, appraising. “So you're off to the Laroche ball? About time you found a betrothed. And find someone of good blood, too. Lord knows we need an inheritance in this family,” the woman replied. “And I just wish you'd dress nicer... It's not ladylike! You’ll thank me when you're an old woman.”

Always a point of contention! Sometimes she felt like a stranger. I rolled my eyes; if it was true love, I wouldn't ever grow any older. “Thank you, mama.” I spoke curtly and left quickly, and hitched their old mare, Fortune, and we were off down the old dirt road and watched by the moon.

The Laroches had not held their ball in some decades’ time, but their dances were the stuff of legend and rumour: grand feasts with open attendance to anyone well-dressed and well-obscured. A time for love, masks, red wine and frenzy. ‘A good place to die,’ I thought, secretly. But even if that did not happen... I would enjoy myself, my violin and I. The forested path widened, as if the night itself beckoned me to the bright and lovely palace, like a flame caught in stone. “Ya!” I exclaimed, prompting Fortune’s trot to quicken to a canter.

I arrived shortly after. “Good evening. Our lady has been expecting you. You have been... chosen,” a masked servant bowed to me as I caught up with the crowd squeezing into the spacious old castle. He was well-dressed, and looked about thirty, with pale skin and long black hair, though I couldn't get a good look at his eyes... And what a strange thing to say! The nature of this event, was, of course, that everyone could come. That is to say, there were no invitations, and I certainly had not received any in the mail. Chosen! It must have been a mistake, but I had hardly the want to correct him. “Thank you, sir.”

In the midst of silence, he continued, solemnly: “Eat, drink, and make merry, but always wear your mask. No names are to be spoken, even your own. And what our lady wishes, she will have. Those are our terms. Do you agree to them?” It was as if everything had grown silent around me but his voice, even as other mouths were still moving. “I agree,” I nodded, and all the noise and thrum returned to the air in an instant, as if it had never gone quiet, heralded with the sound of piano. And there I was, in that golden, glowing hall, violin in hand.

The stage in the entrance-hall was as open as the palace doors, and anyone who fancied themself a performer could play. And I sat in a nearby cushiony chair, legs elegantly crossed, and watched the masked pianist, a ghost-pale woman who looked a little older than me, dressed in red, with a lion’s mane of golden ringlets, pour her fingers over the keys, a wall of music like a wanton sob. She was a dreadful player, really, with clumsy fingers. But she was beautiful, in a strangely captivating sort of way. I smiled, and pulled the violin from my case with a flourish, and wordlessly, I played, bow wailing across the string along with the concerto in a calculated way, a sort of domination. A dance. Music.

I realized, midway through my improvised piece, that my pianist had stopped playing, and was staring through the ornate, expensive looking mask with inquisitive, burning eyes. A flicker of red on pale blue, a flicker of danger and desire. The woman said nothing, and left, smiling to herself: perhaps my domination was not so sure. The violin stopped with a sharp, abrupt accidental, and I chased her into the ballroom in a fury. “Come back! Our duet is not complete!” I shouted, but my voice, and the girl, were lost in the crowd, this place of gold. I knew that the pianist, that strange dissonant chord— this was the woman who would snuff my light. I knew it like an instinct: my death lay in these palace walls. I had seen it in her wicked, thirsting stare. How could she have disappeared?! I gazed across the ballroom, searching every face and finding only masks.

“Oh, hello! It's you!” I jumped as I felt two arms grabbing me in an unexpected hug, and recognized the voice as my neighbor’s friendly daughter Marguerite. Of course, the pact of anonymity meant we could not acknowledge this, so I merely nodded politely. “Good evening. Shall we dance?” And so, we danced, a casual affair, but I took little joy in it. All I felt was yearning. Yearning for the girl... The pianist, wherever she was...

“Spin me around!” Marguerite giggled. “So you're already two wine glasses-deep,” I said, wryly. “The gates only just opened an hour ago.” She snorted disdainfully. “Well, aren't you the fun brigade. Did my father tell you to lecture me?”

“You’re not meant to act so familiar at a masque,” I replied, plainly, and spun the girl round. It was a silly, uncommitted dance at most; I was thankful for the excuse to break away when Marguerite caught a fancy for a nearby young man with an expensive suit.

Marguerite was a sweet girl, a shallow girl, soft edges. She would never kill me, and she was never so serious. No passion. I would keep looking; so young was my night. I partook in bread, wine, and fig, and when satisfied, I collected up my instrument, and wandered the ballrooms and halls, lost in the warm sparkling honeygold and laughter, as it grew labyrinthine. That girl... Surely she was somewhere.

Where was ‘somewhere’? It struck me then that I had grown quite lost, in an area of the palace I could not place.

“You've wandered quite far afield, my handsome fiddler... It is you, right?”

I whirled around.

And there she was, waving a feathered, red and gold fan demurely, hiding her smiling lips. “You remembered me,” I smiled a little, somewhat pleased by that. “Of course I did. I chose you. That is why I had to lure you so deep inside. Indeed, we must speak alone.” It was an odd response. And so, I responded, stonefaced: “So you are the lady of the house... Madame Constance Laroche. Why did you run off? Afraid I would recognize what you were?”

“You’re not meant to act so familiar at a masque,” the girl echoed, lowering the fan slightly. Her smile was thin, toothy, sharp. “Or speak any names. Didn’t the doorman tell you my rules? It's too intimate. My masque balls are for strangers’ lips and fleeting love!”

I replied: “It's far less intimate than our little duet. After such a performance, anyone would know who you are, madame... Really, I ought to kill you for leaving so soon. It's no way to treat a guest.”

“Ah, yes, that was uncouth of me. And such a pretty song you have, too,” her gloved fingers playfully took my hand and held it up to the candlelight like a toy. I was being studied, I realized, and a thrill of lovely fear shivered up my arm. “The sort of song I’ve been looking for. You ought to record it.”

“Isn't it better, knowing it was just for you?” I tilted my head, a subtle flirtation. “It's dreadful,” Constance replied. “Just dreadful. Lovely things ought to last.”

“You're funny,” I laughed. “All I wanted was a dance.”

“Aha! Yes. Yes, we must dance, my darling.” And so, Constance pulled me close, hands cold against the small of my back, so close I could feel her icy breath, that fatal sigh, and we spun wildly, elegantly, silk and lace in a whirling fever, closer and closer.

I, that withering, needful rose, stole a kiss.

“Ah, my dearest love,” Constance whispered. “The deal is made. My pressed flower. Finally, I shall have you.”

Everything began to blur into nothing, as if some great and terrible spell had taken hold of me, all sleeping beauty briars and snares, held tight in Constance’s arms. I thought briefly, delightedly, that I was dying; the lady knelt down to kiss my neck with a soft expression. My head was spinning with terror and love. My greatest wish was...!

“Kill me,” I whispered. “Now.”

She drank.

La petit mort.

And it was over.

...

It wasn't.

I awoke on a bed somewhere dark and drafty, dirt strewn in my hair. My violin and a pitcher of water had been left near the tiny bed like an apology, and my neck felt warm and wet. I remembered a vague blur of teeth and slavering maws. And the dance... The piano, the girl! It all rushed back as my fingers alighted on the crimson-damp bandages around my throat. Oh, where was I? I reached out in the dark: bars. A cage. She had drugged me, captured me, something...! Panic throbbed in my chest.

‘She drank,’ another, horrified voice whispered to me. ‘She drank and did not kill.’

“So you’ve awakened,” someone chuckled, and I recognized it as the voice of the doorman. “Perhaps this one will appease her.” He laughed, then, like he told a particularly cruel joke. “Where am I?” I snapped. The well-dressed man responded: “Laroche Palace, of course. Where else? I do apologize if Lady Constance acted uncouth at the ball. I’m afraid she’s grown rather spoiled. It is... most unbecoming of her. But it is no matter. She’ll be pleased to hear you've awoken.”

“She's a vampyre.” It wasn't a question. Everyone knew the awful stories, stories of those beasts of blood and plague and terror. She drank of me, did she not? ‘Then why...’ My voice cracked. “Why didn't she kill me?”

He laughed and didn't answer, disappearing up the staircase. I waited about fifteen minutes, unsure what was to follow, until I heard light footsteps echoing down the catacomb stairs. Constance’s dress bunched up in her pale fists as she rushed through the stone doorway, an expression of pure excitement “My darling! Oh, you are awake! Antonin told me!” With the clarity of dawn, that pretty pianist...

I laughed. She just looked so foolish. Doll-like, girlish, with pale ringlets bouncing and heavylashed eyes huge and wide with shock. I felt in that moment a strange and overwhelming pity, a deep sympathy stirring inside me that would only bloom with time, and would only make the killing all the sweeter. She was so shallow and so pretty, and she couldn't abide it. I had never been more in love with her. For some reason, I found this all the more alluring than the danger she had posed.

I sniffed. “If you're going to keep me alive, at least let me have a proper room.”

“Yes, yes, that is to come. I did choose you. I knew, in my night-flights, when I saw you...! You are that person... My lover of destiny...!” she stammered, looking so flustered that perhaps her cheeks would be pink if there were any blood to redden them. “Ah, this is all so messy... I apologize for putting you in the catacomb, but it really is the best place. It's safer this way. This way we can grow accustomed to each other.” She reached a delicate porcelain-colored hand through the bars. I slapped it away without hesitation. “How cruel... Well, I should like to let you go free, and experience our lovely palace. But I have terms and obligations for you to follow. I would like an agreement before we proceed.” There was a rare sharpness there.

I nodded. “Go ahead, then.”

‘Our palace...?’

She cleared her throat, fangs so obvious now that I was looking. “Firstly: you are not to leave the palace. I will provide all you need. I have already written a letter to your family telling them you're eloping with a lovely nobleman, along with your horse and carriage and a large sum of money, so you needn’t worry-”

“I don't care. I will not leave. I swear that I shall die here,” I smiled. Constance raised an eyebrow. “Don't think I didn't notice the ambiguity. You won't weasel out of this with suicide.”

“I won't kill myself,” I replied, pleasantly. “Continue.”

“Secondly, you are to play your violin for me nightly,” she sniffed. “And we are to be lovers. I will court you with all manner of things. We shall dance, and read books in my study, and oh, the music we’ll make...! We shall have tea and coffee and wine and any exotic food you could wish for. Ask Antonin and he will provide everything. You will live in luxury. Yes, we shall be lovers...”

“I could have been your lover the moment we met, Constance,” I hissed out the words with as much loving discipline as I could. “...But I will not play for you.” To prove a point, maybe. Her smile faded. I continued: “And thirdly? There's always a thirdly.”

Her hands twitched slightly. “Ah, yes. Thirdly. Thirdly, I may drink from you, but I shall not kill you. And to sweeten these terms... If I like you very much, you will receive the gift of eternal life. Isn't that so wonderful, my love?”

“Eternal life? Eternal life?! You were supposed to kill me!” I howled in frustration, fists crashing against the bars of the cage dividing us. “I wanted you to...!”

“But I like you,” Constance frowned, wide crystal-eyes dampening like a child deprived of a toy. “That’s not love,” my voice came out frost-covered and wintery. “It's not what I wanted.”

“It is to me! Because I have fallen in love with you, and I shall love you forever!” she wailed. “Oh, you must play for me. I won't let you go until you play your violin. Go, take it from the corner of your cell. I left it for you.”

I had half a mind to smash it on the dusty stone floor, but I abstained. Gingerly, I took the instrument from its case, delicately held the bow, and with a sharp flourish, made the worst, most dissonant sound I could, bow striking string, a screech of contempt.

I was in love with her, too, and that was what was so cruel about it. But this was my only instrument of leverage. My bargaining chip.

“Oh dear. It seems like I’ve forgotten how.” My face contorted into the most wicked grin I could muster, and I turned my neck upwards in flirtation. “Perhaps it would be better to end it here.”

Constance’s eyes burned with leashed fury. “So be it. Perhaps you’ll change your tune tomorrow night.” She turned and tried not to look back as she stormed out of the catacomb, empty and echoing.

I had never been so in love. Oh, if only she had killed me!

And so I waited, silent, peering into the darkness, until I drifted to sleep again, dreaming of my kiss of death. I thought I heard distant whispers and laughter, deeper in the catacombs, but it must have been my fitful imagination. Food was delivered to me when I woke, large, warm, and moist slices of glazed ham and buttered toast served with gold cutlery, hardly befitting a locked cage in a dungeon. I partook, begrudgingly grateful. “Did your lady send this, Antonin?” I muttered, chewing, eyes fixed on the wall. “Yes. It is simply a modest breakfast... Madame Laroche sees to it her guests are well cared for. No danger will befall you,” he nodded. “I do suggest becoming amenable to her whims. She is a generous master.”

“Are you a vampyre, too?” my eyes narrowed. “I am simply her humble servant,” he said, a warning in his voice. “It is no concern of yours.” ‘Perhaps he is a thrall, hoping for eternal life...’ I laughed to myself. ‘I wonder what she promised him. Fool...’

He frowned, and continued: “She will be coming to visit, now that your needs are attended to. Try to play along, won't you? The lady is just dreadful when she's enraged.”

“I will do no such thing,” I said, steadily. But when I looked behind me, he was already gone. “But, ah... Tell her I am thankful for the meal.” I felt a sort of trust for him, a kinship of sorts.

Within the hour, Constance arrived, as forwarned. “Oh, my Rosalie, I do apologize for yesterday. I... I...” She took a dramatic shuddery breath. “I should have realized you were so sad! I must know who treated you so poorly, for you to wish such awful things! Please,” she sniffled, a little pathetically. “Because I am so in love with you. You mustn’t die. I should have said that properly! But I understand, now. I will show you that the world is not so worthy of despair. I said I would give you everything, did I not?”

I laughed and laughed, a harsh, barking sound. “You think I’m some suicidal wench? No, my life was quite alright. What I wanted was romance! I wanted you!” Constance dabbed her wetting, bloody eyes with a stained handkerchief. “You speak madness...”

“Haven't you seen Romeo and Juliet? Their greatest act of love was to die. Young and tragic. Never parted. Their love was an eternal one! We remember their story because they died.” Yes, I thought. It was the only irrevocable act of devotion. Lovers could part, wounds could be mended, kisses forgotten. But a death, a murder could not be recanted; I would never draw breath again. Loved, forever, eternally, soaked in the deathlust. Absolution. I desired Constance far too much, now, and I could have nothing else. “And I will not ever kill myself. It has to be love. It has to. And... And I’ll only be your lover if you swear to kill me! Let me go, and maybe I will play that stupid violin. With bloody fingers, maybe. It is the only thing I want! To be yours, irrevocably!”

“Let you go?” Constance frowned. “I’ve already told you, I won't unless I get to turn—”

“It is the only way we can be lovers,” I said, coldly. “Because I really do love you. I’ll be yours. I’ll be your precious thing. It will be everything we want... In the meantime. I’ll let you relish it all, just as I shall. But you must kill me. Eventually.”

“You’re being very cruel again,” Constance pouted.

“These are the only conditions I offer. You said you wanted a lover, and lovers we shall be,” I smiled, pleasantly. “It's not cruel. I’m capitulating. It is something that I too desire.”

“I won't kill you,” Constance’s fists went somehow even whiter as they clenched.

“I won't negotiate further until I am free,” I maintained, though inside my heart was hammering. “But I really do want this. I want to be your lover. I knew at the masque...”

I watched, pleased, as Constance’s eyes widened. “Oh, Rosalie... Just so we may negotiate later, of course... I can make an arrangement, I suppose... I feel just awful seeing you sitting on that dusty floor.” I could taste the desperation, that promise of love, as the vampyre fiddled for the rusty key. She thirsted for it, and she would give anything for that companionship. “You truly... feel the same way?”

Despite the extravagant balls, the servants, the riches... I knew a sad, lonely girl when I saw one. And despite myself, that seed of sympathy germinated, quietly inside. So I spoke truly, voice hush: “We danced, didn't we? I chased you through the palace just to know your name.”

‘That is why I wanted you to be the one...’

The vampyre yearned, and almost faltered there.

A last resistance: “You're pretending, I know it,” Constance huffed defensively.

“Would I have kissed you if I was?”

This biting comment seemed to unleash something raw and wanting in the vampyre, and she swung the rusty gate of the cage open at once and drew me up in her arms, clutching at me possessively. I kissed her cold mouth, needily, and my lip was left bleeding after, teeth too hungry, and the taste thrilled me, red on pale skin. Closer than ever to bleeding into nothing.

“Then lovers we shall be!” She smiled. “Yes, you will be free to wander the palace.”

Perhaps I was a good negotiator after all.

“I simply must show you to your room. I spent all last night putting it together for you. It will have everything you could ever desire,” Constance said with a quiver of pride. “If you wish I’ll come spend the night with you. It can be our own little... slumber-party, like young girls always do.”

I wanted to laugh again. Was this creature truly so isolated?

“And we’ll talk about... about your life, later. When we're in a better mood. For talking about such solemn things,” she squeezed my hand too tightly as we ghosted up the staircase. The air of the castle felt almost fresh after the staleness of the catacomb.

I would stand with resolve. Some way or another, I would die. The vampyre had already given me some ground in this silent war. She was as poorly at negotiating as she was at piano.

My room was ornate, and the bed was too soft, piled with velvet pillows and a red blanket much too heavy and warm. A sheer curtain draped over its canopy, and there were no windows. Already I felt as though I were in a coffin... In other words, most suitable. There was a tiny polished wooden desk, with sheet music piled on top, a rather unsubtle prod. “So.” Constance said, pleasantly. “Do you like it?”

“It's hot in here, isn't it?” I tilted my head. “I thought a castle ought to be draftier.”

“The air gets still in some rooms,” the vampyre frowned. “Will it bother you? If you need to stay in my bedroom I really do not mind.” I couldn't help but to wonder if I was kept away from windows for a reason. “I’m fine, thank you,” I shrugged. “Is there anything else in the palace for me to see?”

“Oh, the study perhaps... And my beautiful garden. I am ever so proud of it. You didn't see it at the ball, did you?” Constance rocked back and forth on the bed. “You grew them yourself?” I asked. “Antonin does the gardening. I can't get any sun, you know...” she pouted. I realized that I had failed to consider that she was weakened by the sunlight.

I laughed again, sharply. “What sort of life is that? Sequestered away from the world. You don't even get your hands dirty!”

“What sort of life...? A good one. I get whatever I desire,” her voice turned stern and firm as she lay a frigid hand on my cheek. “I don't need the sun, or the outside world. And I’ve spent plenty of time in the dirt, thank you very much!”

I smiled, amused. “Fine, then. Take me to the garden.”

When we emerged into the castle courtyard, I realized with a shiver that it was night-time, the sky cast in dark shadow and moonlight. I was certain I had been sleeping through the night in the cell. But of course. Of course Constance would be asleep during the day. She had always visited at nightfall. Of course.

How long had I been out cold after the masque ball?

The vampyre was already making me much like herself. Without realizing, I had been made to adjust to nocturnal sleep in that sunless place, much like her own, avoiding the sun that weakened her power. It disgusted me. No, I would not have this eternity. At least in the garden I would see something that could rot.

Expanses upon expanses of rosebushes grew, prickly and crimson-black, a deep, rich color. I ran my fingers along the petals of the palest, weakest rose I could find. It still felt too perfect, too hale. Alive. “It's lovely, my Constance,” my voice came syrupy and fake.

The vampyre smiled, most endearingly, and I looked away, flushed. I could not hide my feelings, despite the nocturne-trap I was ensnared in. I wanted nothing more; she was so pretty, foolish... innocent. I picked at my bandages as Constance excitedly went to show me the chrysanthemums. God, but I had half a mind to pry them from my neck and expose the wound; to plead for her to sate herself on it.

How beautiful she looked in the moonlight, laughing and smiling and pleased with her new toy. Maybe, I thought, it could be alright. Here in the meantime. Things didn't need to end yet. Yet...

“And I pride myself on my lillies,” she grasped my hand, cold as ever, and ran so quickly up a tiny hill that I thought I might stumble, where a little pond reflected the full moon back like Narcissus’s greatest mirror-love. The lilies were pale white stars, shivering in the breeze. “I like to sit here, and watch the clouds pass by with stars in their bellies. Every night, before I go out to hunt..”

It was indeed beautiful. The sky was a rich blue velvet, and strewn with celestial glitter, only occluded by the puffs of white and grey. I didn't sit down just yet, though. “This garden is mostly immaculate. The plants are in good health. I assume you cull them... What do you do with dying flowers?”

Constance began: “Antonin brings them to me. Then I—”

“Nevermind. I don't want to hear,” I turned away. Constance let out a little sympathetic sigh, and I didn't need to look to see the aching expression in her eyes.

How pathetic. How lovely.

She showed me every flower in turn, and it was enjoyable enough. Constance informed me that Antonin would be serving us luncheon soon, and I quietly requested that he take it to me in my room so I may eat alone, to which the vampyre acquiesced. I had questions, after all, and I trusted the servant more than the mistress of the house.

“Your croque madame,” Antonin bowed. “And a coffee.” I ate it on the bed, and it was perfectly adequate enough. Hot and delicious. The servant turned to go. “Wait! Sit with me for a moment.”

“I hope you are not displeased, here,” the man said, his expression cold. A little chill went down my spine, as if the air turned cool around him.

“It's fine,” I said, defensively. “Tell Constance that her garden was lovely. I just figured... I’d get answers out of you more easily. For instance, why are you the only servant? No one else dwells in this castle.”

“Well, she is a vampyre. She thirsts. I’m sure you can surmise what happened,” he chuckled. “Do tell me if you need more milk in your coffee.”

“Black is fine. Why leave you alive?”

“I knew her parents well.” He smiled, then, strangely. “I became her caretaker after they passed. Nothing more.”

“How do I get her to kill me?”

He laughed, sharply. “No. She's too careful with her toys, after all the servants... And the first few brides she took home. Ha...”

“You're of no help, are you? I told her how much it meant to me.”

He arched his eyebrow, curiously. “Why, really? Why do you want this so terribly?”

“That ‘ultimate romance’... One that can never end, because the end has already been written. I need her, in this way. Why won't she understand?!” In a passionate rage, I tossed the coffee aside in frustration, smashing the cup against the wallpaper with a loud and unpleasant shatter. The deep black color almost looked like blood. I wanted her so terribly in a way she failed to satiate.

“But eternal life doesn't end either. That is her offer,” he said sternly, gathering up a rag to clean my mess. “The lady will not reconsider these terms. Cease your foolishness.”

I swallowed. “...You may go now.”

He laughed again. “Good luck, Rosalie. You're by far the most interesting of her guests.”

As promised, Constance spent the day sleeping in the bedroom, though it could hardly be called a slumber party. The pleasant coolness of her arms, tight around me, though... It was welcome enough.

The nights after that first taste of freedom were blurring together. I made a small effort to regain my diurnal schedule, but it was fruitless. I awoke at every nightfall, like it was always meant to be. It felt too warm in the golden castle, too close, even as cold fog choked out the windows and winter was nearing.

Constance took me on little excursions frequently, with nightly picnics on the grounds, and she made a great show of touring the study (lined wall to wall with pressed, preserved flowers, which disturbed me greatly for reasons I could hardly articulate). She drank from me about as frequently, always voraciously, but always so tightly controlled. No matter how my vision blurred and darkened, no matter how the ceiling seemed to spin before my eyes, no matter what, I always had air left to breathe and a heart that still beat. But for a moment, I could pretend. It was what I looked forward to most.

And maybe that was alright, for now.

She wasn't a terrible pianist, really. She liked to play for me in the hours that approached the dawn.

“Why do you always go to such great lengths to entertain me?” I often noticed that Constance seemed to be trying to convince herself that her castle was so exciting, just as much as she wanted to convince me. It was so strange and sad.

It was a golden birdcage, and both of us had been locked within. But I didn't much mind. Gold was a lovely color for a tomb.

“Isn't it what lovers do?” Constance clasped my hand as we ascended the stairs together. On this night, she was taking me up to her bedroom, which had sort of been unspokenly understood as private. Mine was, too, as Constance hardly ever visited after that awkward first ‘slumber party’ unless to collect me for some new planned outing. “This is my room. Please do not judge too harshly.”

The heavy door at the top of the spiral stairs swung open as if on its own, and I peered inside. Constance must have been using the same room since she had been very, very young, and it lay untouched, abandoned and pale, in contrast to the clean sparkle of the rest of the palace. An ornate, expensive dollhouse collected dust in the corner, and old, tiny dresses hung abandoned like ghosts in her massive wardrobe. “I may indeed have to judge, Constance,” I said, and giggled to myself. Constance frowned. “It's not that funny!”

I asked, “Shouldn't Antonin have cleaned this place up?” to which the vampyre snippily retorted, “He’s not allowed in here. It's mine.”

“I must be very special, then, vampyre.”

“We're lovers,” Constance smiled, again. “Lovers share all things. You have shared something very wonderful with me, after all.”

“I'm surprised you let me offer my blood up to you,” I allowed myself seduction, then, as we sat on the bed together, a hand creeping up to her chest.

“Isn't it nicer? To eat what is granted to me? I don't like to steal,” she smiled, leaning back and letting her thick golden ringlets spill over the pillow. We kissed for a moment, her lips that full fruit ripened of blood, Constance always biting at my mouth and flooding it with metallic red. Always so hungry.

“God, you're funny. Why don't you take what is granted, then? Drink of me,” I hissed, and she leaned upward and set herself upon my neck, goring through flesh. I winced in pain, fists clutching white-knuckle at her satin dress, letting out a little scream of delight. She wavered, a moment, pulling away, until I shoved her head closer to my neck. “Drink, fool. You haven't drank in a week,” I hissed, and she mumbled something I could not hear.

So there I was, lightheaded and fading. My breath came shallow. My pulse slowed. My eyes drifted upward in that familiar way, watching the ceiling spin, shrouded by the red, silken canopy over the bed. It would’ve been beautiful, I thought, if it ended here. If I just…

She pulled away again, wiping at her mouth with a handkerchief. I felt disappointed, but sufficiently indulged, dizzy with the near-death.

“I’ve never had anyone enjoy it like you do,” Constance said, after a moment. “Never, never. I suppose it is part of your strange suicidal wishes... No matter. As long as you live, I’ll have you forever.”

“You really don't have anyone else, do you?” I said, quietly. “How often do you leave this place, anyway?”

“I do! Mostly to get food. But I have you now. I have you, and that's all I need. When I was on the hunt, I saw you, several months ago, out on a night-walk. I would have taken you then, but I was captivated by you. And I thought...”

“How many have you taken? Just so you won't be alone?” I asked. “Why should I be any different?”

“It's never enough.” Her voice turned firmer and more frightening than I had ever heard before.

I had the sense that I was cutting somewhere deep. I coolly got up from the bed and picked up one of those little porcelain ladies, smudging the thin grey film off her face. “You don't even play with these dolls, do you...? Tell me, Constance... Why are you alone here, bearing up in isolation? I know you are not happy.”

Something broke in her expression and welled in her eyes. “I rule this place! It is mine, and mine alone! It is my gift!”

“...Your parents,” I whispered. “Is that why you act this way? How long...?”

“It was a necessary sacrifice,” she hissed, tears streaming down her face, that eternal child.

“Oh. You killed them? I suppose a starving animal will—”

“It wasn't like that! I wasn't such a horrible beast! I was human! A human girl! And I was terrified of dying. So I asked God to make me live forever. And something kept getting in our rooms at night, and some awful, awful sickness rampaged through the palace. A plague... Mother and father and me, and everyone... I thought I was being punished for asking for it. I’d wander out of bed, bleeding, praying for atonement.” She stared at the wall as she spoke, sniffling, unwilling to turn to meet my gaze.

“And we... We all died! Or at least I thought I did. But the vampyre who came to me... found me in my tomb, and explained it was the only way I could receive my special gift. And I became an immortal vampyre with an inherited fortune!” She wiped away the tears and her face confronted into a forced smile. “So I have everything I ever wanted. And I don't need parents, anyway. My servant takes care of everything. I’m a grown woman and I can feed myself. I barely even remember them anyway.” She scoffed. In her eyes, though... The cracked reflection of a young woman on the sickbed. Her story disgusted me. She had been robbed of something quite important.

I pitied her. More than pitied her. I felt horrible for her. Not just because she could not die, but... God, but I knew from the start of this great affair, she was dreadfully lonely, playing her song for me in the midst of a masked crowd of people who didn't care to know her.

Despite myself, I ached for her, that poor child of centuries.

Perhaps unwisely, I ceded ground: “Oh, poor, silly Constance, you are such a pitiful thing. How can I make you end my life, our love, when it is clearly all you have?”

“Rosalie...?”

“I too have no family, but my mother. My father died young and my twin sister was stillborn. Maybe it was fate we were to meet. Still I do not give you my consent to turn me, and I never shall. But I will remain by your side. I will abandon my fantasy of death for now. And perhaps you will find someone else, some nice boy, who wants what you want and loves you just as I do. Upon that day, I ask that you kill me. But until then, I shall concede to your terms.”

“Sweet, handsome Rosalie!” She sobbed joyfully, pouncing upon me with a flutter of kisses. “I knew you would see sense.” I could tell what she was thinking, of course— that I was the only one she would love to such lengths. But I had not surrendered the war just yet.

I just wanted to ease her pain, to lick her wounds. Then I would die without reservations. It was naught but a momentary emotional complication.

We parted after, perhaps a little awkwardly, and I kissed her hand chivalrously. “Please do join me for dinner,” Constance insisted. “An hour before sunrise.”

“I shall,” I promised, and in the meantime I holed up in the study. Over this short time, I had grown used to the palace’s layout as though I were in a second home. Perhaps earlier it would have disturbed me, but truly I had become happier than ever, indulged with pretty, shallow things. Perhaps I had lost myself.

Dinner was in the dark, dim hall, with maroon-painted walls and a sense of black in the air. I usually took my meals in my room, as this place felt so ostentatious.

A massive spread of food awaited me; I wondered briefly if she too would eat. But she had already eaten for the week, hadn't she? Before her was an ornate, empty dusty plate. Mine was piled high with extravagant broiled meats and glazed vegetables cooked in heaps and heaps of butter and fine spices from abroad. There was a large fish, too, still with the bones and eyes, and I recognized the species; it must have been caught at the docks near where I once lived. My glass had some red wine; it tasted like it had been aged for a very long time. There was a small cake at the center of the table.

The autumn rain poured down the windows, one of the few places I could taste the dying moonlight. “Well?” Constance eyed me, and I realized, embarrassed, that I had not sat down. “You made all of this for me?”

“I provide my lovers with fine things. I thought you knew by now.”

I knew all too well. I smiled and sat, and cut into my fish, savoring the crisp of its scaly skin. I ate in silence and I ate well, determined to finish all that she had given me as perhaps some fawning show of gratitude.

It was what lovers do.

Constance watched me, smiling, unblinking, pleased. I set down my fork and bowed my head. “To lovers,” we toasted, with the last of the old wine.

To lovers.

“We should eat together more often. I was so miserable when Antonin told me you were taking meals alone in your room...” she sighed.

“I shall accompany you, then. If it would please you,” I nodded. My realization that I was her only joy had been enough to lead me astray from my wish of death, at least for now, and I thirsted to make her happy. ‘Maybe it truly shall be eternal love’, a foolish, naive child inside me spoke. I thought she had died long ago.

“It would,” her blue eyes sparkled girlishly. “And my birthday is in about a month. Perhaps before my birthday dinner, I could hear you play your-”

I snapped back to reality. “No. I shall not play it. It is my only source of leverage, is it not?”

“It’s all trade to you, isn’t it? You’re so transactional,” Constance pouted.

“And you hold all the power,” I said, even-toned. “Playing it is the only thing you cannot force me to do.”

She blinked. “And what am I forcing you to do?”

“Nothing, my love. Good night,” I smiled, pleasantly, and it was somewhat the truth; if I had wished to leave, I would have found a way already. I kissed her on the lips and gathered myself up to go bathe and prepare for bed. Sunrise was soon, after all.

“Will we ever understand each other...?” she murmured as I left, mostly to herself. I hoped one day we would.

The next few weeks were odd. She was as affectionate as always, eyes always bright, and we had many sandwich-picnics in her garden and the surrounding woods at night. In many ways, she could be said to be quite normal.

But she was not drinking any-more, and that put a great and terrible feeling of dread in me. Perhaps it was a show of devotion, but should not a hungry animal feed? I did not wish her to starve; I had grown to love and enjoy those tender meals we shared.

Still she watched me eat every night. I realized, after a week, that she had been leaving the castle in our time apart, and that tasted bitter to me. I spoke to Antonin about it, briefly, but he was evasive. So set she must have become on trapping me here in this life, that she would not drink of me. And I found this hurtful; had she not loved my gift, my sustenance?

I did not realize, somehow, that she was out hunting, until that still and snowy night. I did not often realize when she had returned until she came to collect me for dinner, as I liked keeping to myself in my room; tonight I waited for her return, craving her kisses, missing her, my scythe. Her birthday was tonight, and I had made a point of being especially nice to her that week, amused by the way she delighted in my companionship.

I smiled to myself, hiding behind an ornate statue in that golden entrance hall, hoping to surprise her. But she did not return alone, and I was fortunate to be hidden. I was too stunned to move as I witnessed the scene that followed:

She was frightening in that moment, sharp nails gripping the nude, pale arm of a peasant girl, squirming in her grasp. “Where have you taken me, you madwoman?!” the girl shrieked; I recognized the voice of the village girl Marguerite. So long had it been, months and months, since we had last spoken! Despite myself I felt a pang of sympathy; a worse, gnarled part of me felt a shudder of jealousy.

“This is the Laroche Palace...! You're the one who took Rosalie!” the girl screamed. “Let me go!” Her wrist began to bleed in Constance’s grasp, weeping as she wept.

“She is already gone. She is mine forever, and she will never die,” Constance growled, voice low, and I ached; I was sick with it, this feeling, as she dragged Marguerite across the marble floor and pinned her arms to the ground, lips and fangs encroaching on her vulnerable, soft throat.

If only she could growl to me like that, cold breath alighting on the tiny hairs on my neck. I burned with it. I yearned; still my heart rebelled as she ripped at her neck like a vicious cat, relishing the tearing of flesh, blood pouring in a pool across the spotless, sparkling floor, rich and dark. Constance breathed a ragged, snarling breath and knelt to lap the blood from the floor, not even deigning to take it from the wound directly. It stained the front of her beautiful dress, made wet her hair. She looked monstrous.

And once more, I craved death like a lover. I craved her.

“You're nothing to her, foolish girl! She only loves me! And she stays with me out of choice!” Constance howled, as if trying to convince herself.

How could I have ever forsworn this desire of mine?I was hot with envy. I could not spend another moment alive. She was so willing to take from her, but never me; the anguish left a lump in my throat; I could have sobbed. Marguerite let out her last heaving sigh, red and white like death on the snow, and eyes dull and hazy.

She was dead, like she had never mattered at all.

Still did Constance kneel and hungrily tongue at the bloody mess she had left. I knew if I stayed much longer I would be caught, and I hardly wanted to be known as a voyeur. And so, while her mind was clouded with bloodthirst, I stole up to my room once more. I had to bleed my passion, and die that little death, at least to quiet the fury inside me. A temporary measure, and quite a useless one.

I was thankful that my lover provided me with so many roses, that I kept in a little glass vase filled with water beside my bed. My hands shook as I took the damp stem of the darkest rose out of its vessel, playing delicately with the petals for a moment, and then squeezed it, letting the thorns dig deeply into my palms as I clutched it close to my chest and imagined the pricking bite of Constance. I hissed through my teeth.

It was not death; it did not compare to what I had witnessed.

Some part of me had wondered if finally seeing such a thing, face to face, would quell the romantic inclinations I had inside me; instead, it had only made me want more.

I kept at this futile self-wounding, pressing the petals to my heart, until my palms had been torn up, streaked with blood, my eyes fixed on the violin, in its dusty little case in the corner of the room, never to be played. This was the moment Antonin opened the door with a quiet creak. In a panic at the sound of the servant’s heavy footsteps, I shoved the flower back into its vase.

“Constance wants you for dinner. You’d better clean yourself up.” He cleared his throat. “Yes, sir,” I nodded, eager to get some moonlight. I hadn't been outside today and the windows out to the snowcovered grounds outside the palace sounded sweeter than ever.

She seemed so very eager when I arrived at our dining room, piled high with sweets and pastries. All for me, probably; Constance was as full as a tick, and I’d never seen her partake in the food of mortals. Antonin was sitting at the end of the table, which was atypical, but I supposed since it was her birthday she wanted all of her friends here with her.

How sad. Just us two. Could a butler even be called a friend?

“Happy birthday,” I said, politely, hoping she wouldn't comment on my bandaged hands; I had decided if she did I would explain it as a gardening incident. We shared a chaste kiss and I sat to eat and make merry, numb to all but my wanting. I felt bad I had not prepared a gift for her; Antonin however gave her a diamond necklace, which she seemed pleased with.

“We shall end this meal with a toast,” he declared, readily pouring dark red wine into our empty glasses.

“Yes, and then I shall make my address, my dearest companions,” Constance said, decidedly, eyes sparkling. Antonin faltered, slightly; the expression in his eyes one I could not parse. “Very well,” he nodded, and lifted his glass. “To the good health and everlasting life of our lady Constance Laroche.”

“To love, and eternity,” Constance replied.

“To love,” I echoed, and we clinked our glasses together.

She cleared her throat, aglow silver and gold in the candlelight and moonlight. “I have something very special to announce on this most wonderful of days. My search for an eternal lover has ended.”

‘Has she met someone?’

“Rosalie, I have thought over the things you have said. That you would continue loving me and living until I found someone I loved more. In these past months, though, I have realized that I never shall. Rosalie, you are the only one who has stayed by my side, so determined to provide yourself to me, who has become more than a fleeting romance, but a dear friend. You stayed... You stayed for me, didn't you? You're the only one who has remained loyal.”

Antonin narrowed his eyes, and quietly sipped his wine.

“What are you saying?” I asked.

“You promised me, Rosalie. That you would stay until that day. Simply put, by the terms of the agreement we made, you must stay forever, because I will never love anyone more than I have come to love you. As such, I have elected to give you the eternal gift! I don't care if you never play your violin again. I will give up many things if it only means that you will be mine forever, my little bird.” She smiled. Like she was proud of her little loophole.

“Then you are a fool,” I hissed, and I set my glass on the table and walked away, even as she called my name.

I quite honestly meant to retire to my bed for the night, locking my door so she couldn't get in and force it on me. But by the time I reached the hall, I could see Constance and Antonin having a rather animated conversation in front of my bedroom door. She was waiting for me.

I was glad to be so good at hiding myself, that day.

“So you have made such a rash decision?! Don't you know she still wishes for the end? She’ll never stay. She pricks her hands with rose-thorns, pretending she's soon for the grave. I only wish to preserve your heart,” Antonin pulled her close to him, eyes brimming with sympathy. “Don't you see that this will only end in sorrow? ...Poor little doll.”

She pushed him away, eyes full of fire. “I won't hear of it. I order you to stop saying such things! You are my servant...!”

“Poor girl. You never understood, did you? That suicidal girl won't be saved. I let you play, but you will never have that pure, foolish lover-fantasy. She always intended to take it from you. You shall never have eternity! Never! You only have me!” He struck her in a rage, and she yelped like a hit dog.

Her pale hand ghosted to her cheek, eyes wetting. “You... You said it was a gift... When you arrived at the palace, and the sickness-! Oh, God damn you! You said it was a gift! So why... Why doesn't she want it?!”

He spoke as evenly as ever: “I gave it to you because your wish amused me. That is the truth of it.”

“No!”

“How many will you lock away in your dolls’-house before you admit that eternal love cannot be yours? You grow bored so quickly.” ‘Doll house...?’ Suddenly, I remembered the strange laughter in the catacombs. I thought I had dreamt it.

No. It could not be true.

“I will always love her!”

“Foolish child. You love only me.” He kissed her hand possessively, and in that moment, her rage was mine, and mine was hers. “Your sire, and your curse!”

How had I not known that he too was a vampyre? Her shadow, her haunting, always knowing everything. The monster in the window. The source of the plague.

Her sire.

Quite suddenly, she drew a carefully-whittled wooden stake from the frills of her skirt, hot with furious tears. And she plunged the makeshift weapon into his chest, pushing it further and further in as he convulsed, pushing him to the ground, over the little overlook and onto the floor at the base of the stairs up to my bedroom. She looked like she was going to tear him limb from limb with how feral she was, mouth frothing like a hound.

I had never seen such true hatred.

Whatever this was, it was premediated. A vampyre does not keep a killing-stake on their person without a reason.

I had seen enough; unlike with Marguerite I had enough sense in me to not see any romance in this. I ran, crying despite myself. It almost felt good knowing I was not entirely steeled to such horror. I loathed them both, this house of aged eternities.

He was laughing as he died, like it was all some cruel joke.

I had but one place to go, really. I needed to know everything.

The catacombs were dark as ever, but Antonin’s words had disturbed me greatly. The “doll house”... What fate awaited me, if I did not please her? Something told me that I was not the first that she had vowed to love eternally.

I had known from the start. I had known all along. Death was the only way.

And then I heard it again, like I had on that fitful night, trying to sleep: laughter and voices, creaking sounds, deep, deep underground. A tomb down the staircase.

Just what had she neglected to show me?

As I reached the end of the creaking stairs, a tiny candle beside me came to light on its own, and I jumped, yelping with surprise. But the light illuminated the surrounding area, revealing a great, old, wooden door before me. I opened it with great purpose in my heart, and before me I saw a large, dusty, pale room with pretty wallpaper and fanciful décor. A gold-rimmed mirror, a chaise-lounge and a little table sat in that long entrance-room, a layout I thought looked somewhat familiar in a way I could not place. The muffled voices were louder now, as if they were just beyond.

I shivered. It was colder than ever, here in the dim. I drew a shaking hand up to the dusty, golden doorknob of the elegant French doors, and swung them open to see endless, elegant halls. Slowly, I wandered, following the voices through the tiny labyrinth to another set of doors. It was darker, darker, yet darker, and every noise, every breath echoed. Whatever was making those noises almost definitely knew I was there, and the thought was chilling and strange.

I opened the doors with a creak to see a small dining hall, with a long table piled with food. And there sat, staring, six young and beautiful people. I realized that this dining-hall looked exactly like the main dining room of the little dollhouse in Constance’s childish bedroom. The hall, the doors, the entrance... Even the food was the same, and as I peered closer I realized that it was all wax.

The dolls.

“Hello?”

“Oh, so you have finally joined us. Or perhaps it was quicker than we expected,” the boy at the head of the table mused.

“She doesn't smell of vampyre,” hissed the girl at his left side. “Alice! Has she sent us food?” the girl across from her gasped, clasping her hands together in excitement. “Surely not,” the first spoke again. “She has forgotten about us. All of us.”

They were all vampyres.

“Have I interrupted something?” I asked, coolly, despite my racing nerves.

“Not at all. There is nothing to interrupt here but our suffering,” hissed the second vampyre, Alice. And she rose from her seat, eyes wild with delight and hunger and desperation. “Truthfully, I am glad of it! It is a mercy to us all.”

And the five of them rose from their seats, silent as shadows, and clustered around me. The first one grasped my wrist and lowered to drink of it, and I snatched my hand away. Perhaps a younger, more foolish version of myself would have been satisfied with this death. But I loved, now, really and truly, and knew my life had belonged to Constance since her eyes had peered through the masque.

My thirst would only be sated if it were her to fell me.

“We’ve been starving for so long!” One of the six vampyres howled in fury as I scrambled back through the doors to the entrance-hall. I tried to shut the doors on them, but their nocturnal strength overcame me. “Bound here by the sire’s spell, left to rot!” They flooded into the long, winding halls, ripping and grabbing and tearing at me, fang about to greet my flesh.

‘A spell?’

Of course. That was why they had not left! If I could only reach the main door, and close them inside, I would be safe of this death, this stagnation! They terrified me so, the face of immortality and what awaited me. “We only want a little drink!” They all shrieked in pandaemonium as I wrenched myself free of the grasp of these creatures. “Just one drink!” But the heavy wooden door, my sanctuary, loomed. I ran across the long hallway and I slammed the door behind me with a cacophanous bang, leaving the ravenous hoarde to their empty feast of wax. I ran up the stairs, my blood feeling icy.

This was what awaited me when she grew tired of me! Eternal boredom, eternal hunger!

To my horror, I found Constance waiting for me on the staircase, face streaked with tears and her white dress occluded with the red of Antonin. “You're not supposed to be here.” Her voice was stern, and cold as steel. For the first time, I was scared of her.

“How many.” I said. It was hardly a question.

“Excuse me?”

“How many lovers have you starved in there?”

“It wasn't true love! You're different. It's all different. I got rid of him. He's not going to keep us apart anymore,” she insisted. “You don't need to worry about... any of this, anymore. It’ll be us, forever.” Her voice then softened. “Are you... alright, my dearest love? Those savages have not hurt you, have they?”

“I am alright.”

“Oh, Rosalie...” she whispered. “Don’t you see that you are not like them?”

I snapped. “How dare you. How dare you force upon me a gift that you yourself loathe! That was forced upon you in turn!”

“I wanted this! And I want you!” In heartbroken rage, she slammed me against the crumbling stone wall with her vampyric strength, claws encroaching at my neck but too delicate to take. “And I will have you.” She was mad and feral now, and somehow aged by the murder she had committed. I could see the panting, slavering hunger in her eyes as her lips kissed at my neck, and I ached with longing. “I will have you. I won't let you leave this place until I do.”

And so I made a very foolish declaration.

“So we are at the precipice of eternity; I lay pliant in your hands. Perhaps this shall be an ultimatum. Either prove yourself my lover, or leave me forever wounded with the scar of betrayal. But make this choice now, and end our stalemate. I love you, Constance. So now is the time to see how it ends.”

“Then I will prove myself,” she whispered, empty, breath icy on my neck, and without hesitation ripped through my flesh like an animal. I had never felt higher, pain shooting through me with her kiss of death. I pleaded her to tear through everything, to eviscerate me, a final act of love. I was delirious with it, the darkness at the edge of my vision, that lightheaded, lovely drug!

Death!

And so I found myself fading in her arms. She wept over me indistinctly, distantly. ‘You have finally shown your devotion’, I wanted to whisper, to kiss her, but my throat was so ruined I could not speak. But finally, I was happy. And so, I went silently, smiling, feverish and unaware that she had gone to bite open her wrist, the obscene meal awaiting me.

And it was over.

...

Of course it wasn't.

I did not die. She’d never allow me.

I awoke in her dusty, girlish bedroom, mouth sick with the taste of blood, and colder and paler than I had ever been. As soon as I awoke, I knew, and I jumped from the bed she had laid me in, stomach heavy and sick. No. Never! She couldn't...

The remnants of last night's birthday dinner lay disgustingly on the carpet. I regurgitated again and again, as though my new, vampyric body simply rejected the mortal pleasures I had enjoyed. I was all horrible and thirsty and I couldn't stop shivering.

She knew what I had wanted, and still had made this grave betrayal.

She opened the door, smiling pleasantly, as I was throwing up a fourth time, and her smile quickly faded as she rushed to my side, rubbing my back. “I’m sorry, not everyone reacts like this to the turning, but it is common-”

“What have you done to me.”

She had found a way to take back death.

“Rosalie, please, it isn’t so terrible. The night shall be ours now!”

I pushed her away. “I can’t stand this stillness inside me... Why, Constance?! What have you done to me?!”

“It was the terms we agreed to!” She growled, claws digging into my shoulder; so unlike how she once was. Where once I saw deep, forlorn loneliness, now there was some great and horrible possessive urge inside her. She had claimed me as her property. My will, my self, did not matter.

It had all gone to rot, hadn’t it? So desperate to share her pain with someone else. Rotting without death; treading stagnant water! I broke from her grasp and howled with anguish, running through the corridors of the palace weeping. It was once unthinkable to me, but I needed to know if I could still die. And I found my way there, faster than she could follow me, overlooking the front of the great Laroche estate. Roughly, I hoisted myself over the railing and flew.

I did not die.

I hurt. The ringing in my ears nearly drowned Constance’s wail of sorrow and my bones ached with the impact, blood on the snow making a ring of crimson around my body. I thought I was going to throw up again, maybe... But I should have died, at that height.

I could not die.

Constance stood over me, having come to me with some vampyric speed. “You won’t leave. You promised!”

“Why...”

“You’d rather leave this world than love me,” her voice shook.

“I loved you! I wanted to die by you!” I shrieked, shrinking from her touch.

“Don't you see I can't live without you? You changed me.”

“But I cannot live!” I stumbled backwards on half-broken legs, scrambling to get away, like every touch would take me farther from mortality. To give into my desire for her would be to betray my greatest passion.

“... But you won’t die. Vampyres can’t, at least without a stake through the heart of faith and utmost hatred. It must be so... We cannot take our own lives. I could only kill the sire because I hated him so much. But I shall never hate you, and you shall never die. We’ll keep ourselves cloistered away here forever. Just us two. It is the eternal love you seek!” She was dragging me to my feet, hands firm and disciplinary. “Because you are so wonderful. You are not like the others. You sought to understand my loneliness...”

She had trapped me. My stomach roiled with hunger and disgust.

“I never understood you,” I snarled. “And you never understood me.”

“You’re coming back inside, Rosalie,” she hissed back, stern and quiet. “You’re acting foolish.” In my despair, I let her pull me back through the doors, bones still aching with the impact of the ground. Where else did I have to go? She had been spiralling since her birthday dinner, and I feared further incurring her wrath. But had I not already lost the one thing most important to me? I had little else to lose. In the entrance hall, where Marguerite’s body still lay in ruin- a reminder of all that had been lost- I broke from Constance’s grip with some new vampyric strength in me, and ran.

“Rosalie! God damn you! Just say you love me, that you give everything unto me! Then I will be naught but your servant!” In her commandeering rage, I heard a cool echo of the departed Antonin. What a pedigree of selfishness had been bred in these walls! What a horrible gift, passed down and down. “What else could you possibly desire? I have given you everything!”

No, she did not need companionship, and nothing could ever slake her thirst for it. The kind thing to do would be to give her the rest that she had denied me, that Antonin had denied her. In that horrible, cold, winter, I realized: that poor, sick girl had to pass on. It was a sad thing to realize.

I hated her as much as I wept for her. I ran to where the crumbling, dusty remains of the horrid Antonin lay, passing into earth, and collected up the stake that had fell him, making up the stairs and through the doorway at the top of it. My room... A poetic choice. The only place she ever let me have to myself. The only bit of autonomy. My room, my roses, my violin.

She flew up the stairs after me like a sheet, a ghost in the night, sobbing blood, teeth bared, rabid. “You’re ruining everything! All I’ve done is shown you kindness!” She crashed into the wall as she stumbled into the bedroom without that regard, and without hesitating or taking time to consider my actions, I set upon her, the carved, whittled wood so like an owl’s talon, straight to the heart. She stumbled backwards screaming, still impaled on the wooden point, a spluttering mess.

“You really hate me... that much?” Blood gurgled out of her mouth with each word. I looked away.

She was dying. It did not feel good to do this. It did not feel romantic, or beautiful.

“It is because I love you. I’m sorry.” I did not dare to meet her eyes as she collapsed on the ground, body crumpling like a shroud, as if her whole being was merely sheer fabric. “This is... ‘my gift’.”

My hands were shaking, covered in awful red, sticky and coagulating, cold, and I held aloft my violin and its bow. An act of hate, an act of love. “It was always your song,” I said, apologetically, sincerely, as she watched, wordless, dying. “I’ll play it for you. It's only right.” And so my bow caressed the strings, from memory resurrecting the duet we had once played, though the piano-keys no longer danced- the soundtrack to our beloathed eternities. The hatred had faded now, the final act now done. I was purified. My hands had never been so bloody.

“You... Thank you... I think I understand now.” And so, she departed with a bitter, cruel smile, faint and dim, blown away from me like a flickering candle in the wind. Must it end like this? Her body had become mist, and dissipated. Killed by my hand. Was it always so terrible? Murder... I felt ice running in my veins.

“Farewell... Constance.”

My song exhausted from me, I lifted my cherished violin in my filthy, filthy hands, let out a heaving sob, and smashed it to pieces on the stony floor.

It wasn't what I wanted. I was starting to think that nothing was.

Eternity stretched before me, and I had never felt so alone.