Fern Thornvale

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Minuit danse

Blood filled Victoria’s mouth, its taste as rich as the last time she savoured it; better than anything both her mortal and undead life had ever offered her. But that wasn’t anyone’s blood—no, it was the only one she had sworn never to taste again.“Stop making that face,” grunted Frances, her palm pressing Victoria’s nape, leading her closer to her neck. “We both know you need it.”Hells, did she really have to be always right?Victoria sank her teeth deeper, the moan escaping Frances’s lips only making the taste sweeter.“Like that, Honey,” she panted. “Just…don’t take too much of it.”Honey. Victoria loved the sound of it, always had. It always made her…hungry.Her fingers clenched Frances’s coat, the velvet brocade warm and itchy against her palms before brushing her chin. She never liked that fabric, but at least this one was as black as ink, with flowers of a deep wine shade. Perfect for hiding the blood dripping from her lips.Victoria didn’t make such a mess of herself, usually. She preferred feeding herself from someone’s wrist than sinking her face into their neck. The first one gave both her and her companion control, along with the possibility of a clearer and less embarrassing change of their minds—not that many did—while this…this was intimate.Even more when France’s was the breath grazing her icy skin.It was ravenous, laboured, and it made her chest quiver in unison with her legs. “Victoria…” Frances moaned, her fingers curled into Victoria’s loose golden chignon to bring her even closer.The pins yielded, some even fell onto the floor with a clear ring, but Victoria couldn’t blame them. Not when another woman was working so hard against them. Not when she too wanted to surrender herself to that grip, to the hunger melting her core, and the starvation that only Frances’s blood could relieve…Her hips moved on their own, pressing her against Frances in a motion that felt as natural as breathing.As eating.“Closer…” Another moan grazed her ear, a caress Victoria couldn’t resist. “I need you closer.” Frances grabbed her wrist and let her naked fingers dance over it, seeping through the cerulean lace of her gloves until they joined the pins on the ground, and a chuckle filled the air. “You still use it.”Victoria didn’t need to turn to know how brightly her green eye shone in the dark, nor how wide and pleased her grin was. And she definitively didn’t want her to see the red colouring her face.She would never have used the hand cream if she had known Frances was there. Even less knowing her fingers would have glided along her palm and dragged it to her lips.“I missed this scent.” Teeth nibbled at Victoria’s sensitive skin, delicate and yet ravenous to sink deeper. “It always reminded me of pain d’épices.” Her tongue brushed over the bite. Shy at first, as if it too feared that touch, but once a ragged moan escaped Victoria’s throat, it became bold.Just as the thrusting of their hips.Frances cupped her hand, kissing it while her free arm circled her waist and her fingers sank into the countless layers of blue and pearly silk chiffon, clawing them until they closed around Victoria’s thigh, warm against it.How long has it been since the last time? Since life bloomed around her like the crackling hearth on a December night?Frances’s hand slipped under Victoria’s garter, pushing its lace aside as it guided her leg up her hip. Maybe it was because of the wine Victoria had drunk during the dinner, or maybe the beautiful and yet painful heels she was wearing, but she lost her balance, and despite her better judgement, she held even closer to Frances. Close enough for her warm hand to slip between her shameless folds.God, how much she had missed her touch…Her leg locked around Frances, her nails grazed her nape, and her teeth sank deeper into her neck.But before the blood and the low moans crashing against her palm could drown her wit in that pleasure only Frances’s vicinity could provoke in her, she felt it—the burning cold of blessed silver. It was only for an instant, but the piercing sting was more than enough for her wit to come back to her. Enough to remind her why she had sworn not to drink Frances Richter’s blood ever again.

She broke away, a crimson trickle still decorating the side of her mouth.“Victoria?” Frances panted.“We should part,” she said, slipping her leg and hand from Frances’s fingers; her voice calmer than what she had expected.For once, Frances had no words, only her brows knitted in surprise, but then it changed. What had once painted her face in surprise had now transformed into a frown, and before Victoria’s silver heel could touch the ceramic floor, Frances’s hand closed around her arm.“What—” A wail interrupted her as the silk slithered down her shoulder, the lace scratching and tearing her already tender skin.“You’re still injured,” Frances said, the judgement in her words as bright as the midday sun.The gash in her shoulder had just stopped bleeding, but that didn’t stop Victoria from jerking her arm away. “It will close on its own.”“No, it won’t, and you know it. Not when it was a blade soaked in holy water to cut you.”“And how would you know it?” Victoria snapped. Then it came—a frozen wind lashing over her spine. “It was one of you,” she murmured.“Victoria—”“I’m right, aren’t I?” Her eyes darted to the blade resting on her hip, its guard now exposed under her brocade coat like a star in the night sky. “You were hunting.”It was so obvious. Why else would she be at a ball? The same woman who liked corsets only on another woman, or even better, lay on the floor. The one who despised etiquette with such passion that she cut her own raven hair into a mullet so layered that not even all the pins in London would have been able to tame it into a bun. And Victoria had been too blind to see it. Too mesmerised by her figure under the chandelier’s light and intrigued by the unfamiliar black velvet eye-patch covering her right eye to even question her presence.Too stupid to remember that Frances Richter was a huntress.She took a step back, and without Frances’s fingers to keep her bun in place, a golden lock fell over her nape, caressing the space between her shoulder blades.“I can explain,” Frances cried, her right hand reaching for her. “Just—”“No.” She shrank back, a hiss parting her lips as she banged her injured shoulder against the wooden door. “You won’t talk yourself out of this. Not this time.”“This time?” Her jaw clenched. “You know what? Fine!” She closed the distance between them and slapped a hand on the doorknob while her other one rested on the wood above Victoria’s ear. “Go out. I’m sure there will be plenty of morons happy to separate your pretty face and neck.”Blood ran down Frances’s neck, a pulsing river tracing the profile of her collarbone before tumbling down the curve of her breast. The scent filled the air, drenching the small space with its notes of iron and liquorice, just as it had done to her shirt.“Remember not to cry when the hit won’t be swift, Honey. Some of them see it as an encouragement,” she breathed into her ear, and in an instant, Victoria’s mouth watered.She was close. Too close.Her warm pulse was a drum, a litany hailing her to feast in such offering and bathe in her scent until her own dress became the same burgundy shade as her eyes, and Frances was throwing in her face.She gritted her teeth and turned, her wit merely clinging to one last thought, and that was to escape whatever massacre was happening outside that door before giving birth to another one. But Frances’s hand was still on the doorknob, keeping her from opening it.“Don’t you hear the screams?” Frances said, a shake in her voice. “If you set a foot out of here, they will seize you. Chase you like an animal and—”“Let me go, Frances!” she growled.Obviously she could hear them; higher than Frances ever could. She could discern each word, each plea, and desperate cry craving its space under a dozen tickling heels. It was a bloodshed that froze her muscles and filled her chest with bile, but… She couldn’t stay, not with Frances’s warmth surrounding her when something inside her only wanted to tear her apart.

“I’ll kill you if you don’t let me go,” she panted, her words sloppy because of hunger.Then something banged against the door, heavy and sloppy.“Let me go!” a woman cried alongside the hinges before another hit broke her voice.Another vampire. One Victoria didn’t know by name, but the scent of camellia told her it was the young one who almost poured wine on her dress a few hours prior at the ball. She could almost picture her with every thud, from the wooden splinters getting caught in her silky black hair to the torn underskirt swaying over her lithe legs.Then a male voice made her stomach drop, one she had prayed to never hear again.“Stop squirming,” he grunted, the pressure against the door heavier.Nails dug into flesh, and heels scraped the floor in a desperate search for a hold while the scent of fear filled Victoria’s nostrils. “I beg y—”A whistle. A rattle. A dull thud.Each one of them echoed in Victoria’s ears; the piped song of a life taken getting louder and louder as blood covered the floor. It sank into every pore of the wooden floor, tracing the space between its boards until the geometric decor became a gruesome river.Victoria winced as it besieged her shoes, staining the silver threads crimson, but before a sound could escape her, Frances’s hand covered her mouth. She turned, just enough to meet her green eye, terror finally sinking into her bones.A hunter was on the other side of the door, and she was locked with nothing less than his sister. She wanted to laugh at the irony and curse her own stupidity for being in the same position that one year before had almost cost her life. The only difference was the way higher amount of clothes she and Frances had on.A tear fell from her left eye.She was about to die, and it was only her fault for having taken Frances’s hand after the silver blade of her dance partner had thrust into her shoulder and countless cries shattered the ballroom.And yet, Frances didn’t move. Her grip was still tight around the doorknob, her breath so light her chest barely moved against Victoria’s back, and her gaze was locked to the door.“Have you fond my sister?” the man asked from behind it.“Not yet, Claude,” answered another man.“And the vampire?” His voice was deep, authoritarian, so much so that even the blood reverberated with it.“Neither.”He clicked his tongue. “Continue the search and remember,” his voice lowered, “I want her alive.”Frances gritted her teeth, and a spark ignited her eye as she held Victoria closer.“You’re really obsessed with her, aren’t you?” scoffed the second man.“You’d do the same if one of those monsters sank their teeth into your family.” The door creaked under a weight, his weight.“Or maybe I would have cut her head off when I had the chance. You know, instead of letting her escape.”“I tried!” The door shook once more, this time from a kick. “And I would have done it if she hadn’t enthralled Frances.”Another cry shattered the air.“Have you heard?”“It seemed Paul… Let’s go help him.”Their steps grew distant, just like their voices, until they were nothing more than an indistinct hum beneath Victoria’s own heartbeat.She didn’t know how long she stared at the doorknob, waiting for the pit in her stomach to close or for the shake in her muscles to stop while a single thought echoed in her mind.They were searching for her.“Let's get you out of here.” Frances’s words whipped her back.“What?”“You heard them. They are searching for you, so you have to leave this place.” She untied the red ribbon in her hair and offered it to Victoria.“Did I drink too much of you? They were just here!”“Yes, but they aren’t anymore.” Her fingers grazed Victoria’s nape and tied the red ribbon around her dishevelled hair. “Now, be a good girl and follow me.”A laugh filled Victoria’s throat. After everything that had happened, did Frances really think she would have followed her? She must have really taken too much of her blood, and now…She was going to die. Again. And this time, it would have been forever. An indelible period to her already smudged life—

“Victoria!” Warm hands cupped her cheeks, forcing her clouded gaze upward.More tears burned behind her eyes, while her chest squeezed so much she could feel her ribs puncture her lungs. She wanted to scream—for the entire world to collapse and carry her away from that emerald eye that, despite everything, still made her feel hopeful.“Honey, I need you to look at me.”God, how much she loved the sound of that word on her lips, almost as much as she loved the way they curled around her name.“I can make you escape, but you need to stand up and run as you never did before.”Could she really do it? No, that wasn’t the right question. Would she? Yes, that was the right one.“I can’t trust you,” Victoria murmured, the sting of silver a ghost lingering above her leg.“You can.” She took off her eye patch, and the sight was enough for Victoria to boggle.Her eye, which once shone like the French meadows, was now a milky grey shade, lifeless just as the London fog Victoria had so desperately escaped from.“What happened?” she murmured, brushing the raven hair away from her forehead.“Claude. He…didn’t appreciate what he saw when he burst into our home.” She cupped her hand and guided it to her temple, above a relieved scar running toward her hair. “He wanted to teach me a lesson.”“Frances…” Her voice trembled as more tears joined the stream down her cheeks. “Why didn’t you—”“Tell you?” she scoffed, dragging Victoria’s hand to her lips. “Do I have to remind you what you said five minutes ago? You wouldn’t listen to me, Honey. But I need you to do it now. I know a way out of this place, one that the rest of the hunters ignore…but we have to be swift, and maybe you’re not ready yet to trust me, but…”More blood seized Victoria’s shoes, wet and warm under her soles.“Fine,” she breathed. “But if you betray me again…”“You’ll tear my throat. I know, Honey. And I hope you remember that I quite enjoy your lips on my neck.”“How could I ever forget it?” Victoria chuckled, lingering for a moment in the sound of their voices, admitting to herself how much she had missed it.“Are you ready?” Frances asked, brushing the back of Victoria’s hands.“Will it change anything if I told you no?”“Not this time.” She kissed her hand one last time and opened the door.They darted through the corridor, finding their way between lifeless limbs and blood puddles Victoria didn’t have the strength to look at. More than once the stench of death grappled her tongue, its resemblance to the madhouse she had once been confined in an unsettling reminder of the danger she was desperately running from. And then there was Frances, her hand soft around hers as she guided her through the palace. The halls once teeming with laughter and champagne now had streams of blood soaking the carpets, while cries and fruitless begs rose from below them.They continued running, and soon the cries dimmed, but instead of relief, the silence only made Victoria’s heart sink deeper.“We’re almost there,” said Frances, her stiffening muscles a proof of the same fear hanging in her mind.Silence wasn’t a sign of peace, but the start of another hunt. One dedicated to Victoria.“Here,” panted Frances, pushing Victoria against one of the few walls free of mirrors. “There is a passage behind the curtain. It will take you to the garden. There is a horse for you and—”“You’re not coming.” The words left Victoria’s lips. Not as a question, but as a statement.“I can’t,” said Frances, her eyes wet. “Someone has to close the passage.”“They’ll kill you!”“They won’t.” Her smile had never been so grim. “But only if you hurry and get as far as you can.”Victoria gulped. She knew better than to try persuading her, and her injured arm would prevent her from just dragging Frances with her, but…she couldn’t tell her goodbye, not yet.“Provence.”“What?”“Meet me in Provence. A month from now.” Her fingers closed around the fabric of her skirt. “I will listen to you then.”Frances’s eyes softened, and for a moment, nothing else mattered. Not the mouldy passage Victoria was about to enter, nor the clicking boots coming closer.Until Frances pushed her inside and the door closed between them.“See you in Provence, Honey.”

Credit to bard_inspired

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Song of Vengeance

Gileas’s hands trembled before his mind could even comprehend what was in front of him, before Iris’s words finally found meaning.Galatea’s hurt.His sister sat on the bed, holding her knees to her chest so tightly that he could see her hands’ tendons bulging under her white skin. A mixture of dried blood and dust clung to her eyebrow and broken lip, while red bruises covered her arms and neck, down to her collarbone in a gruesome mosaic.But none of those injuries tore his heart apart like her gaze. A white, wet void that didn’t move from the sheets even when Gileas sat at her side and the chair squeaked under his weight.He reached for her, but the moment his fingers brushed over her hair to check the cut on her forehead, she screamed.“No!” She jolted away from him, tears flowing down her cheeks as her fingers flexed over her thigh, searching for her dagger. But this time, it wasn’t there.“Sunshine,” he murmured, words swelling his throat. “It’s me, Gileas. Your brother.” He turned back to his changeling form, to the face that shared so much of her own, hoping she could recognise him even under the terror blurring her sight.“Gil?” Her voice was shaking just as much as the rest of her body. So much that the dark green shawl fell from her shoulders, showing her shirt, now dirty and torn beyond repair.He nodded and offered her his hand, waiting for her to take it.We found her in the alley.He held his breath and forced himself not to succumb to the urge to hold her and dry her cheeks, although images of her lying in her own blood crowded his mind. He wanted to check her injuries, but…that wasn’t the type of comfort she needed.Galatea reached for him, hesitant at first. More than once, her scratched fingers curled and her nails sank into her palm before taking his hand. But as his warmth surrounded her, she threw herself into his arms.“I’m here,” he whispered, holding her as she cried every tear she had left.
He lost count of how many times she called his name and asked for forgiveness, as if what had happened to her was her fault.“I tried to fight,” she sobbed.“I know.”Dirt had gathered under her broken nails, and her usual braid was now a tangled mess.“I called for help.” Her shoulders shook. “But—”They didn’t stop.He held her tighter. She didn’t need to say it, to tell him how they hit her to shut her up, nor how hard she had kicked trying to escape. He could feel it in his skin and bones, just like when they were children, and she hid from Morfir under her bed, waiting with tears in her eyes for their parents.And because he knew his little sister was a fighter.“Everything’s going to be alright,” Gileas murmured against her hair, his eyes burning.I’ll make them pay.

Gileas helped Galatea bathe, but although her tears had stopped, she was far from being fine.Not a moment passed without her trembling—not from the cold, he had assured the water was hot enough when Iris brought it, but for the same reason that made her rub her skin until it became red from the broken capillaries. The same that made him clench his jaw while brushing the alley filth away from her hair.They stayed silent the whole time, only the burning candles and splashing water filling the unfamiliar brothel room.That wasn’t his first time at the Velvet Inn, and yet Gileas had never visited the last room on the right, not that it seemed fit for that type of business. It was messy, with books scattered on a wonky desk and a simple bed on the opposite wall, way too small and visibly uncomfortable for two people to spend the night in. Its decorations had nothing to do with the turquoise tapestry in the one he usually visited with Iris, nor with the delicate shade of rose in Magnolia’s.Here everything seemed functional and…warm.Once the last knot untied under his brush, Gileas helped Galatea get out of the bathtub, holding her by the elbow every time her ankles yielded. He made her lie in bed and held her hand as she fell asleep until her breathing became regular and her fingers fell softly on the pillow.Before leaving the room, he turned back to his half-elf appearance and went downstairs to a silent brothel and ten curious eyes.“How is she?” asked Iris, her tail low.“She’s asleep.” He ran a hand through his now chocolate hair and rested it on the back of his neck. “Thank you for helping her. I don’t know what would have happened if—”“Don’t even say it,” she interrupted him. “We’re lucky Lawrence found her.”“Lawrence?”Iris nodded and pointed to a young man who sat on the edge of his chair. “He was the one who brought her inside.”Gileas glanced at him, his eyes lingering on the blood on his collar, her blood. “Did you see who did this to her?” he asked, his voice colder than he wanted.Lawrence shook his head and lowered his gaze. “They were already fleeing when I arrived.”“How many?”“Three.”“Did you see where they went?”“I didn’t look.” He pressed his lips into a thin line, his fists clenched. “I just ran to Galatea. She was bleeding, and…her eyes…”Gileas’s heart ached.He had seen her.Iris, Magnolia, none of the girls were a problem. All of them had known about their true nature for months—years in the owner’s case—without consequences, but him? Could he be trusted with their secret? With the white skin hiding under their illusion?“I thought I was too late.”Oh.Gileas took another look at him, at his sea-blue eyes peeking behind the messy mahogany hair, but all he could see in them was genuine worry for Galatea’s life.“You weren’t.” He sat in front of him. “We changelings don’t turn back only on the verge of death,” he continued, reaching for Lawrence’s glass.His fist relaxed. “I didn’t know.”Gileas shrugged, letting his half-elf form slip away, like an itchy blanket too annoying to keep on. “It’s not something we shout from the rooftops.”“I see…” He lowered his head and twisted his fingers. “Will she be fine?”Gileas took a sip of his, well, Lawrence’s drink.There wasn’t a simple answer. Galatea was strong, always had been, but…that was more she had ever had to endure. And despite his efforts, Gileas couldn’t stop thinking about how she jolted away from him.Something had broken inside her, he knew it had. Her light had dimmed, but…Lawrence didn’t need to know.He took another sip and finally answered, “She will.”

Five days, that’s how long it took Gileas to find the men who had attacked Galatea.Less than an hour to lure them into the grotto at the limit of the harbour.They weren’t from Grelzia, but sailors from a merchant ship that docked less than a week ago. They had already built a reputation among fishers and maids as randy men who didn’t know how to keep their hands to themselves, with oily skin and rotten teeth. But more importantly, men who died to tell everyone how fierce a changeling could be when dragged on her knees.Screams filled the grotto as Gileas dagger thrust into the first man’s thigh, their sick, drunken babbles still echoing in his ears. He could have killed them in an alley like the rats they were, but they deserved to suffer—they had to—and the grotto was the perfect place to do it undisturbed.No one ventured there at night.“What’s happening?” the second man screamed, his gaze darting over the rocky walls.“Nothing.” Gileas turned to him as the female disguise he had used to lure them slipped away, revealing his skin, white as sea foam. “I’m just giving you the fun I promised.” He jumped at him, forcing him to the ground, and pulled his hair to take a better look at him.Deep scratches marked his right side, from beneath the bandage covering his eye to his cheekbone.Galatea’s nails came back to Gileas’s mind, broken and bloody.The urge to gouge his healthy eye from its socket ran over his skin as he moved the blade over the scum’s face. He had been the one holding her as the others—No, he wouldn’t do it, not yet.Gileas’s dagger moved down his neck, lingering on it as despair built in the man’s face, before piercing his flesh, tearing first his shoulders’ and then his calves’ tendons.He wouldn’t give him the possibility to run, just as they hadn’t given her.
He turned, blood running down his blade, and searched the grotto’s darkness for the last animal that had hurt his sister.There was something eerie in it, in the way the sea reflected the moonlight over the walls, and how it curved around every stalactite. Peaceful, if it hadn’t been for the cries of the men he had already incapacitated.Nor for the laboured breath of the one trying to escape.Gileas followed it deeper into the grotto, where the rock was wet and water dripped from the ceiling. Where not even the bravest kids ventured, and it was there that he found him, cowering inside a niche with hands over his head.“There you are.”After that, there was only blood, slick and warm around his fingers, bones cracking against the rock, and limbs wilting under his palms.He didn’t listen to their pleas as his dagger thrust and turned in their flesh. The only thing that mattered was the terror in their eyes, and even then, it wasn’t enough. It couldn’t quench his thirst for justice. Not when it was nothing more than a mere fraction of the fear he had seen in Galatea’s eyes as she jolted away from him.Not when he could still feel her trembling in his arms.Only when their remains sank into the sea did Gileas feel the tension leave his body. The image of his sister’s blood covering the alley’s pebbles was still there, along with her skin reddened by the sponge and her hollow eyes, but for the first time in days, he genuinely believed it would fade with time.And maybe the same would happen to her suffering, leaving behind only a small scar on her eyebrow.Tears found their way through his lashes as the weight he had tried so hard to ignore crushed his chest with renewed strength.He hadn’t kept his promise to their father.

Credits to Jukyu Sama

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