Heather Farthing's Blog - Posts Tagged "vampire"

I AM MOVING THIS TO ROYAL ROAD.

Blood Moon
by
Heather Farthing, (c)2024, all rights reserved

Chapter one

Chapter two

The broth is warm, fresh, meaty and full of iron. I’ve never tasted something so delicious, and I drink greedily from the water bottle. It is my whole world, my existence, and everything I want and need.

The woman with the vaguely European accent smiles.

“You have got to be the hungriest pup I have ever seen.”

Too soon, the water bottle is empty, but so am I. I want more. I need more.

“That’s enough!” she chides. “It’s all gone.”

That’s not good enough. There’s a noise in the back of my throat, and my jaws snapping at her fingers.

“No!” she snarls, swatting my cheek, hard enough to sting.

Tears start brimming at my eyes. What just happened? She…hit me?

“Oh, I’m sorry, love, but you can’t bite people when you don’t get what you want.”

But…I’m hungry.

“You need to go back to sleep, love. I think you’re getting grouchy.”

Didn’t I just wake up?

The woman is an elegant beauty in the prime of youth, with flawless porcelain skin and raven-black hair, done up in a graceful bun, showing off her swan-like neck. Her dress is beaded black, like something from the twenties or older, gauzy and shimmery.

I whimper again and reach for the water bottle, set on an ornate redwood side table.

“You’re going to make yourself sick like that,” she protests, moving it away from me.

“Zinovia,” a second voice calls from the door. “How is he this evening?”

The woman stands up and curtsies politely. “Hungry, mistress. And a bit…bitey.”

“Hmm…well, do see that the biting is kept to a minimum. It wouldn’t do to have more…accidents.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

Mistress? I didn’t think we did the “master and servant” thing here in the United States. But the accents…maybe they’re from somewhere else?

The small woman at the door can’t be more than twenty, but she carries the same weight and bearing as Dame Judy Dench in Shakespeare in Love. Her dress is more extravagant, with a high, beaded collar draped with rubies, or an impressive facsimile.

And there’s a feeling towards her. Warm, comforting, maternal.

“Let me look at you, pup,” she commands, and I find myself sitting up as best as I can, the room spinning uncomfortably.

The first woman holds my shoulders to steady me. Bile rises into the back of my throat, and my ears are ringing.
“Is his condition…normal?” the stern woman asks.

“So far…yes, Mistress. He’s highly feverish, however, but everything seems within normal boundaries.”

“See that it stays that way. I won’t have those dogs in my home again.”

“Of course, Mistress. He’ll be a good, strong son when he’s ready to fledge.”

The stern woman smiles pleasantly. “Oh, yes. I’ve been thinking of names for him, and agents have already been dispatched to deal with…loose ends. Poor soul, house fire I’m afraid. The body is unidentifiable, poor thing.”

“Yes, mistress.”

“I want his education started as soon as possible. I’ll have the remedial lessons sent up immediately. See that he gets started.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“And you, my boy, go back to sleep and stop giving your minder such trouble.”

With that, the woman is gone, vanishing out the door like a ghost. The room spins and my head throbs. I’m so tired.

“Lay back down, love,” the first woman whispers, guiding me back onto the pillows.

Soon, it’s as dark as the black silk sheets.

***

I wake to the smell of the thick, rich broth, warm in the cool hands of the woman, and I’m eager for it. She holds the bottle above me like I’m a bottle-fed baby lamb, letting me suck it dry. The broth is my whole world and everything in it.

“Good, good. You want to grow strong like Mistress Léontine, yes?”

Her cool hand strokes mine gently, soft and supple to the touch. Her fingernails are painted black, taping to sharp points.

I’m full to bursting, but I still want more, and whimper plaintively when she takes the bottle away.

“You’ll make yourself sick, Young Master. Perhaps instead you would like a bath? Or I could read to you. The mistress wants your education to start as soon as possible.”

I reach for the bottle, even though I know it’s empty. She takes my hand and folds it hers.

“Patience, love. Perhaps after a bath.”

She walks across the room and wheels a chair up to me, a high-backed, big-wheeled antique thing. When the wheels are locked in place, she tries to pull me up by my armpits, but the room spins.

“Oh, love, you are burning up. The bath should help.”
I whimper and shake my head. The room spins, the floor bucks. I can’t…

Somehow I’m standing, her supporting most of my weight, feet unsteady and knees weak. The adjacent bathroom is nearby. I think I can…reaching out to the doorway, as if I could drag it to me.

“No, love, the chair.”

I don’t need a wheelchair. I’m an adult, and not an invalid…

The room tilts sharply, and suddenly I’m seated, a stinging bruise on my left side where I took it at a bad angle. The room lurches, I stifle a gag. My breath smells like broth.

“That’s a good pup.”

The black silk pajamas burn against my skin. I feel hot, flushed, dizzy.

The bathroom is an opulent affair I thought only royalty could afford, with a bathtub the size of a small pool. The sound of the water pounds against my ears, and the cloyingly sweet smell of lavender and vanilla she pours into the water is even worse, making me gag.

Soon, the tub is full of purplish, overpoweringly-scented foam, and the woman wants to undress me, which makes my cheeks feel even hotter, brushing her hands away.

“You’re not the first pup I’ve taken care of for the mistress, and you won’t be the last,” she chides, undoing the buttons on my shirt. “Besides, it’s nothing I haven’t seen already.”

She pulls me up and sits me on the side of the tub to pull off my pants. I put my face in my hands in abject mortification. One leg at a time, she slides me into the cool water of the tub, my nose still assaulted by the smell of the bath oils and salts.

There’s a toy boat in the water, which I sail through the foam as though it’s going in and out of fog.

“That’s the Bella Nuit,” the woman (Zen…Zia…?) explains. “It’s the ship that originally brought the mistress to the New World.”

The little thing is exquisitely crafted, with a real wood hull and cloth sails. There’s even tiny rope rigging.
“Belle Nuit,” I repeat.

“Very good, love,” Zia smiles. “The mistress first arrived in the New World in 1678.”

“1678,” I repeat. That doesn’t seem right. It’s…what year is it?

The cool water makes me shiver, but I feel a bit more lucid, my fever going down, I suppose.

From next to the tap, there is a shower head, which Zia takes and begins spraying my head. I cough and sputter, fighting back against the spray, blocking my face with my arms.

“None of that, Young Master,” she chides, scrubbing my hair with potently lavender/chamomile shampoo. “Your hair is beautiful, love. Like the mistress.”

I squirm when she sprays my hair clean, and then trying to climb up the side of the tub in red embarrassment when she goes after me with a long-handled scrub brush, hot tears filling my eyes. There’s rumble deep in my throat, and a feeling at my throbbing teeth, the need to bite, so I do.

“Young Master, if you don’t stop I will put a bit on you, so help me!” she hisses, a squeaking noise at the high points.

Seething, the rumble continues as she drains the water and rinses my skin with the shower head. Bare and exposed, trying to afford myself some dignity, it is a relief when she wraps me in a fluffy black towel big enough to cover me from head to toe, and then helps me out of the tub and back into the chair, shivering, teeth chattering.

After she pushes me back toward the bed, she retrieves another set of black silk pajamas, these with embroidery like roses, and helps me back into them, angling me back on the bed to make it easier to pull my pants up.

When all is said and done, I burrow into the heavy, black comforter, hair still wet, shivering and teeth chattering. I can’t help but yawn, worn and strung out, back facing her in shame, hands shaking like low blood sugar.

“Go back to sleep, love,” she whispers. “You can feed again when you wake.”

But I’m hungry now. But also so very tired, but not ready for sleep.

Softly, she begins to hum a melody, and then sing in some sort of Eastern European language I don’t recognize.

She’s singing me to sleep, rubbing my back, the smell of lavender and vanilla and chamomile sticking to my skin like a veil. The spinning of the room feels like a gentle, if nauseating, rock.

What am I, a child?

***

I’m kneeling next to the bed, clinging to the blankets and sheets like a life raft in a stormy sea, shaking and unable to get my knees under me, gagging and dry-heaving, probably from hunger.

What am I doing? I don’t…remember.

I’m stuck, shivering between floor and bed, until I hear the soft steps of Zia.

“Master!” she gasps, setting aside her tray on the bedside table.

“Mmmh!” I grunt as she seizes me under the arms, hauling me back onto the bed. She is very strong.

“What’s the matter, Young Master?” she breathes, laying me on the bed. “Did you need something?”

I don’t…I don’t remember.

“Want…” I murmur softly, trying to remember. A book? Radio? Television?

“Did you want to see your progenitor?” she asks. “That’s normal. I’ll tell her you asked for her.”

Is that who I was trying to find?

Zia strokes my cheek as she reaches for another delicious bottle of broth and a book, holding the bottle for me in one hand as she reads in French from the book.

“Il était une fois un très riche marchand qui avait six enfants, trois fils et trois filles; étant un homme sensé, il n'épargna aucun coût pour leur éducation, mais leur donna toutes sortes de maîtres. Ses filles étaient extrêmement belles, surtout la plus jeune. Quand elle était petite, tout le monde l'admirait et l'appelait ‘La petite Belle’; de sorte qu'en grandissant, elle s'appelait encore la Belle, ce qui rendait ses sœurs très jalouses…”
She reads until the bottle is drained, but I want more, whimpering in hunger.

“Settle, Master,” she says, grasping my reaching hand in hers to pull it away from the bottle.

My teeth hurt into the jawbone. The eyeteeth in particular feel strange, puffy and dead.

“We’ll keep reading until it’s time for another feeding, love,” Zia says, picking her place out of the book.

Hunger gnaws at my belly, ceaseless and demanding. I don’t remember being so hungry before. It stays at the point of nausea, an endless craving that only the broth can fill, and yet never does.

I pick at the threading on my sheets. My fingertips are sore and a bit red. With a sickening crunch, the nail on my right index finger bends straight upright, revealing bare, tender flesh, blood forming at the nail bed. The fingertip throbs, the exposed nail bed burns at the air.
My heartbeat quickens, my eyes feel hot. This isn’t good, this isn’t normal. Radiation poisoning? What makes fingernails fall out?

Whimpering and sniffling, I hold my hand out to Zia, who is too pale to blanch at the sight, but makes a good approximation, grabbing my hand to examine it.

“Oh, Master!” she gasps. “Wait right here, we’ll fix this up right away!”

She dashes away, leaving me cradling my abused hand, trembling, hot tears running down my cheeks. Something’s happening to me. This isn’t right.

After what could be minutes or hours, Zia returns with a manicure set and a first aid kit. She trims the broken nail to the root with nail clippers, and then pulls at it the rest unpleasantly with a pair of tweezers, until the nail bed is open, empty, and exposed. She cleans the site with alcohol, which smells terrible, and burns like the dickens, sending me squirming, kicking, and whimpering, she having to hold my wrist under her arm with an iron grip to bandage the wound.

“It’s over, love,” she whispers consolingly, rubbing my hand.

“Wh-what?” I ask, eyes wide, trembling. “Why?”

She bites her lip, with long, canine-like teeth, like carved pearls, pricking the pale skin.

“That’s a matter for the mistress, but in the meantime…oh! Yes, something special just for you, young master.”

A tall, pale man dressed in a butler’s uniform straight from Downton Abbey’s neo-goth Halloween revival, steps into the room, holding a plastic water bottle on a tray, and carries it over to Zia before dismissing himself.

It smells heavenly, the sweetest ambrosia of the gods, warm in a way different from the last batch, thick and rich. I wipe my tears away and stop my sniffling as I drink.

Chapter one

Chapter two

I kick my feet in frustration, stirring up the blankets, hunger gnawing at my belly.

“What’s the matter, love?” Zia asks, patting my foot.

“Mmm!” I groan petulantly.

“You must be getting restless. Would you like to tour the grounds? I can push you in the wheelchair.”

I glance at the chair disdainfully. What I want…I think I want to run, to be free and one with the night, howl at the moon, as it were.

“Yes, I can show you the manner and maybe introduce you to some of the other serviles, maybe some of your siblings. Would that help?”

I kick my right foot sharply, arms crossed over my chest.

“Yes, we’ll go for a stroll, I think.”

Zia pulls me up and guides me into the chair. I’m feeling less dizzy, but still unsteady. Still, I blank at her help and attempt to walk to the chair on my own, painfully slamming my knees into the black rug for my trouble, grunting from the impact.

“Willful pup,” Zia growls, helping me back up. “Be patient with yourself. You’ve had a rough few days.”
I snap at her fingers, barely missing them.

“No, Master! Do you want to wear a bit like some common-blooded feral?”

Once I’m in the chair, she fetches a black blanket from the wardrobe and drapes it over me. My teeth don’t feel right, and my mouth throbs with pain. I’m missing three more fingernails across both hands.

“Alright, love. Let’s go for a walk.”

She pushes me out of the bedroom and into a vast hallway overlooking a room below. Women in similar maid dresses dust or sweep, each one curtsying as we pass, with pleasant, affectionate smiles.

“This is the offspring wing,” Zia explains. “Your brothers and sisters stay here when they’re in town. Aren’t you lucky the mistress built extra?”

The hall is decorated in black and roses, with somber oil paintings of pale men and women in antiquated styles of dress. There are decorative vases with dark red roses, with strong fragrance. The windows are covered by heavy blackout curtains, making it pleasantly dark.

From the hall we enter into a grand room like a foyer or entrance hall, with white marble floors. There’s a heavy, ornate wooden door that must be the entrance to my right, and a similar, but smaller, door to the left.

“That’s the mistress’s rooms,” Zia explains. “Offspring are not allowed in her private chambers.”

We’re on the second floor, overlooking the entrance, which has a black and gold strip leading to the grand staircase.

“Below is the kitchens and the grand ballroom. You’ll see that at your name day ball. Ahead is the gallery, conservatory, studio, and the like. Mistress Léontine likes her offspring to have a craft. When you’re feeling stronger, you’ll be taught singing, instruments, painting, and many other valuable skills.”

I frown. Don’t I have a say in this? I’m a grown man…why am I being treated like some sort of…trust fund neppo-baby?

Zia proceeds into the art hall, where the sounds of violins and cellos can be heard.

“Some of your siblings must be more,” Zia smiles. “Must be here in advance of your name day ball.”

Weird, don’t I have a name of my own? It’s…it’s…

Black forms at the edge of my vision, narrowing my field of view. My heart pounds in my chest, my palms sweaty.

What’s my name…?

It’s…

What’s my name?

I fling myself out of the chair, landing onto the hardwood floor gracelessly and painfully, hands shaking.

What’s my name?

“Calm down, love. What’s the matter?”

I’m on all fours, gagging. My eyeteeth feel unpleasantly loose, my fingertips throbbing. Whats happening to me?
Zia rubs my back.

“Just breathe, Young Master,” she soothes. “You’re safe. You’re safe.”

What’s my name?

“My…name,” I whimper, tears spilling down my cheeks. “I don’t…my name.”

“Oh, love,” she breathes, pulling me into her arms and rocking me like a child. “That’s normal. That’s why your progenitor gives you a new one.”

“But I have…what’s happening?”

“You’re a newborn pup, love. Don’t fret yourself. You’re safe. You’re among family and household. The mistress won’t let anything happen to you, and neither will I.”

I’m trembling. I can’t stop. My lower back pulses with dull pain, like growing pains. Zia strokes my hair softly, quietly singing in her native tongue.

Slowly, the trembling stops, but I can tell another fingernail is ready to go. My teeth wiggle under my tongue.

“Servile Zinovia?” a male voice asks.

I look up to see a tall man in an elegant black suit, with a gold on black brocade waistcoat and black tie. His blond hair is cut short and spiked slightly, an earring with a fang dangling from his left ear. Like Zia—Zinovia—his longer fingernails taper to points and are painted black.

“Master Cabernet! All is well. Your newest sibling is just…coming to terms with his situation.”

That might almost be true if I had any idea what my situation is.

“Oh, is that you, pup?” the pale man asks, smiling wide enough to show elongated canines and leaning forward, hands braced on his knees, like one might do to speak to a child. “I’m Mother Léontine’s firstborn and heir. It is very nice to meet you.”

There’s something of a familial resemblance I can’t quite put my finger on, but…this man is at least twenty. How can his mother be so young?

“Is he speaking yet?” Cabernet asks Zia.

“Fragments,” she answers, still rocking me.

“It’ll come back to you in time, pupling. Would you like me to help you back in the chair?”

The back of my throat rumbles, causing Cabernet to take a step back, looking surprised.

“He’s very willful,” Zia says apologetically.

“Yes, so is Mother,” the man replies dryly. “Come, little brother. You’ll feel much more comfortable off that cold floor.”

My throat rumbles again, loose teeth exposed.
“Careful, Master, he bites.”

“Oh, do you, pupling?” Cabernet laughs. “That is most unbecoming. Mother won’t stand for it, and she’ll be most displeased to see you wearing a bit.”

Zia stirs beneath me, helping me stand. I lean on her for stability, still shaking, back facing Cabernet, this man that I don’t know that calls me his brother. Her fingers trail through my hair.

“What’s wrong with his fingers?” Cabernet asks.

“His…fingernails are falling out. I’ve brought it up to the mistress and she has me monitoring the situation.”

Cabernet frowns. “Are you feeding him well?”

“He is insatiable, Master,” she replies submissively.

My stomach growls as if to emphasize her point.

“Has Mother called for a doctor to see him?” he inquires.

“Not as of yet, Master. The mistress is…very prideful.”

“She is indeed,” Cabernet smiles. “But if he is well for it, don’t allow me to stop the tour. We’ll see each other again, soon, pupling. I am to be your cello instructor.”
“Yes, Master. I shan’t keep you longer.”

“Of course, servile. You are dismissed.”

She curtsies politely before guiding me into the chair.

“The mistress generally chooses her offspring well,” Zia smiles. “Cabernet is a kind man. He’ll take you under his wing, no doubt.”

Through the hall I can still hear classical music, smell fresh flowers and fresh paint, which makes me gag.

“The mistress takes pride in all of her offspring’s appearance, manners, and education,” Zia explains. “You’ll be a worthy groom to any well-bred bride.”

I start, looking up at Zia, shocked. Am I to be auctioned off to the highest bidder? Are arranged marriages even a thing anymore?

And who is this Léontine mother-woman to even have the authority to do such a thing?

“You’re the proud youngest son of a respectable family of good lineage,” Zia continues, sniffing.

“I…am?” I ask softly.

“Of course, love,” she replies gently. “Your progenitor, Mistress Léontine is a respected elder from a strong line.”

I look down at the lightly blood-soaked bandages tied around three fingertips on my right hand and one on the left, feeling the left pinky nail about to come loose. I don’t understand…What is happening to me, inside and out?

“Progenitor,” I mumble softly.

“Yes, Young Master. Do you remember the ship that brought her here?”

“Belle Nuit, 1678,” I answer.

“Very good, love,” Zia beams. “Before she was a newborn pup, herself, she was the daughter of a minor noble and already very wealthy. She invested her money quite wisely in a number of New World ventures. That’s how she rose to power.”

I feel a headache coming on. My belly rumbles.

“Servile, here!” a female voice demands, causing Zia to stop short. “I demand…oh, my mistake.”

“It’s no trouble, Mistress Devereaux,” Zia replies. “What did you need?”

She’s oddly calm, almost chipper, about being spoken to in such a manner.

The woman in question is to the short end of average, with platinum blond hair done up in royal braids, studded through with deep green gems with red flecks like blood. Her dress is a similar color, like something out of a Victorian romance novel, and very low-cut in the front.

“No, servile, Mother wouldn’t appreciate me interrupting your newborn pup-rearing,” she sighs, looking down at me. I wither under her gaze. “Mother’s new baby, I suppose?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

The woman purses her lips, looking unimpressed. “I was enjoying a lovely time in the arctic circle before I received word to come home for your name day. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to arrange a flight from the Alaskan wilderness? And Mother insisted on no delays!”

And, any of this is my fault…how?

“Not even speaking yet,” she scoffs. “I hope Mother isn’t losing her edge.”

The back of my throat rumbles, making Devereaux look both affronted and disgusted.

“Well, off with you, servile,” Devereaux sniffs. “Best teach the little pup some manners.”

“Yes, Mistress,” Zia says to Deveraux’s back as she returns to the room, closing the door.

“Don’t like,” I mutter darkly.

“Don’t be that way, love,” Zia smiles. “Mistress Deveraux is one of your older sisters. She’ll warm up to you, in time.”

“She talks to you.”

“Mistress Deveraux is the daughter of my patron mistress,” Zia explains. “I am hers to command, so long is Mistress Léontine’s orders are dealt with first.” She seems a bit offended that I would be offended on her behalf.

After a few steps, she seems to notice my sullenness and pats my shoulder.

“I am from a low family of neither wealth nor breeding,” she tells me, bordering on prideful. “Therefore very lucky to work for a great house such as this one.

Mistress Léontine pays me very well and protects me from the common rabble.”

“A person, Zia,” I answer. “Worthy of respect.”

“I’m glad you think s…Zia? That’s very sweet.”

“Zia,” I repeat.

“Alright, we’ll do thirty minutes of French lessons, and then you can return to your room for a feeding.”