Slaying the Vampire Conqueror

by Carissa Broadbent

Arachessen were not supposed to mourn the things we gave up in the name of our goddess—Acaeja, the Weaver of Fates, the Keeper of the Unknown, the Mother of Sorcery. We could not mourn the eyesight, the autonomy, the pieces of our flesh carved away in sacrifice. And no, we could not mourn the sex, either.

It was not a sacrifice. It was an exchange: Close your eyes, child, and you will see an entire world.

Ascension, not death. Never death. Arachessen didn’t believe in death, only change. Just as the loss of our eyes didn’t mean the loss of sight, the loss of a heartbeat didn’t mean the loss of life.

“Hm,” he said. “To think I let such a dangerous creature sleep beside me every night.”

“Tell me I’m a fool.”

“No.”

“Tell me to stop.”

“No.”

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“Why?”

“Because you make me ravenous.”

“Good,”

“Death is what happens when you stand still,” I said. “Don’t stand still. Not for anything.”