A war that ravaged the land like a hungry mouth laid upon its first meal in a century. It was won by a miracle only. Humans lived on without the constant reminder of their final days lurking in the shadows, society grew more peaceful, disputes became less about a monster race which could end them at any moment and more mundane in comparison. Would I be excessive to remain skeptical of their complete end?
The final location of a vampire’s death was said to be beneath the church — an irony that easily caught on amongst the population, and when I entered the catacombs to taste the vision with my own eyes I found it ever more amusing that they believed this to be the final domino left standing. It was only a matter of time before the news reached the wrong ears, and considering the recent mysterious disappearances that were few but not none, I decided to take action before I was proven to be right.
Final goodbyes were said, little information given to my friends or family so that, if I died or worse, they need not part from me with more anxiety than necessary. The service members that happened upon my corpse would be sure to give the most believable account possible anyways. With that done I called for a carriage and settled into the wooden seats with a romantic novel at least 300 pages long. The ride to the outskirts would be at least 5 hours long, and halfway through the driver insisted I make my own way forward. His horse was wary, kicking back every so often and not bending to his whip any longer. Of course he felt bad to leave a woman to her own devices in such a desolate place, but it was either me or his horse! Not much could be said in my favor and in the end, I simply gathered my belongings and waved the unpleasant pair goodbye.
For the next hour and a half I walked the sprawling fields of dead flowers and burnt grass that was only just beginning to recover. There weren’t many trees, which left me to the burning will of the sun and strong winds. At times I did feel scared; ignoring the sensitive red parts of my skin beginning to form, the wind alone was almost enough to convince me to turn back. Find an inn, Annie, and let the true last vampire’s plans come to fruition. Why was I going so far as to end them myself? It wasn’t as if us humans didn’t deserve any repercussion when we spent years tormenting them, starving them, and demonizing them for something so natural. To them, at least. And, truthfully, I did wonder what blood tasted like a few times. I drank my own at least twice in my life. Did that make me as dirty as them? Surely there was worse to be considered.
No amount of water that I drank saved me from such intrusive thoughts, so I blamed it on the incoming guilt rather than the sun, which was a bit harder to confront the closer I came to the location. A place which no one ever informed me about, but everyone seemed to avoid as a general rule of living. The heart of Briskania, and soon to be the true grave of wicked-kind.
It wasn’t as grand as I expected it to be. A coliseum, it was described to be on a newspaper clipping, where starving vampires were pitted against eachother for a chance of ending their misery — except sitting in front of me was only the impression of one. Behind the first batch of trees and healthy bushes I’d seen in the last hour of walking was a foot tall wall of dusty bricks with impressions of foreign lettering made into them. What I assumed to be the entrance was closed off using various sticks and dried plants like a hasty ward, and after climbing over the wall I immediately noticed the emptiness of the space.
No seats. No gates. All of it was gone, deliberately torn away to create this field of dust, whiteness, and promise of nothing. At least, the illusion of nothing, I should say, because hidden plainly in sight was an iron trapdoor also covered in dust, but nothing to the degree of the land surrounding it. This was it. I opened my bag, shuffling about all the insides before retrieving the small brown envelope I’d curated just before my departure from home, and tucked it into a gap in the wall.
As I approached it now, metal and decay punctured my being in invisible waves from below. It smelled of death entirely, and only now did I begin to feel dreadful. I will die, I realize, but at least it wouldn’t be for nothing. With all the strength I could muster I lift the covering in a matter of minutes, then latch onto the ladder and climb down with little thought to my own safety. The bars are rusty and some pieces attach themselves to my hands, similarly erratic to sprayed blood when I take a moment to inspect it halfway down…and, in my pause, a light below appears, followed by a voice.
“Immierla?” A woman’s voice travels in echos to me. It’s so pleasant and soft that I forget I’m an intruder.
I don’t respond and continue climbing down. My heart is beating so loudly that it’s almost as if it’s pushing past my ribs and beating on the iron bars like a melody calling the name of the bloodsucker just below me. Her silence tells me she hears it, and suddenly the light begins to dim as they retreat in complete silence.
Upon hitting the solid ground of dirt I am immediately welcomed by nothing but the distant figure of someone holding a candle. At each side of us are walls running for at least a mile; no other entrances can be observed, and I don’t concern myself with pressing for soft spots because it’s clear my first target is just ahead of me. I walk with my hands gripping the handles of my bag tightly. I almost thought — or dreamed — that the end to my journey would have been farther into the future and I could have explored their home a bit longer. What misfortune.
“If you aren’t Immierla, you’re lost.” She finally says when I am halfway to her. “Leave.”
I notice her height. She’s significantly taller than me, and if the tales are true, much stronger, faster, better overall. The iron trapdoor must feel like a paper one to their kind. The stake in my hand burns almost as much as my own mind does with anticipation. The fear has turned into excitement now, and I can barely believe it as I begin to respond.
“I’m all but lost. I came to see you, Morta.” My voice shatters a bit, but I barely take time to acknowledge it.
“Why?”
She doesn’t seem the least bit disturbed by my knowledge, only miffed by my presence when I finally near her. Naturally her icy gaze glides to my hands pressed against the sides of my hips, and it’s apparent that she’d noticed my weapon when she shifts the candle to her non-dominant hand. If she’s wearing any armor beneath her black drapery, it must be form-fitted, but that’s unlikely considering just where she’s living, and nothing of her appearance suggests ‘battle-ready’ once I observe her further. Her deathly black hair is nearly touching the ground in riveting curls, some falling over her wide shoulders, and when I look down I notice she has no shoes as well. She’s beautiful and comfortable here. After a moment of observing I finally speak again.
“Show me to your room, please.”
I look anywhere but her eyes. She turns her back to me and begins to walk. Float might describe it better even though her feet still kiss the ground; she’s more graceful than our current monarch. More minutes of walking past and I feel my legs shaking more noticeably, the dull burn in my thighs hard to ignore and body growing wary despite it’s present danger. For months I spent at least 5 hours a day walking, but nothing could have prepared me for the reality it seemed, and I now fear that I’ll collapse before I complete my purpose. Before I can kill her and her companion and free my mind.
Finally we make it to the first branch. It’s to the left, and immediately after we bend into her room. Entering reveals just where the body and organs of the coliseum went; bent iron bars and frames have been turned into furniture skeletons, bricks the building blocks of tables and chairs, animal hide presumably from those captured down here made into blankets, clothes, and pillows. For how makeshift it is, I’m awed by the image of luxury they manage to keep even in such desperate positions. I walk further, now my back to her, so that I can feel every part of it. Dust coats my hands after touching a table, so I wipe it onto the soft fur sprawled across her bed. The bed itself is just brick. Hard and uncomfortable.
“You came down here for rest?” She asks me. I can hear the frown in her voice before I turn.
“It’s my final day. I’ll end up in the ground against my choosing anyways, so it’s better I at least choose where.”
“But you know me, so you know what I am. You will rest before me?”
“So what if I would like to offer myself to you?”
“Why?”
“Come.” I sit on the bed and my legs begin to quiet in their protest.
Cautiously, she takes a step forward, but I beckon her further until her knees press against mine. Then I lay back and pull the collar of my shirt down, revealing my neck covered in sweat and dirt. It must look like frosted cake in her hungry eyes.
“Drink me.” I whisper to her.
For a moment she simply stares at me with eyes as wide and fearful as a stray cat caught where it ought not be, but her hunger gives way for doubt in her fear, and soon I feel the blanket below me shift as she lifts a knee onto the bed to lean closer. One hand rests beside my head, the other brushes against the skin of my neck as she moves away stray hairs. It seems they also dislike that. I smile a bit and stare at her. Though she’s entirely entranced by my skin, I can tell by the twitch of her brows and the way her lips tremble that she doesn’t want to do this, but she must. Her cheeks are sharpened by years of hunger, and now that I’m closer I notice how straw-like her hair is, how grey and dry her skin is. I find myself growing concerned. My left hand, not trapped beneath her yet, lifts to touch her cheek which startles her away, but I withdraw a centimeter and watch her return to it’s warmth like an abandoned puppy.
“Drink.”
It’s enough to convince her. First I feel her hair tickle my skin, but I do my best not to move beneath her so I don’t scare her off. My heart hasn’t calmed since the first time I heard her; in fact, it’s only gotten worse now that I can smell her excitement. As she smells me, presses her lips to my skin as if to savor the moment, I almost feel insulted by her indulgence despite this being an offering, but her arrogance is charming. Almost a reminder that she isn’t entirely beyond human. When her teeth are unsheathed and the points press against my skin, I lose all vision.
The pain is hot and cold like boiling water on skin. Worse than any needle the doctor presents me, and I hear the blood soaring through my vessels and into her mouth. My lips part, jaw slacks, and she uses her hand to hold it as though she’s doing me a favor. I don’t know how much time has passed before a third voice joins the space.
“Morta, stop!”
It must have been her last warning, because she’s dragged away the woman on top of me, ripping away her teeth and some of my skin with it. Both seem to be arguing in front of me, but I am deaf and weak as I try to press the blood back into my body and sit up. I still can’t see when my hearing returns to me.
“Who is she? You aren’t suspicious that a human has arrived at your feet, begging you to consume her, when you haven’t seen a human in two years? Have you grown stupid as well? Must I beat common sense into you?”
She continues berating her despite no response from Morta, who seems to be lost in a land of bliss consuming her mind and dispelling through the tear glands of her eyes. I’m entranced by the image of a vampire crying despite there being no sign of sadness. Underneath me is the wooden stake. It hurt to lay on, but thankfully neither seem to suspect it’s appearance just yet. I push myself off the bed, capturing Immierla’s attention.
“You lay back down before I kill you next.” She growls at me.
I don’t mean to listen, but my legs have grown tired of effort and give beneath me. Suddenly the end of my plan is before me. I swallow deeply.
I notice Immierla’s own hunger behind her shield of white hair, though. Not all hope is lost yet. Her eyes glance at the bleeding wound on my neck, wash over my weakened body and trembling limbs. It would be easy for her to simply knock the stake away and feast on me as well. Have they formed a religion abstaining from blood down here? Why does she hesitate despite the pain it must cause her? Morta’s trance ends once she notices her superior’s eyes have left her, and suddenly she doesn’t seem as subordinate as before. Her nails pinch at the sides of her cloak and she hisses.
“We can’t survive on air alone.” Morta says. “Drink her and tell me the pain is worth it.”
*Yes,* I think.
“If that’s all you take from my lessons, then walk into her stake and die. How do you expect to survive in a world without humans if you crave their blood more than your own life?” Immierla responds. “Don’t be stupid, Morta. Kill her and bury her.”
I knew of their plans beforehand, but hearing it from the mouth of one sends a shiver down my spine. Morta turns to me and my heart stills.
“I can’t.” She whispers. “I’ve tasted her.”
“You must.”
My mouth remains closed despite all my inner protest, but how can I play to the emotions of monsters? Nothing I say will do me good, and perhaps playing the injured lamb would aid me more. Instead of meeting Morta’s red eyes, I search fo Immierla’s hidden behind her hair. She’s taller than her peer, the ends of her tight curls brushing against the dirt roof as a paintbrush might against a canvas, and her skin is much darker, but nowhere in my observation can I find her irises. I almost speak up and plead for my life until Immierla instead speaks.
“If you can’t, at the very least you can carry her into the plains and let her find her own way back.”
Somehow, perhaps faced with the fact that I would have to live with my failure and I might never find their location again, my legs rediscover their strength and I propel myself forward with my stake in the air. Immierla nearly escapes my line of direction, but I have practiced my aim in preparation for their speed, and her surprise is an advantage I easily use to capture her heart. As the wood pierces her clothing and parts her bones to reach her center, she lets out a silent scream and grips my head with crushing strength. Morta rushes to peel me off. Her strength tosses me against the side of the bed, a blinding pain rushing through every cell of my body. I’m sure I’m paralyzed, but my goal has been achieved. If I can smile, I am now. Morta cries into Immierla’s neck, who has died.
She isn’t aware, but Morta will die as well. I am poison. Vampires have tasted me before, and I watched them turn into dirt beneath my feet. Though I can’t see anymore, I feel Morta’s cold hands cradle my neck and behind my knees. The light of a candle enters my peripheral and, as I’m laid onto the soft blanket, I feel a sense of comfort I haven’t enjoyed since I was a baby carried by my mother.
“You will die slowly,” She sniffles, her tear wetting my cheek. “For what you’ve done to Mierla. You will die slowly. I’ll be sure of it.”
The pain is worse this time as she sinks into the same wound and drinks me.