The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Camille

Camille’s hands shook as she read over Abigail’s feedback. She wasn’t sure when the shaking began. Traditionally, she kept track of the days by when she slept. She stopped sleeping long before the shaking started. Right? Was it long?

She took a deep breath and read over the words together. They blurred more often than not, little red squiggles dancing over the page. Her own words were nothing but cruel hieroglyphics, trapping meaning into caged lines, as though a word was nothing more than a symbol, as though a thing was nothing more than its word. She put on her new pair of glasses. The doctor said this would help, but she was wrong. Perhaps vampire eyes didn’t obey the logic of modern medicine.

“Logic,” whispered Camille. “From logos. The word.”

“Excuse me?” asked Abigail. The slender dark skinned girl was on her knees while Camille paced, her chin sticky from the bowl of strawberries, the pages stained with sugary and pale red. Camille’s eyes darted from the page to the nervous quiver of Abigail’s neck. She’d go well with strawberries.

“In the beginning was the word,” said Camille. “Perhaps that was it. It dwelt among us, the words moving us out of the caves and into the cruel sun.” She snapped her fingers, dropping the pages of her ever-lengthening novel. “Write that down.”

Abigail looked dumbfounded, and as Camille stared at her, ignoring the pages scattering under her desk, bed, and chair. The young woman hesitated, then darted to scoop up the pages.

“No, no, no,” hissed Camille. She kicked away Abigail’s hands as she picked up the novel. “Forget those squiggles, get a pen.” Camille snapped again. “Write that down.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Abigail scrambled to find something to write with, to write on. Camille felt the inspiration taking her. It felt brilliant. She said it aloud ⁠— to herself, to the world, to eternity, if not to the thin piece of meat that served her. “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” Camille closed her eyes, imagining vibrations in an endless void. There was nothing until there was vibration, movement, energy, making the universe from the word alone.

“She was with God in the beginning,” she continued. “Through her all things were made; without her nothing was made that has been made. In her was life, and that life was the light of all mankind. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.”

Camille spread her arms then took a bow. Her long and curly hair flipped over her head “Did you get all that?” she asked. Her chest heaved from the effort. It was masterful. Yes. Masterful. Brilliant. Write that down. It’s slipping already. Write it all down.”

Abigail’s hand flew across the page, trying to capture what Camille had said, that true breath of creativity, of precious artistic expression. Yes. This is how she should work. No more cruel and cold typewriter. No more metallic and heartless words fitting perfectly on the line. She would dictate, and Abigail would capture it. She could type for her. Yes. Yes.

“Did you get it?”

“Most of it,” said Abigail. “The gist of it.”

“There is no gist of what I said. It cannot be reproduced or simplified. It is poetry. It is beauty bound to language.”

Abigail muttered something, and … did Camille detect an eyeroll?

“What was that?” She felt her teeth snap with the words, her fangs drawing thin lines of blood from her gums.

“Nothing.”

Camille leapt across the room, sinking into a crouch as she landed, lowering herself to Abigail’s huddled eye level. Her hand meant to grab the girl’s chin, to get her attention. Instead, her thin fingers wrapped around the girls tiny neck. So little blood. She’d barely be a snack.

“What. Did. You. Say?” Camille spread her lips, revealing the fangs as a snarl rumbled deep in her throat.

“It’s … the Bible,” sputtered Abigail. Camille let go over her neck, and the girl coughed and tried to compose herself. “At least, I think it is.”

“What?”

“The line you just gave. You were quoting the Bible, weren’t you?”

“I … what?” Camille stood up, moving away from the girl like a flame. “I don’t … what are you talking about?” The world spun around her. Another dizzy spell. She grabbed the corner of her desk, holding on until the spell passed. The world would stop. It always did.

Abigail was going through her phone. She approached Camille, turning it, and showed her the screen. The light stung Camille’s eyes, but after blinking a few times, she could see a website showing the beginning of the Gospel According to St. John. It was almost verbatim what she said.

The floor disappeared from under Camille. She sank, holding onto the desk. “Oh,” she whispered. She saw herself sitting across from her younger self, a little girl from the Middle Ages or the Renaissance or somewhere, sitting in church, listening to the gospels over and over.

Abigail came to her side. “Are you alright?”

Camille took a deep breath. The little girl vanished. “Get Angelica to read the novel to me and the feedback. My eyes are too sore to do it.”

“I can do it.” Abigail moved to gather the scattered pages.

“I want Angelica,” sighed the vampire.

“Right, but I can’t —”

“Get Angelica!” she screamed, rising to her feet, her full power flooding through her fragile veins. Abigail scrambled back away from her as Camille found her full height. She strode towards the door and the world tilted violently to the right. Her leg twisted, and she fell again, crumpled on the hard floor of her bedroom.

Tears surged to her eyes, tempting her to despair, to self-pity. She’d spent too many nights waiting, too many nights wondering, too many nights hoping and fearing to give up now. If she didn’t give up on Laura Karnstein, she wouldn’t give up now. There was a chance. There was a path towards her goals. She just needed to find it. She needed to take a deep breath and find it.

“She’s gone, isn’t she?”

“Yes,” whispered Abigail. The frail girl helped her rise to her feet. “She’s gone.”

“Then can … can you read to me?” Camille heard the pathetic whining in her own voice. “I can’t do it myself.”

Abigail helped Camille get to her feet and then back to her bed. Camille laid down, and Abigail pulled up a chair next to her. She read to her. First, she read the novel, normally a paragraph at a time. Then, she’d read the comments in the section. She was nervous at first, hesitating to read any of her criticism. But over time, she found her footing and began to explain each of her critiques.

“In general, I’d say take away every instance of ‘very,’” she said.

“Each one?”

“Right. Like this one. ‘He was very tall.’ What’s the difference between very tall and tall?”

“One is extremely tall.”

“Then say that, but what I think you mean is that he is tall. Perhaps she feels his height. Perhaps it distracts her. But ‘very’ tends to mean more when we say it rather than when we read it. On the page, it does nothing.”

“You want to delete every usage of ‘very?’”

“Very much.” Abigail grinned at her little joke. Camille warmed towards her. Her editor was like a daughter to her. A delicious looking daughter.

“Because it doesn’t mean much?”

“Because it’s bad writing,” said Abigail with a shrug. “There’s a lot of that in here. You’ll find ‘just’ or ‘really’ have the same issue. All bad writing.”

Camille bristled. She felt heat surge up her neck and to her ears. “Oh really?”

“It’s totally okay. Everyone does it. It’s a common mistake.”

Camille clenched her jaw. “I’ve published dozens of novels.”

“Well sure, but there’s no reason you can’t improve.”

Camille’s hand shot out, gripping Abigail’s wrist and clenching. “What did you say to me?” She pulled Abigail in closer, letting the pages fall to the floor again. Her vision was blurry, so she couldn’t read Abigail’s expression, but she felt the heartbeat in her wrist. She was scared.

“N-n-nothing.”

“How many novels have you written?”

“None.”

Camille rose. She kept her fingers digging into Abigail’s wrist. Her mouth twisted into a smile when she felt the surface of the skin break. “And you propose to lecture me on good writing and bad writing?”

“You’re hurting me.” Abigail was forced to follow Camille as she rose, as she dragged the pretentious little bitch to the center of the room.

A knife of realization stabbed Camille. Her body went cold as the impudence, the ungratefulness of her former editor struck her now, even while they were room apart. “Laura,” she whispered.

“What?” Abigail didn’t try to break away, to resist. She knew there would be no chance of it. It would be best if she lay still, if she shut up, if she accepted that soon her blood would be in Camille’s throat.

“She put you up to this.” Camille stared at the door to her bedroom, imagining Laura on the other side, Laura listening, Laura orchestrating this. She was never satisfied with the quality of Camille’s writing. She always thought this work was beneath her. From the day she was first hired, this work was a waste of her time. Camille was a waste of her time.

“What are you talking about?” asked Abigail. “Please. You’re hurting me.”

“Have you spoken with Laura?”

“I … the girl I replaced?”

Camille knew the lie as soon as she heard it. She twisted Abigail’s arm. She didn’t hear the satisfying snap or pop of real pain, but Abigail tried to untwist herself, looking up at the vampire in beautiful fear of the inevitable.

“If I find that she’s been helping you,” snarled Camille as her breath covered Abigail’s fragile face. “You will wish I’d just fired you.” Camille twisted harder, the blood running down her own fingers. “And if I find that you’ve been willingly working with her,” Camille showed her fangs, licking them to demonstrate her sincerity, “You will wish I’d only killed you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” lied Abigail. “Please. Please don’t hurt me. I’m just trying to do my job, to help you.”

“Your help sounds an awful lot like hers,” hissed Camille. “And I liked her too much to do to her what I’ll gladly do to you.” Camille watched Abigail for any sign of deceit, but it was obscured with the stain of fear. Her face looked so soft, so delicate. Camille wondered if her hand could go through it, right through the skull and out the other side. Maybe a breeze could go through it. These humans were so fragile, so easy to crack open.

Camille spat in Abigail’s face, but it didn’t break the skin, didn’t crush the skull. Abigail gasped in shock, and Camille let go of her arm, letting the dark-skinned girl crumple harmlessly to the floor. “Go,” she hissed. “Before I change my mind.”

Abigail scrambled to her feet and scurried out the door.

Abby

Abby washed her face and arm for the second and third time before going to Laura. She was going to be late for her Muse Session, and she wasn’t sure which woman she feared more. She looked at herself in the mirror. She looked neither cute nor abused. That would have to be good enough.

Abby dried herself thoroughly and stepped into the hallway. Laura was working on some new poetry, poems she wanted Abby to read at the Muse Sessions in place of Marcilla’s poems. She was working on getting her power to work through a text, like Marcilla’s did, but so far she hadn’t had much success. At present, Laura had to be the one reading the words, even if she didn’t actively use her powers. But if Abby took the poems back to her room and tried to feel Laura’s power roaming over her body—as she did every night—nothing happened. In the meantime, each Muse Session was a chance for Laura to test it, to try new and old poems with her power enhancing the words. Abby’s body, terrified and beaten as it was, buzzed just thinking about Laura’s words rolling over her body.

She wouldn’t miss this Muse Session, though her life depended on it.

Abby double checked that neither Camille nor some of the temporary maids were behind her or around as she moved towards Laura’s door. It was probably unnecessary; with Miss Lancaster—Abby struggled to call her Lucy like the rest—under Laura’s control, they could walk the halls with relative impunity. Abby knocked the pre-arranged code on the door, and was greeted by the tall asian woman.

Miss Lancaster was perpetually stunning. It was something Abby never got used to, but the Muse Sessions were the worst (best). Laura had more preferences than Camille ever did. There was a dress code for one, and Miss Lancaster seemed to revel in it. She was in a dark red lace bralette with hints of black coursing through it, a matching garter belt and dark red stockings that went down to sharp, five-inch heels. She was pantiless, as per Laura’s instructions, and she kept her hair up in two buns.

“You’re late,” she muttered as Abby walked past her to Laura’s bathroom. Laura was at her desk, writing something under candlelight, while the rest of the room was cast in gloom or the haunting pale light of flame.

“Sorry,” said Abby, more to Laura than Miss Lancaster.

“It’s fine,” said Laura. “I’m still working on something. Everything alright?”

“Yeah,” lied Abby. “Camille’s just losing her mind.” Abby opened the door to the bathroom and stepped in.

As she closed the door, she heard Laura say, “I’ll expect a full report.”

Abby changed as quickly as she could. The nerves she felt before a Muse Session were nothing like the ones she felt before going to see Camille, even as the vampire slowly unraveled. Laura’s helpers rotated, taking turns serving at the sessions, but Abby was invited to each one. To her, it was her one chance to have her dark goddess back, to have the chance to get poetry slid under the door again. Laura used them to plan—that was true—but mostly, she worked on poetry with Abby. They took turns having a poem, or a version of a recent poem, read aloud while Laura was served.

Abby’s uniform was similar to Miss Lancaster’s. She wasn’t as obsessed with the blood and death motif. It was still lace bralettes, garter belts, stockings, and heels: the regular uniform for a lingerie model. But Abby chose the color, something a bit more her: a bright, innocent white that featured well on her darker skin.

As she changed, she overheard Miss Lancaster and Laura talking. Miss Lancaster was moving around the room, getting ready for the session. Laura sounded distracted—probably writing—but she held her own part of the conversation.

“The closer you push her to the edge, the more dangerous she becomes,” said Miss Lancaster.

“She’s a beast backed into a corner. I expect she’ll lash out.”

“Are you ready for her when she does?”

“I won’t be the one to pay the price,” said Laura. “I haven’t yet, and I doubt I’ll start now.”

“What do you expect she’ll do?”

“Try to hurt me. Try to get my attention.”

“You’re not worried?”

“The vervain is working,” said Laura. “Claire feeds it to Nikki almost four times a day. That should make her less of a physical threat. As for her mental stability? I’ll ask Abby for more details. I need to know if it’s losing you or losing Angelica that’s unraveling her.”

“She hasn’t lost me.”

“I think no one, including Camille, is under that delusion.”

Abby stepped out in her uniform. She was also self-conscious, being so exposed in it, especially in front of the other women. But every time—every single time—she would step out of the bathroom, and Laura would turn to her and smile. At first, it was the smile of two lovers, of one person thrilled to see a body so carefully adorned. But it always melted into something predatory, into the same look Laura gave her in the orchard.

Laura rose from her book, taking the piece of paper with her. “My pick for a poem tonight,” she said as she moved to the edge of her bed.

Camille

Camille finished licking Abigail’s blood from her fingers, but it only whet her appetite. She went to the refrigerator and took out a packet of Nikki’s blood. Without opening it, she sank her teeth through the thin plastic and drank. Cold blood was a poor substitute for hot. It was closer to a gelatin than a liquid. The Muse Sessions were for the real thing. Abigail would pass out tonight after reading her poem, and Camille would to eat properly.

Or snack, rather.

To feast, to really eat to her heart’s content, she’d drain the tiny girl in minutes. She’d feel the hot blood dribble down her neck, between her breasts, over her smooth stomach, to her warm and sticky thighs to …

Camille shivered at the thought of it. She didn’t have the extra staff to properly eat tonight, though perhaps Abigail was expendable. She had two editors already, and she wasn’t using one at all.

A tiny thought, a darker thought, one from centuries ago, creeped across her mind: she could eat Laura if she was so hungry. She crushed it before entertaining it. Laura had begged for it. Unlike anyone before her, Laura wanted to feel the gallons of her blood slide down Camille’s throat. She didn’t beg for eternal youth or beauty. She didn’t want to become a monster like Marcilla. All she wanted was a beautiful death, and … and …

Camille wouldn’t do that anymore. The last person who had begged for anything like that had been Emma, and Camille had destroyed the only good thing she had in the world when she drank from her. Eternal life meant eternal memory. It meant that mistakes didn’t just linger; they haunted.

And yet, why didn’t she send Laura away? Why not let her join Nikki? Was it that Camille liked the temptation? She liked the possibility? Or was it the attention, the adoration that came from Laura?

Adoration that had bled into contempt.

Laura was her harshest critic, undoubtedly steering Abigail to crueler and crueler thoughts about the work Camille was trying to do, about the redemption she desperately sought to earn. Laura made it clear that Camille could do better, that Camille was letting her down, that Camille was a goddess, but that she wasn’t good enough. She was fallen, broken.

Perhaps she kept her around to prove her wrong, to earn her affection back.

Whatever the reason, Camille could no longer ignore the problem. Maybe she couldn’t drink one of her editors, but she needed someone back in the fold. She needed a confidant, someone that understood her and worked for her best interests. Angelica was all those things before she betrayed her. She was an acolyte of Camille, a high priestess. Without her, the temple had gone cold. It had devolved into chaos.

Perhaps Laura could take her place. Perhaps she could turn her? She could start all over with a new Laura, a new story. Surely eternity meant infinite second chances. What would Laura say to the offer of eternal life? To the chance to be Camille’s lover and servant forever? Would she fall to her knees in gratitude and worship? Or would she scoff? Would she laugh and turn away?

Was Camille brave enough to find out?

She found herself wandering the hallways of her manor as she wrestled with the questions. For months she had locked these away, like Laura. She kept them far from the focus of her mind, instead preferring to focus on work, to continue sending novels out to Laura Karnstein, seeking her old love. Perhaps she had missed new love in her own home. Perhaps she had been a fool.

She discovered her feet weren’t leading her aimlessly around the manor. They were going straight for Laura’s room. Straight to answer Camille’s worst question.

Abby

“Status report,” said Laura as she spread her legs. Lucy, on her knees, went right to work, licking Laura’s pussy. Laura was still dressed in a flannel button-up shirt and skirt with thigh-high brown leather boots, but her panties were gone and her skirt was bunched up around her waist.

Abby stood, buzzing with anticipation, trying not to cross her legs or arms, to hide her body, while she gave her report. While she spoke, Laura looked right at her, almost as though she was looking through her. The brown haired woman with her bright blue eyes never turned away, never let her eyes wander to some other corner of the room. They beheld and held Abby, drinking in her body as well as her words. Abby was never more terrified or glorified than when Laura looked at her like this.

The report was simple: Camille was definitely getting worse. She mentioned that the vampire was losing her ability to read. That was the newest development. They already knew that Camille couldn’t sleep, that her hands shook, that she was prone to crippling exhaustion but no rest.

“I think that she’s onto you, or me,” said Abby.

“Really?”

“Today was the first time she directly accused me of working with you. I had to lie, but …” Abby crossed her arms in embarrassment. “I’m not good at lying.”

Laura snapped, and Abby uncrossed her arms, trying to look relaxed while talking about the wild look in Camille’s eyes. She felt the pain in her arms, the ache of her neck.

“She hurt me,” whispered Abby.

“She what?”

“She … attacked me.”

“Uuuhnn,” moaned Laura. She tilted her head back and grabbed the top of Miss Lancaster’s head. “Shh shhh, gentle,” she cooed. Miss Lancaster slowed her licking down, taking long and dedicated strokes with her tongue fully extended.

Laura opened her eyes and looked back at Abby. “You don’t look attacked.”

Abby showed her arm. “She grabbed my arm, dug her fingers in pretty hard. Twisted it a bunch.” Abby hesitated. “Grabbed my neck too.”

“Are you alright?”

Abby shrugged. It felt like a failure on her part. She didn’t want whatever Laura had planned to fall apart because she couldn’t handle Camille, because she couldn’t deceive her. “I’ll be fine,” she whispered.

“Perhaps we should be more careful in our edits?” suggested Abby.

“No,” said Laura. “Oh … uhn,” she moaned again and grabbed the two buns on Miss Lancaster’s head.

“She threatened me,” said Abby. “She’s dangerous.”

“She’s getting weaker everyday.”

“Please,” whimpered Abby. She closed her eyes and saw the sharp green eyes of Camille, almost yellow as they dilated, as she showed her fangs. She could still hear the low snarl trapped in the vampire’s throat.

“No,” said Laura. “But you … oh god …” Laura bucked her hips, grinding hard against Miss Lancaster’s tongue. She pulled on the asian woman’s hair, pressing her mouth against Laura’s lips. She bucked her hips, grinding against Miss Lancaster’s mouth.

When she spoke, there was a fierceness in her voice, a strength and anger all at once. “Read to me. The poem on the table.” Abby went to the desk and found the poem Laura had been working on. “Not that one … uhn … Marcilla’s … yes … in the book … oh yes … it’s marked.”

Abby grabbed the copied book of Marcilla’s poems. There was a ribbon marking the page. “This one?” she asked, holding it up.

“Yes. Sit behind me. Read to me.”

Camille

“This one?” asked Abigail. Camille froze outside of Laura’s door, hesitating before she knocked.

“Yes,” said a voice. It was clearly Laura’s, but she sounded different, almost feral. “Sit behind me. Read to me.”

Camille leaned in closer to the door, listening. She clenched her jaw, tightening her fist. She knew Laura and Abby were working together. Reading together. Those edits probably all came from Laura, still disapproving of Camille, still judging her as weak.

“Drip,” said Abigail. “By Marcilla.”

Camille gasped. It was one of Marcilla’s. A poem she wrote about the first time she drank, about the little servant girl her father fancied, the one he gave to her when she was young. She nursed Marcilla back to health after her attack, after her near death experience with the strange noble passing through town. It was her hand on Marcilla’s brow, the smell of the young woman’s sweat, that stirred Marcilla from her slumber.

Abby read:

She was hungry. Oh god, hungrier than she was now. She’d forgotten how hungry she could be, how hungry you are when you first wake to your new life. There are no people, no friends or family. At first, everyone is food, and the body knows only hunger.

Abby read:

She could see her now: her long corn-colored hair. The slight curl to it. Her bright blue eyes. Her small frame. Her thin body. Even for someone so small, she made such a beautiful mess. They had to burn Marcilla’s bed, never able to get the stink out of it.

“Uuuuhn,” moaned Laura. “Oh, yes. More.”

Abby read:

Camille licked her lips, as the moans of Laura filled her room. She could see the poor girl now. She was shocked to see how much blood there was in a human body. Oceans of it, really. A vampire could live for days off of one kill, but all of them were gluttons. Why stop with a taste? Why take just what you need? Their corpse offered all of themselves. Take it.

“More,” yelled Laura. “Fuck. yes. Faster.”

Abby read, finishing the poem:

Camille’s stomach rumbled. When was the last time she felt that alive? When was the last time she let herself go? There, on the other side of the door, were two luscious bodies. The lust would make their blood run thin and smooth over Camille’s lips. She could feast to her heart’s content like she did the first time. Like she did for centuries before meeting Laura Karnstein. She could paint the walls of Laura’s room with blood and then … and then …

She’d be alone.

No Angelica. No Abigail. No Laura. No one to help her bring Laura Karnstein back except Lucy, and she was drifting away. All of them fading away like Laura Karnstein, running away from her as fast as they could unless she held them in place. Unless she forced them.

Except for Laura. Laura who now read Marcilla’s poetry as her own, who took Abigail from her, who criticised her and judged her. The one person that wanted Camille thought she wasn’t good enough.

“Oh god,” moaned Laura. “Yes. I’m so close. Yes.” Camille leaned in closer, putting her ear up against the door. “More. Yes … oh fuck. More.” She could smell the lust hanging in the air, almost hear fingers or tongue sliding in and out of Laura, serving her the way they should be serving Camille. “Faster,” whimpered Laura. “Mmmmh, yes, harder … please … harder.”

As Laura orgasmed, Camille’s self-pity smoldered to a quiet rage. Everyone had left her or betrayed her. There was nothing to look forward to. Even if she could find Laura Karnstein, what would her former lover discover? Camille was a flickering shadow of her former self. Everyone spoke of Marcilla as another person, like a ghost that haunted this lonely manor. Laura Karnstein wasn’t impressed with Marcilla before, disappointed just like Laura MacQuarrie. What would she think of the shaking and weak vampire called Camille?

Camille slunk away from the door. She needed to regain her strength. She needed to feed, to really feed. No more snacks. No more temperance.

Abby

Miss Lancaster was still touching herself when Abby came out of the bathroom after … finishing herself off. She had changed into something more comfortable, but Miss Lancaster was still in her uniform, sprawled on the bed, moaning and teasing her clit in large, messy circles. She was close. Laura, however, was back at her desk, flipping through pages of Marcilla’s poetry, her own poetry, and a journal she didn’t let anyone read.

“You’re right that we’re being foolish ignoring Camille,” said Laura as Abby sat across from her at the desk.

“What do you want to do about that?”

Laura looked up from the journal in her hand. “Don’t worry about it. How’s your arm?”

“It’ll be fine,” lied Abby. The truth was that her hand was going numb. It was agony to twist her wrist in any direction.

“Your throat?”

Abby shrugged. “There should be some bruising. Nothing else.”

Behind Laura, Miss Lancaster bit down on a pillow, suppressing her howls as her orgasm wracked her body. After convulsing, pumping her legs in and out, she lay flat and still, her thighs quivering while her chest heaved.

“If she calls for you tomorrow,” said Laura, “don’t meet her.”

“What if she —”

“What? Makes Angelica get you?” Laura smiled, and Abby wilted. When she smiled like that, something happened behind her eyes. The blue turned into a sharp white, like ice, and Abby was back in the orchard aching to be on her knees.

“If she wants you,” said Laura. “She’ll ask Lucy or Claire to come get you. They won’t be able to find you.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t want you trapped in a room with her.”

“Okay.” Abby nodded. “Good.” She swallowed. “Thank you.”

“It’s important to remember that with her physical body weakened, her power is gone. All her power came from her influence, which she has none of. She depended on the people around her, and they are gone. She’s harmless unless she corners you.”

“Alright.”

A pause descended upon them. Miss Lancaster was finally sitting up on the bed, catching her breath. Abby tried to figure out what Laura was reading. She’d never seen the journal before. She knew Laura wrote things, like her poems, but she kept them in a notebook.

“Whatcha reading?” she asked.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Something dirty?” teased Abby. She raised herself in her seat, trying to get a peek at the pages. She saw a diagram for a flash, and then Laura slammed the book shut.

“Lucy, I need you to pack your bags.”

“Are we going on a trip?” asked Miss Lancaster.

“You are.” Laura stood up, carrying the journal away with her. “And Emma.”

“Where?”

Laura turned to look at Abby. “I’ll tell you later.” She turned back to Miss Lancaster, helping her change out of her uniform. “Shouldn’t be more than a week.”

“Camille won’t be happy with it. And how exactly am I supposed to get a vampire on a plane?”

“You’re clever,” said Laura. “Figure it out.”

“May I ask why I’m going? Or will that be revealed in time as well?”

“I think it’s time we get some wisdom and experience on our side.”

“I thought that was my job?” said Miss Lancaster.

Laura leaned in and kissed her. It started off light and playful, but the two women melted into panting and heavier kissing as they dropped Miss Lancaster’s clothes and held each other’s faces. Abby’s stomach turned, watching the love of her life kiss another woman, a woman whose body she could never compete with.

“I’m looking for someone with a bit more silver,” said Laura, smiling as she broke the kiss. “And maybe a bit more sag,” she said as she held Miss Lancaster’s breasts in her hand. “You’ve got to be what, twenty-five?”

Miss Lancaster smiled and kissed Laura back, toppling her onto the bed. Abby wanted to say goodbye, but she didn’t want to disrupt them. She had her orders: avoid Camille. Laura clearly didn’t want her knowing the details of Miss Lancaster’s trip.

Besides, she needed to ice her arm and get some rest.

Abby headed down the empty and gloomy hallways of the manor, going back to her bedroom. It was always a creepy house, but without Angelica or the focused efforts of Miss Lancaster, it felt more like a museum than a home. Dust was gathering as Claire and the rotating temporary maids couldn’t keep up with all the cleaning. The hallways felt longer and the shadows deeper.

Abby went into her room, looking forward to watching some Carole & Tuesday to help distract herself, ice her arm, and get some sleep. Tomorrow she had a full day of hiding from Camille and lounging around the manor, getting paid to do nothing. With any luck, Miss Lancaster and Emma gone meant that Laura may give her some more attention tomorrow. Maybe they could work on some poems together. Maybe she’d let her take a look at that secret journal.

Abby tripped over something on the floor in the darkness. She bent down to pick it up and found one of the books from her library on the floor, half opened. She reached for the light switch and flipped it, but nothing happened. Her heart raced as she turned on the flashlight on her phone. She scanned it around the room. Through the tiny beam of light, she was able to tell that her room had been ransacked. Her notebooks, journals, and even the pages she was working on for Camille had all been thrown across the room.

As she flipped the light back and forth across the carnage of her room, she heard a match strike. There, in the corner of her room, holding a candle, was Camille. Her hair was wild around her face. Her eyes gleamed with an almost green light as the yellow flame caught them. But the look on her face, the shape of her mouth and jaw, was not one of someone that wanted to talk.

It was someone that wanted to feed.

Camille

Camille closed the gap quickly. She stumbled over an overthrown chair, but she turned the fall into a lunge as she tackled Abigail to the ground, pinning her and covering her mouth with her hand. Abigail tried to scream, but it was too late. Camille squeezed tighter. She thought she heard Abigail’s jaw cracking and eased her grip, having proved her point.

“If you scream you will die before anyone comes for you,” promises Camille, then slowly lets go.

“Please,” whimpered Abigail, but Camille had already risen, turning to pick up her candle before it burned down the room. She reignited it and went back to the corner where she was, picking up the stack of paper she left there.

“You’ve been doing a lot of reading,” said Camille.

“Please don’t hurt me.”

Camille turned the pages over in her hands. “Writing poems to Laura?” She couldn’t read the words, but the shape of the text looked like poetry. The scent of the hands that touched it reeked of Laura and lust.

She turned around and showed the pages in her hand, lowering the candle to illuminate the text. Her eyes, though fine for hunting in the dark, were too damaged to see Abigail’s reaction. She stalked towards the small girl at the front of the room and loomed over her, the candlelight shining on both evidence and criminal.

“Or is she writing them to you?”

“I don’t know —”

“Don’t lie. I may be almost blind but I smell both of you all over these pages.” Camille stepped onto Abigail’s stomach, pinning her to the ground and leaning her weight in. She couldn’t very well crush the girl, but she could remind her of her situation.

“Does she fuck you?” asked Camille.

“What?”

Camille tilted her candle, dumping hot wax across Abigail’s face. She tried to scream, but Camille shoved her foot down and across the girl’s mouth, muting her.

“Don’t scream,” said Camille. “I haven’t decided if I’m going to kill you yet.” She bent down, leaning over her target. Abigail reeked of fear, and the scent drove Camille wild. She hadn’t hunted, not like this, in too long.

Camille pulled her foot away. “Does she fuck you?”

Abigail looked up, her eyes wild in the yellow-orange light.

“Of course she doesn’t,” said Camille with a grin. “She makes you fuck her. Or maybe just lick her. Is that it?”

Abigail nodded quickly.

“I came here to ask you one question, and I want an honest answer. One chance. This could be a very bad night for you, or the last night of your life. Understand?”

Abby nodded again.

“What are you doing with my poems?”

Camille held the girl’s gaze. Abigail didn’t understand what she was meddling with. She didn’t know about the sacred space between a poet and the poem. How could she know? She was an editor. She came in and modified it. Critiqued it. Judged it. Belittled it. She didn’t know what was precious about the words, about the intentions. She wasn’t there, looking at Laura Karnstein’s quivering neck. She didn’t understand the thrill and shame and fear and hunger in hunting her.

Only Laura understood.

“Laura copied them down, in another book. We read them to her from time to time.”

“We?”

“Shit.”

Camille grabbed Abigail by the neck and lifted. At first, the girl scrambled to her feet, trying to keep the weight off her neck. Then, she sputtered, her face turning purple as her feet left the floor, as she slid up the wall.

“You can’t take her from me,” said Camille. “She belongs to me.”

“Who?” croaked Abigail.

“She’s the only one that understands me.”

“Emma?”

Camille dropped Abigail and stepped away. The darkness swirled around. She knew. How could she have known?

“Angelica?” she hissed, kicking Abigail as hard as she could. She heard bones snap as the small woman slid across the floor into her desk.

“No. Please. I’ll tell you,” whined Abigail. “I’ll tell you whatever you want.”

But Camille was already on top of her. She was done listening. There were too many loose ends. Angelica had said too much, and now Camille needed to clean it up. To clean it up before it reached Laura and everyone, especially her favorite, left her.

Abigail screamed as the fangs burned into the soft flesh of her neck. Camille let the terror wash over her. She drank deeply in her first sip, summoning Abigail into immediate unconsciousness. Camille felt the strength surge through her, that old familiar strength she had known for centuries. The pure relationship of predator and prey was established again, and Camille felt her nerves settle. She felt her hands still as she pinned Abigail’s limp body to the floor. She felt her mind sharpen as she began to plot, wondering what she was going to tell Laura the next day.