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A young woman emerged from the shadows of my room, draped in nothing but a gossamer cloak of moonlight. She moved with the fluidity of smoke, her footsteps as silent as the fall of snow. Closer to my bed she drew, and I felt a pull, an invisible thread connecting us, along with an inexplicable yearning.
Her skin, pale and moon-kissed, was a lovely contrast to her midnight hair. Her lips were pomegranate-red, full and inviting. She was beauty personified yet held a captivating edge, like a rose with thorns.
“Bertha?” I asked.
No answer.
“Laura.” My name left her mouth, a silken whisper.
The young woman extended a hand. Our fingers met, and her touch was a brush of two opposing forces. Fire and ice. Desire and fear. Yet, the girl’s gaze held a promise that aroused my senses. She leaned close, night blooming on her breath. A rush of heat filled me as our lips met. It was a slow, deliberate kiss; a brush of silk and velvet, a delicate dance of tongues and breaths. An insatiable thirst for more.
She crawled into my bed, and something pierced my breast. The sharp sting sent a tremor throughout my entire being. I woke up with a scream.
The sheets were damp with sweat, the moonlight a cold intruder on my face. I felt my neck, the phantom sensation of the bite still lingering along with the aftershocks of my release. Shame burned inside, a counterpoint to the thrill that danced on my skin. I squeezed her eyes shut, willing the dream away, but the memory of the bite, of the girl’s red lips, remained like the persistent ache between my legs.
Mademoiselle De Lafontaine burst through my door with Madame Perrodon close behind her heels. “What on earth—”
“A bite.” My voice shook. “Right here.” I lowered the collar of my nightgown, but there was no mark. No hint of teeth.
“God heavens child, it was only a bad dream.”
Mademoiselle De Lafontaine frowned. “What did you dream about?”
I stared recounted the horrid nightmare to my governesses, how the fiend had crawled into my bed, the searing sting of her bite. I left out the kiss or my own involvement in it.
“The moon is almost full outside,” said De Lafontaine. “They say a full moon has a potent hand in dreams and one’s state of mind.” She trailed off, staring at the luminary outside. “Some even say that when a moon shines exceptionally brightly, that it indicates preternatural activity. Unnatural ongoings…a perversity from nature.”
“Hush now,” said Madame Perrodon. “You’ll scare the child.”
“Pay no mind to my ramblings.” She forced a smile, and her voice turned sympathetic. “You are distraught over Bertha, hence the cause of your nightmare. Go back to sleep, and we shall watch over you.”
“She will say her prayers first,” said Madame Perrodon. “Go on.”
I did as I was told.
“Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name; thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Amen.”
“Amen,” she whispered.
Moonlight bled through the window, painting silver streaks across the rumpled sheets. Sleep slowly overcame me, blurring out the wisps of conversation between Madame Perrodon and Mademoiselle De Lafontaine in my half-asleep state.
“What do you think it means?”
“A reasonable explanation that our addled minds are clearly lacking.”
“But someone did lie there,” Mademoiselle De Lafontaine said quietly. “When I felt the bed next to her, the place was still warm.”
Chapter 2:
The next day, I cloistered myself in my room, coming to terms with Bertha’s demise. My dream from the previous night had a hand in that. The raw, visceral images I had seen was a silver lining in that my nightmare had eclipsed the grief. The sordid encounter with the beautiful fiend had stirred something within me and left a mark that the morning sun couldn’t erase.
Around the late afternoon, my governesses forced me out of the schloss to get some air. My father decided to accompany us as well, saying the woodland air would revitalize our spirits. The trio conversed on our walk, forced mundane pleasantries, but I said nothing.
Late afternoon bled into evening, and a strange disquietude stirred inside me, a restless tide pulling at the shores of my composure. The cicadas’ drone became a maddening, high-pitched chorus.
“We ought to head back,” said Madame Perrodon.
“Can we stay a bit longer, please?” I asked.
