A Voyage Into Night

An Intimate Interlude.

The ship never rested, never slept; most of the time it was on the move, shifting its colossal bulk from one harbour to the next, freeing its occupants to wander on dry land before recalling them back into its keeping. Those people it did allow to go free were quickly replaced; there was always a ready supply of bodies to keep it company on its seemingly endless, circuitous voyage: New faces, new experiences. New blood. More than enough to keep the journey interesting.

It was during the day that the ship seemed most obviously alive; it's decks a near constant bustle of bodies busying themselves about their business. It gave the ship almost the impression of an ant nest, or a hive. This impression was more accurate than most would have guessed, for at the heart of this hive, hidden and protected, lay a queen.

At night the activity died down to only a few workers: drones carrying out their tasks in the darkness, keeping the great machine alive and moving. Looking down on the ship, quietly sat at harbour during the early hours before dawn, a person might think that the great beast was sleeping. A person would be wrong.

Somewhere on that huge, shadowed bulk, there is a door; this door is not hidden, it is simply ... unnoticed. A large amount of effort and skill has been spent in making sure it remains so. Passengers walk past it oblivious; crew never attempt to open it. They have not been instructed to avoid it, somethings do not require instruction. The door is a plain white door, and if anyone was minded to turn the handle, they would find that it turns easily. Inside is a corridor of dark oak wood. This passageway is different. It gives the impression of belonging to a completely different ship, to a completely different time.

The corridor turns once, then again, before it ends at a set of heavy doors made of solid, dark wood. Here again the doors are not locked and will open readily enough if a person was to press their full weight against it. Again the doors seem out of place on such a modern ship, This sense of time displacement would only continue were a person to open the heavy double-doors and step inside.

The room beyond is large and circular. It's high ceiling made of the same dark wood as the door, a substance that appears to soak up the light from the small chandelier suspended from the centre. What material the walls are made of is difficult to guess, as every square foot around the perimeter is lined with bookshelves crammed to overflowing with many types of books: a mixture of modern hardbacks and far older volumes fight for space on the wooden shelves. There is even some paperback novels dotted here and there, although these are clearly not the occupant's favourite; she prefers the physical weight of a hardback book in her hand, its texture, it's smell.

As well as the numerous bookcases there is also a sturdy table, it's wood matching the decor in being dark and aged, with a large high-backed comfortable reading chair facing a fire that is never lit. The occupant of this room tends not to feel the cold. A open door stands at the rear of the room, a rectangle of darkness that offers no clue as what lies beyond. A large four-poster bed stands to one side, it's sheets and pillowcases made luxuriously of scarlet silk. The bed is occupied, and a visitor to this room would catch a glimpse of flowing red hair on the pillows before their attention was drawn back to the high-backed chair facing the cold and dead fire. It too is occupied.

The vampire is sitting reading a copy of Dante's Divine Comedy. The room would be too dimly lit for others to make out the writing in the centuries old book but, for Moretta, this had ceased to be a problem fully four hundred years before. It is a book she has read countless times in the past and, if asked, could recite pages from it by heart, but she had always enjoyed the physical act of reading, the look of the words on the page.

Moretta places the book on the arm of the chair and, closing her eyes, takes a moment to absorb the sounds around her. Of course the room is never completely silent, not for her. The fact of the ship's nature, coupled with her own enhanced hearing, means that it has been years since she has known the true peace that comes with absolute silence. Here, she has learned to become used to the constant throb of the mighty engines, and the sounds of bustling activity coming from all sides around her sanctuary. The walls creak and groan around her, and at times she imagines that she is in a submarine, far under the ocean's surface, with millions of tons of water pressing in on all sides, threatening to crush her into atoms. Her world is never quiet. She has, over time, become resigned to it, as she has learned to be resigned to so many things.

Her room has no windows, for obvious reasons, and yet she can tell that, outside, night has fallen. The activity outside has quietened, and now all she can hear above the murmur of the engines is someone pacing on the deck directly above her and the gentle breathing of the sleeper on the bed.

Rising from the chair she moves over to the table, to the one item in the room that seems glaringly out of place and time: a white laptop computer which she opens and boots up. There was no getting around the fact that the technology revolution has made her life easier. It has all but removed the necessity for direct human contact, which in turn, has kept her safe. She reads through her e-mail messages, and replies to those she feels need a response. She notes with satisfaction that all traces of the boy have been removed from the suite. His friends also require attention although she has decided that it would be simpler to just evict them from the ship. They may cause a fuss over their friend's disappearance but nothing that would amount to anything; her contacts on the mainland would ensure that. They have become very skilled at covering up her activities, even though they have never fully worked out her true nature. They are paid a considerable amount of money in order to deaden their natural sense of curiosity. Despite what many people believe, her kind can not bend people to their will by thought alone. However, as luck would have it, money and the knowledge of the consequences of failure, is usually more than a suitable replacement for supernatural mind-control.

Meanwhile the ship would move on, surrounded by the water that has kept her safe from detection, from the enemies who she is sure still hunt for her. It had been her life for so long now that she has forgotten there ever was an alternative. She has thought herself content with her life, with her choices. It was only recently that a crack has appeared in her peace of mind. This was irritating, and dangerous.

Closing the laptop she rises and moves over to the bed. The figure beneath the sheets stirrs awake, sensing Moretta's closeness. The head shifts, and the woman turns her blues eyes towards her. She is very pretty, thinks Moretta, sitting down on the edge of the bed. It had been the redness of her hair that had first drawn her attention; a long, river of curls that reminded Moretta so strongly of... her. Moretta reaches up, and carefully brushes the hair from the woman's face. The woman in the bed smiled weakly up at her.

Her name is Leanne, and she's one of the dancers performing in a nightly celebration of the music of Irving Berlin. Moretta has not seen the performance herself, that would have been too much of a risk, but she has noticed numerous posters plastered around the ship. She even thinks she recognises Leanne from one of them, being twirled around in an emerald evening dress: an unconvincing Ginger Rogers to another man's far less convincing Fred Astaire. During their time together, Moretta had gotten to know the young woman, at least a little: she is 28, enjoys two boyfriends, (one on board and one waiting for her back in Dundee) and has dreams of opening on broadway someday. And Moretta also knows that, on the previous night, she had been chosen purely because, from a distance, she resembled a certain doctor that, try as she might, Moretta can not get out of her head.

Leanne smiles at the coolness of the woman's touch, her arms straining at the silken cords binding her at the wrists. She had not been restrained for the entire time; Moretta has no worries about the girl running. The cords had simply been an added detail, a pleasing detail. Moretta returned the woman's smile, her hand slowly peeling back the sheet to reveal the dancer's exquisite body. She does not really resemble the doctor, not when you looked closely. If anything many people would consider Leanne to be the more attractive of the two women: her face had a delicate, refined beauty, she was taller, her toned body was thinner, her breasts fuller. A dancer's body. Moretta had brought her here, spent time with her, because she had thought the girl would be a suitable replacement, a safe way to scratch an itch that had been threatening to consume her. It hadn't worked. Now, gazing at the woman before her, Moretta could not help but compare her unfavourably to the doctor.

Moretta moved her ungloved hand slowly over the body of the woman before her, tracing the undulations of her breasts, her belly, her thighs. Moretta had known, and enjoyed, the company of countless men down through the centuries, but women had always been her preference. The soft feel and shape of a woman's body took her breath away in a way a man's never could. Leanne arches her body, pressing herself into the vampire's hand. Moving her hand up, Moretta caresses a breast, feeling the nipple press against her palm. She squeezes, causing the prostrate woman to groan in pleasure.

Moretta was not one for taking risks. Despite the fact that she is, technically, immortal, she is well aware of the numerous ways death can finally claim her. When she hunted she has always been fast, making sure she dispatched the prey quickly before any help could arrive. That night on the deck had been different; she had been reckless in taking her time with that young woman, stupidly reckless. Suicidally reckless. It had been years since she had last given in to her desires in such a way. And to do it all whilst a mortal looked on! Even more, to do it all because a mortal was looking on! Sheer stupidity. But Moretta could not deny the level of excitement she had felt as she tasted the young woman's blood whilst the scent of the watching doctor's arousal hung heavy in the air. Her own behaviour had been worryingly out of character, but what came afterwards was even worse. To put on a show was one thing, but then, to follow the doctor to her cabin, knock at the door to request entrance like a love-sick puppy. Anybody could have seen her, roaming the corridors. It was shameful.

But then came the incredible thing: Moretta had knocked, and the doctor had not answered. Moretta was still at a loss to explain it. Such a thing had been unheard of, at least for her. No mortal had been able to refuse her. Immortals were, by their very nature, irresistible to mortals. And yet this woman had resisted, had refused. Moretta had then continued to bring shame on herself. Not only had she looked up the woman's details on her computer. (Dr. Isobel Cartright. 32 years old. No next of kin) but she had returned to her cabin, night after night. Knocking, begging! She was disgusted with herself.

Leanne gave a whimper of pain, and Moretta realised that she had too tight a hold on the woman's warm flesh. She relaxed her grip, gently tracing over the nipple with her thumb, smiling down at the woman to calm her. She really was delightful and Moretta had enjoyed her company over the last few hours; yet try as she might, she could not keep her mind from returning to the doctor.

And then had come the previous night, when Moretta had watched from the shadows as Isobel had brought a young man back to a suite. She had watched as Isobel had taken control, making the man strip naked before joining him out on the balcony, their naked bodies illuminated by a clear, moonlit sky. She had watched, fascinated, as they had embraced in the night air, the sight of the doctor's body lighting a fire in Moretta that had long been dormant. She watched as Isobel took pleasure in teasing and tasting the young man. She watched as Isobel led the man to the bed. Then Moretta had watched as the man began to pleasure Isobel with his mouth. Isobel arching her back, her face the distillation of pure pleasure. And as she watched, Moretta had wanted to tear out the man's heart with her fingernails.

It had been then that Isobel had opened her eyes, and seen her. It had been a dangerous, foolish error for Moretta to leave herself so exposed. And yet, she found that she did not want to look away, could not look away. Against every instinct warning her that she was breaking from her usual routine and, as such, placing herself at grave risk, she could not draw away from this woman. Moretta had stepped into the room, one part of her mind telling her to end this, and end it quickly. That was the safest option, the only option. And yet, as she made her way slowly across the room towards the bed, her eyes drank in the sight of these two people lost in each other, particularly when the man raised himself up on his arms and thrust into Isobel, who threw her arms around him, holding him close. Her groans of pleasure rising in pitch. It was as if Moretta was not even there.

And then Isobel had drawn blood: the scent of it filled the room, mixing with the dizzying aroma of sweat and sex as Moretta stared, astonished, as the woman, clearly in the throws of orgasm, pressed her mouth against the man's shoulder and bit down hard. The man reacted angrily but Moretta was already flying across the room, all caution thrown to the wind, as she wrapped her arms around his body and sank her own teeth deeply into his throat. It could so easily have been a trap; a lure to coax her out of hiding, to expose herself. None of this occurred to Moretta at the time, her hunger rose up like a powerful, unstoppable wave, and she acted.

The man's blood had been dulled with alcohol, nevertheless she drank it down in great gulps. Even in the heat of her hunger, she sensed Isobel join her, heard her tear into the man's flesh. It had been over a century since this had happened, since Moretta had experienced the intimacy of a shared feeding. She had found her body reacting to the closeness of this other woman; a heavy weight in her chest, a warmth between her legs. Her mind was a whirl of different emotions: fear, doubt, excitement, hope. She placed her hand on the man's naked waist, felt Isobel's hand already there. This was the first time the two women had touched and, for Moretta at least, in that moment, it felt the most natural thing in the world when their fingers entwined. She had actually reached up to run her hand through the doctor's long, red hair, before she finally came to her senses. This was insanity! She was making the mistake she had promised herself long ago she would never repeat. She had fled from that room as fast as she could, out through the balcony and out into the open air, to safety. She knew the risk of being seen, but the risk of staying was far greater.

She had spent the next two nights locked in her sanctuary, alone with her thoughts, alone with her doubts. When she had finally ventured abroad she did so in the hope of finally ridding herself of thoughts of Dr. Isobel Cartwright.

Looking down, Moretta let her gaze wander freely over the woman's body, and the marks that her previous attentions had left: the woman's neck, her breast, her thigh, all showed signs of feeding. She had been a delicious vintage Moretta had been unable to resist sampling throughout the day. Again, she fought the urge to lie naked with this beautiful woman but she reminded herself that many mortals found her true form alarming. Bending low she kissed Leanne tenderly, a deep, tender, exploration of a kiss that the young woman received in kind, straining at her cords to embrace her.

Moretta extended her dark nails to dagger points, and began to trace long, swooping patterns over the woman's body, up to her throat, around her breasts and down over her flat belly. Leanne twisted in frustrated pleasure as she felt the sharp trail leave intricate white marks across her body. She parted her legs as she felt the vampires nails make a path along the inside of her thigh: an incredibly sensitive area that caused her to bite her lower lip in anticipation.

Moretta let her hand slowly meander upwards to between the woman's legs. Retracting her nails she felt the brush of trimmed pubic hair, then the hot wetness of her sex. Moretta had the urge to taste the woman down there, something which she had already done numerous times. In her experience a tongue could be more intimate than a prick, no matter how hard, ever could. But she could already feel her hunger growing again, and she felt the familiar pressure in her mouth which meant her teeth were expanding. With one hand still pressed between the woman's legs Moretta moved her head to Leanne's breast, her tongue raking the hard, erect centre. Then, gazing upwards into Leanne's wide, expectant eyes, Moretta opened her mouth and pressed her mouth hard against the woman's breast, above the nipple. There was a soft, tearing sound, as of ripped satin, and Leanne convulsed in a powerful mixture of pleasure and pain, pushing her body off the bed as if to impale herself more deeply on the vampire's teeth.

Moretta drank deeply, not stopping even as the woman began to shake with a powerful orgasm and slowly weaken. At last she raised her head, gasping for breath, her dark lips glistened with blood in the dim light of the room. It was no good. She still found her mind wandering. She should have taken her by now, then she would have been free of this... indecision. Doubt led to death; she had learned this the hard way. No, the problem needed to be solved, one way or another. She needed to do something about the beautiful doctor with the red hair, and soon. It would mean risks, and it would mean exposing herself to danger. But there was no reason why she should have to deal with this problem alone. An idea occurred to her.

Resolved, Moretta placed her mouth back on the dancer's exquisite body, and continued to feed. "Don't stop," Leanne moaned as she once more felt the vampires teeth enter her body, "please don't stop". Moretta took her time, savouring the experience, but she obliged the young woman's final request, and gave in fully to her own hunger and desire.