This the first of a multi-chapter fantasy story that contains explicit sex, but the build will be slow. Yes, I know vampire stories are way overdone but I didn't get my s**t together to start writing until recently, so here we are. The story is currently developing and I welcome constructive criticism, particularly on character development, clarity, sensitivity, and readability. (if you want to skip to the sexy parts, scroll towards to the end for a witch-vampire meet cute & sexy dream),
Prologue
As waves pound the bleached rock cliffs a young girl sails far above. Tucked safely in her bed she flies over inky black water, through the cold coastal air marked by the wafting scent of eucalyptus and live oak. She journeys over winding roads and mountains, over miles of cement and asphalt still radiating the heat of midday until she reaches the city. She flies over the crush of light and sound until she finds herself before a mirror.
She's a beautiful woman. Someone she has never met before. She watches herself carefully wind a long section of hair around the barrel of a hot roller then pull it away, leaving a bouncing chestnut curl that falls over her shoulder. She adjusts it with red tipped nails filed into a stiletto point.
Then there is black.
Again, she finds herself looking into a mirror. She is the same beautiful woman with chestnut curls, now before a white sink in a bathroom. She wears a snug black dress, it's sequin accent glitters in harsh light. She leans into the mirror, meticulously drawing red creme across the soft flesh of her lips. More women flank her left and her right, each before their own white sink. They are preoccupied with their own reflections. She turns and paces towards the door. The opaque glass glows with light, red then blue then purple. It pulses in rhythm with the sound of a heavy beat. She pulls the door open to a roar of sound and color. The massive room is packed. The rotten scent of dried alcohol reaches her nose. She pushes into the crowd, towards the curving staircase on the other side of the massive room.
She moves forward, determined, though her small body is pushed and blocked by scores of others writhing to the music. She's nearly reached it when she looks up and sees a shadowed figure standing at the very top. Her heart surges; she races forward but stumbles over a stair. When she looks up, the figure has disappeared. She flies up the stairs, as fast as her feet can carry her. Her lungs burn when she reaches the top--the figure is now down the hall. She feels confused but so, so happy. She runs toward the figure who recedes into the shadowed hallway. She walks down--it's dark and she can barely see the neat rows of hanging oil paintings and small tables that line the hallway. She stops before a door, just barely open, illuminated by a thin line of light. She pushes in.
The figure stands beside a bed, still shrouded in darkness. She rushes forward and the figure encircles her in his arms. He feels firm and she inhales the soft scent of cedar from his cologne. It feels familiar.
Then, again, there is black.
The girl is floating again, disembodied from the beautiful woman. This time, she floats above the beautiful woman with chestnut curls. The woman lies on the bed, still in her glittering dress. Her arm hangs off the side.
The girl sees the woman, still and pale. The woman's eyes are open and still like glass. The girl opens her mouth to scream, but she is only a ghost.
Marcella shot up to a seat, forehead dotted with perspiration. She shivered; she had kicked off her covers and now the cold sea air wafted into her room from the open window, shut tight before she crawled into bed last night. Uneasy, she reached for her phone on the side table; it wasn't too early. She would not sleep after a dream like that. She slid off the bed and walked towards the window to shut it tight.
She should probably tell Greta about this, when she gets up.
Ch. 1
The pergola over the pathway was wrapped in vines that nearly blocked out the sun. A few beams of light managed to break through and dotted the wet stone. Rhea carried a heavy armload of books to her chest and eyed the swollen beads of water that clung to the vine. She desperately did not want water on the books nor in her hair, which she had meticulously styled into dark, dense curls that flowed from her scalp in waves. It had been raining earlier, which wasn't unusual for a coastal town in winter, but if she was responsible for any water damage to his books, Kivan would not forget it.
Even if it was possible to replace the long forgotten titles, it was a small fortune to get things shipped to the island.
Rhea reached the stairs and headed up toward the library. She opened the door to a small reception area that led into a vast room packed with books; their only barrier was a built-in counter and Kivan, who stared at a decrepit text. His skin, dark as obsidian, shined in the light after the rain. He was both a highly skilled witch and a devotee of the skincare products that were a speciality of the Research Center, their active ingredients a closely guarded secret.
"I knew it was either you or a shetland pony running up those stairs," Kivan said without looking up.
Rhea scoffed. "I brought your books back," she said with faux-enthusiasm and plopped them on the counter. "Just about on time, too," Kivan retorted, "and, remember, they're not my books." He stood from his chair and moved to stand across Rhea at the counter. "They belong to the Center," Kivan said. Rhea struggled not to roll her eyes; she had learned it only encouraged Kivan and his lectures. He continued theatrically, "I'm merely responsible for preserving them, thus sustaining generations of knowledge of the art of necromancy and the education of unknown scores of witches in the future, just like you and me." He looked at her, dark brown eyes staring pointedly over his wire rimmed glasses.
Rhea nodded "I'm sorry I brought the books back late. I really am, Kivan. some of my students, the visiting witches," she clarified, "are really resisting necromancy rituals."
"Hmm," Kivan said as he opened the front cover of the book. Rhea continued, "It's nothing too bad; one wants to jump right into the sexy stuff-- powers of life and death, and all, without putting in the training up front."
Kivan looked at her, "That was all of us, I suppose. At some point." Rhea nodded. Kivan said "I think I have a text or two that may help. I'll find them and I'll forgive you for the late books." He paused for dramatic effect, "if you bring me a cup of coffee at 3 today. Exactly 3." He looked over his glasses again, "And call me by my full title: 'Mrs. Tina Turner.'"
Rhea laughed, "I can do that, Madame Turner." Her phone buzzed in her pocket. It was a text, from Greta. And the garbled letters looked like they were trying to spell 'urgent.'
"Hmm," Rhea pondered, "Greta wants to see me in her office. And she's back to trying to text again, I guess." Rhea looked closer at the scrambled letters, "I think she tried to write ASAP." A series of text bubbles followed, each containing it's own alphabet scramble. Despite mastery over the secrets of life and death refined by the ages, Greta never really took to smartphones.
"What's going on?" asked Rhea as she tapped a message ("Coming!") into her phone.
"Hell if I know," Kivan said, engrossed in the returned books. "The full moon is in three days. She always gets itchy right before you guys go see vampires." He paused and whispered conspiratorially, "I think they make her hot." Rhea dropped her mouth open and laughed. Greta had been her teacher for many years now as was like a mother to her. And was well over 100 years old
