Inspired from the digital painting "Black", by WLOP on DeviantArt.
I hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it.
***
Come...
The word was silent, an itch in the darkest corner of my mind as the curtain rose on the second act. The crowded theatre quieted, but the tug in my gut made my mind race. It was a sensation I hadn't felt in a hundred years, and I gritted my teeth as I tried to ignore it. Glancing down, I saw that my fingers had bunched the silk of my dress into a fist, and I slowly relaxed my hands.
Come...
More insistent now, but just as silent. The play was over, but the crowds had yet to disperse. The order was an urge, a deep, dark desire that pulled at me in ways I had forgotten. It slipped across time and space, and made a home in the corners of my being that no one knew existed.
I already knew that I couldn't resist, but still I struggled.
Had I forgotten my promises?
No. I still remembered them as if I had spoken the words only a moment before.
Power in return for bondage. Pleasure in return for obedience.
But then he had abandoned me, and I never wanted any of it again. I swallowed, my fingernails digging into my palms as the patrons flowed out of the lobby and onto the street in the wintry evening air.
Come...
The command chimed in my mind like a bell, clear as the water of a mountain stream. It wasn't a word so much as a feeling, a tugging sensation that pulled at me silently, inexorably, and that demanded obedience. For a moment, the interior of the London cab disappeared around me, replaced by the image of a darkened castle blanketed in snow
I straightened suddenly in my seat and my long black hair tumbled over my pale skin, my shoulders bared by the black evening dress.
"What's wrong?" Alexander's handsome face was concerned as he turned to me in the cab, placing a calming hand on my arm. "Niki?" he asked, leaning closer.
I flinched unintentionally as his fingers reached up to brush my cheek, my mind flashing back to the present. "I..." My heartbeat was thundering in my ears, and I couldn't tell whether it was with excitement or fear.
It's been so long...
"I must go..."
My suitor's eyes were wounded as his brow furrowed and his square jaw tightened with worry and confusion. "Now?" he asked. "Is something the matter? Was it something I said?" He looked quite dashing in his tuxedo — his tousled hair golden and just a bit too long, his broad shoulders perfectly fitting the tailored jacket, his blue eyes twinkling and guileless.
"No. No, I —" I brushed my hair behind my ear. Being taken to the theatre by a delightful man had seemed a wonderful diversion, but now there was only one place I wanted to go. Only one place I
could
go. My eyes shone with desperation, but I just shook my head. "I'm sorry." My voice was a whisper.
I reached forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder. "Pull over here."
The man obeyed silently, but Alexander's hand gripped my arm as I reached for the door.
"What's going on?" he demanded, his voice rough and distressed. Even in his shocked dismay, I could sense his desire to be gallant, to protect me from whatever was happening. "I'm not letting you out into the snow, alone on a random street corner this late at night."
The words drove into my heart like shards of glass, but I forced myself to speak. "Don't touch me." My expression was hard and cold as ice, my tone brittle.
I could tell that those three words cut deep, and he pulled back, stunned, as though I had struck him. Not wanting to see his sad, confused expression, I turned and stepped out through the curtain of drifting snowflakes.
I must have surprised him more than I thought, because it was several seconds before I heard his voice call out to me. "Niki, wait! Your coat!"
I ignored the words and disappeared into the gathering dark. The cold gathered around me but, try as it might, couldn't penetrate my soft skin. The snowflakes fell on my shoulders and softly coated my hair, caressing me like little kisses. I knew Alexander would soon leave his cab and try to find me, but I would be long gone.
A twinge of regret surfaced for a moment, but I brushed it aside. It had been a century, but I was being called back to his side. Nothing else mattered.
It was not a call I could ignore. And, despite my attempts, I wasn't sure I wanted to.
***
I watched as the countryside of Eastern Europe flashed by outside the train window: mountains and meadows and streams and mile after mile of dark forest. I only turned when I heard a gruff voice demand to see my papers.
I turned. "Yes, of course." My voice was soft and unassuming. I reached inside my long jacket and produced my passport and travel documents.
The stocky man in the conductor's hat and button-covered jacket sniffed through his Stalin-esque walrus moustache. "Nikita Boroskaya," he mumbled aloud to himself. The man glanced from the photo to me: to my long, dark hair, my slim, beautiful body, my face like a sculpture in porcelain... Or, at least, that was how
he
had always described me.
Nodding, the man handed back my passport. "Welcome home."
Home...
The word hung in the air after he had passed me by, resonating in my mind. It was a word with so many meanings, with associations and emotions that followed along behind like each train carriage followed the one before it. And then, as all the memories crashed through my mind, I was catapulted into the past.
***
I was frightened, a bundle of nerves that bounced on her toes as she waited.
The library was vast and dark, but as I stood in the edge of the firelight it felt like the entire world had narrowed to the tiny circle of flickering warmth. A thick red rug carpeted the floor and several richly upholstered chairs were gathered around the hearth. A precarious stack of books teetered on a small table by a leather couch, and tracing down the spines with my eyes I realized they were all great classics of literature.
To distract myself, I read down the pile.
The Odyssey.
The Ramayana.
I had already been selected, which meant that the hard part should have been over. My family would be richly rewarded. My town would continue to flourish.
Pride and Prejudice.
War and Peace.
And I? I was the lucky one... I would be granted unimaginable power.
Hamlet.
A Thousand and One Arabian Nights.
Still, my mind managed to latch onto things to worry me:
What if he's frightening? What if he wants to hurt me?
And then, the thoughts that should have been much further down my list of fears but which were perfectly natural for an 18-year-old girl:
What if he's ugly? What if he thinks
I'm
ugly? What if he doesn't want me after all...?
Dracula.
I gasped as a flicker of movement registered in the corner of my eye and I looked up to see a tall, slim man leaning casually against the mantle and watching me.
"I do apologize if I frightened you." The man's voice was a smooth bass, his smile genuine and warm, and I relaxed in spite of myself, though my hand pressed to my chest could still feel the racing of my heart like a bird fluttering against the bars of its cage.
His face was pale in the firelight, but not unnaturally so. If the rumors were true, he rarely ventured outside. His features were well-defined, and as he stepped into the firelight I felt my stomach clench again as I realized how handsome he was.
His age was impossible to tell. His skin was unlined and his face was beardless; he could have been 25 or 50 and I wouldn't have known the difference. But it was his eyes that captured me — so dark they could have been called black, and deep as bottomless wells of ink. As I stared into them, I caught a hint of firelight glinting in their depths, a flash of red for just a moment before I blinked and lost it.
"N-no, sir..." I managed to say, and bobbed an awkward curtsy. "I've been waiting for you."
He slid gracefully down into the couch and crossed his long legs. "So I see," he murmured, and reached out, resting a finger on the cover of the topmost volume in the pile. "You've been admiring my books? Do you recognize them?"
I swallowed. This was definitely a test, a final examination to make sure I had been adequately prepared for my role. "Yes, sir."
"Can you tell me who wrote them?" His voice was playful, and he could tell I knew that he wanted me to impress him.
I nodded. "Homer," my voice low but assured. I had read most, if not all, of the books in his tower of literature. "Valmiki. Austen. Tolstoy..." I rattled them off, my shoulders relaxing as I imagined I was back home with one of my tutors. My stomach rolled over again as his eyes roamed my body, from the swell of my breasts to my long, dancer's legs, but I just took a breath and finished my recitation.
A smile quirked across his mouth and he tilted his head in a nod of acknowledgement. "Very impressive," he murmured, and I felt a glitter of pleasure at the praise. "I am pleased that you are already so well-read," the man continued. "It means that we can focus on other aspects of your training."
"My training, sir?" I whispered. The cold ball reappeared in the pit of my stomach. I had known what was coming, but I still had no idea what to expect.
"Oh, yes," my new master replied, standing smoothly and slipping closer, the smile on his face calm and self-assured. He walked directly before the fire, but — as I had half-anticipated and half-feared — he cast no shadow.
I wanted to be afraid as he came to a halt before me and raised a slender finger, tipping my head back so I met his gaze, but there was nothing predatory about his face; only a quiet satisfaction. "Look into my eyes, Nikita," he ordered gently, revealing, for the first time, that he knew my name.
I obeyed. This time, when they flared with a glowing red flame, I couldn't look away. I stared into his black eyes with my starlit blue ones, my focus unwavering.
"Good..." I heard the murmur of his low voice echo up to my ears as he held my chin between his finger and thumb, and my body shivered again at the praise. "Look even deeper now..."
I felt my head begin to swim, and I tried to draw back.
Focus,
I ordered, blinking languidly.
Be still. Just look deeper. What does he want me to see?
It was probably another test.
