In Red Eyes

Despite her sleek, feminine features and silky, braided hair, Ser Isabelle of Verona was every inch the vision of perfect, chivalrous knighthood. With her breastplate worn proudly on her chest and her sword held high, she looked like a figure striding out of legend. But her valor was far more than just superficial. Even since her tenth nameday, Isaballe had striven to embody the kind of knightly heroism she had always so admired by training, fighting, and learning to prove her worth and overcome the limitations the world placed on her for her gender.

Now, after more than ten years, she had finally earned her title. When her father, the prince, had touched his blade to her shoulders and dubbed her a knight, acknowledging her worth at last, it had been the happiest and proudest moment of Isabelle's life. Soon after, she had taken a questing vow and journeyed to the Carpathian mountains, determined to help cleanse the shadow that seemed to hang perpetually over that land.

That was what had brought her to Castle Dragosi, a grand ruin that slumped down the slopes of one of those mighty peaks. Isabelle had come in search of the undead beast that was terrorizing nearby villages. For all her bravery, though, Isabelle was no fool. She had spent a month scouring the archives of nearby monasteries, arming herself with knowledge of all the reputed weaknesses of the sanguine creature she was setting out to hunt. Only once she was sure of her readiness had she dared venture across the castle's dread threshold.

Isabelle had been prepared for so much. But, to her eternal shame, the very first glimpse of the vampire's eyes had utterly unmade her.

As she stood in one of the damp, dark, stone-walled passageways underneath the castle, lit only by the flickering moonlight that passed through the occasional window, they glared at her from out of the shadows that lay before her. Two crimson disks that seemed to glow like lamps, casting the stone in a spectral, unholy light that still, somehow, failed to properly illuminate the creature.

But the effect those eyes had on Isabelle was far more sinister. As soon as she met the vampire's gaze, she was utterly transfixed. The muscles she'd spent so long honing simply refused to obey her. She could not look away. Even the sweet relief of blinking was denied to her. She could only stare in horror as those two crimson lights drew closer.

"Well, well, well," the creature mused, in a refined, feminine, lightly-accented voice. "What do we have here? A knight, it seems. And a girl, too."

Despite herself, Isabelle shivered. The vampire's voice had a touch of the archaic to it, but moreover, lying beneath her words was a deep, base tone that no human throat ought to have been able to produce. It spoke of hunger, and the terror of ages past.

"Name yourself, trespasser," the vampire commanded. She sounded accustomed to obedience.

"I am Ser Isabelle!" Isabelle replied. Mercifully, her voice did not quake. "A knight of Verona. And I have come to be your final death."

The most unnerving thing about the vampire's rich, ravenous laugh was how relaxed and unhurried it was.

"How amusing!" the creature purred. "Tell me, do you know whom you address?" She took Isabelle's silence for an answer. "Ser knight, understand that you are in the presence of Countess Mihaela Dragosi. This castle, built by my ancestors, is my home. And I am determined to see it restored to its former glory."

Her words sent a shiver down Isabelle's spine. She had read the name 'Mihaela Dragosi' in an old monastic tome, dated to centuries ago. There could be no doubt that she was dealing with an ancient and formidable creature. But Isabelle was not about to let that rob her of her convictions. She clenched her sword tight in her hand, and strained her every sinew in an effort to move forwards.

"Then you will fail," Isabelle growled. "I will not allow you to prey upon the people of this land any longer."

The passageway echoed with the sound of footsteps, and the glowing red eyes that held Isabelle rooted to the spot grew larger.

"What a foolish sentiment!" the countess scoffed. "Prey upon? Does a farmer prey upon his cattle when he takes them to slaughter? I think not. It is simply the natural order of things."

Her words kindled a righteous fire in Isabelle's heart. It gave her fresh strength, and with it, she was able to make her limbs move - just barely.

"Your words are lies and vileness," Isabelle spat. "Nothing more."

In her mind's eye, she could already see the sword stroke that would part the countess's head from her body. Isabelle knew exactly what to do. She had trained for it her entire life, and she had no little amount of experience in combat. She just needed to save her resolve for the vital moment.

"I have no need for lies," Countess Mihaela retorted. She sounded as immovable as the mountain. "But I will deign to teach you the error of your ways, Ser Isabelle of Verona. Behold the face of your rightful superior!"

She stepped further forwards, until the dim moonlight finally fell upon her face. Frozen mere paces away, Isabelle was able to see and stare at every horrifying detail.

Countess Mihaela Dragosi was beautiful. That was the first thing the knight was struck by. She had been expecting something vile and demonic, or perhaps weathered by the weight of centuries, but no. The countess looked like she could have been the darling beauty of any royal court. Her skin, though deathly pale, was flawless, and her high cheekbones and dark, perfect lips spoke of the nobility she claimed. Her raven hair fell about her in long, curled locks, and she wore a long, elaborate, corseted dress that trailed along the floor behind her as she walked. The effect was stunning. She looked like the kind of classical beauty that artists and sculptors would have longed to immortalize.

But beneath the beauty, there was terror.

After a few moments, a creeping sense of horror settled across Isabelle. When she searched for its source, she realized that the proportions of the countess's face were all wrong, somehow. Below her imperious cheekbones, her cheeks were far too hollow and emaciated. It made her look desperately, impossibly hungry. There was something slender and pointed about her face that gave her a predatory air, and her mouth, when she opened it to speak, opened just a little too wide. Behind those perfect lips, there were fangs, razor-sharp and long.

And, of course, there were those eyes. Those glowing, crimson eyes.

Aristocracy layered atop monstrosity. The countess was truly everything the folk tales spoke of.

Isabelle needed to slay her. A creature like this could not be permitted to roam the world. The mere thought of it was abominable. Stomach-churning.

"My!" the countess exclaimed. "A maiden of your beauty is a rare gift indeed. How very fortunate."

Too late, Isabelle realized that the countess was already within arms reach, and was studying her every bit as closely as she had been studying the vampire. Once she became conscious of it, it started to feel like Countess Mihaela could see all the way through her. At such a distance, her sinister eyes dominated Isabelle's vision.

"I am no maiden!" Isabelle's voice didn't sound as even as she had hoped. Something about the vampire's presence made it impossible to stay calm. She was struck by the uncomfortable notion that this must be how deer felt when they noticed an approaching wolf. Sweat was dripping from her brow, and her heart was starting to pound. Still, she would not yet herself yield to cowardice. "I am a knight!"

"So I see," Countess Mihaela cooed. "But that strikes me as a terrible waste, dear Isabelle. I would hate to see this pretty face marred by battle scars."

She reached out and stroked a single fingertip across Isabelle's cheek. Only then did Isabelle notice that each one of her nails was a sharp, wicked talon. Her touch brought with it the sting of pain, and then the wet of blood.

It was unbearable. Isabelle made her move.

With all the fierceness and fire she could muster, she forced herself into motion and brought her sword down towards where the countess stood. Her muscles still rebelled against her commands, and so it was a slow, clumsy stroke, the kind that Isabelle might have made when she was first learning the sword. But she poured into it all her righteousness and all her experience. The countess's evil would end here.

The blade flew cleanly through the air, and made an ugly sound when it struck uselessly against stone.

Isabelle blinked sluggishly. Countess Mihaela had moved... perhaps? There had been a blur of something, but it had been too quick for Isabelle's eyes to follow. What was happening? She could tell the power of the vampire's eyes had sapped her speed, but she still had not expected this.

"You see?" came the countess's voice, from Isabelle's blind side. "I think knighthood does not suit you."

"Silence!"

Isabelle instinctively wheeled to face the vampire as quickly as she could, but as soon as she did, she was once again made a prisoner of her wicked eyes. Her movements slowed to a crawl, and an overwhelming lethargy ate at her limbs.

"You are a delightful thing," Countess Mihaela mused. "I have a terrible thirst, but it would be a shame to see you spilled all over the flagstones. A waste. No; instead I will grant you the honor of a high place in my court."

"A place in your..." Isabelle was aghast at this mockery. Her noble face twisted into a hateful expression. "I would never serve you," she snarled. "I would die before becoming your knight."

The countess gave another rich, regal laugh. "I do not need a knight, Isabelle of Verona. I need a bride."

"W-... what?" For the first time, Isabelle felt truly lost. Her? A vampire's bride? That was ridiculous and repulsive for a dozen reasons. She detested that she needed to listen to this for even a moment, but it would take time to regather her strength. "That's nonsense!"

"Why?"

The question was so simple it was almost disarming. Isabelle was left speechless for a moment.

"I have been fighting for my entire life," she began, trembling with rage, "to be anything else. Princess. Bride. Maiden. I have been fighting to escape all that! I've fought. I've trained. I've defied-"

"Oh?" Countess Mihaela interrupted effortlessly. "Is that how you remember it?"

She sounded amused, like she was enjoying a joke beyond Isabelle's comprehension. Isabelle frowned. She wasn't given to reminiscence. Especially not at a moment like this.

The countess, though, was not to be deterred.

"Tell me what you remember," she insisted. As she spoke, her eyes seemed to glow brighter, turning even the shadows a deep, haunting red. Isabelle felt a sudden weight pressing down on her shoulders. It was as if the vampire had suddenly brought her full presence to bear against her. "Tell me a memory."

"I..." Isabelle's eyes widened as she started to speak. It was as if there was a fishhook in her tongue, dragging the words out of her. "I... remember..."

"Struggling?" Countess Mihaela said, when Isabelle trailed off uncertainly. Her voice was thick with dark amusement, and she seemed to loom ever larger and larger above the paralyzed knight. "Just look, Isabelle of Verona. Look deep into my eyes. You can find your memories there."

Against her will, Isabelle looked. She found herself staring as deeply as possible into the crimson portals of the countess's eyes, until her entire being was flooded with red light. And then, without warning, she felt herself tumbling into the past.

***

There was a sensation like being plunged into icy waters, and then, suddenly, Isabelle was back, standing above the courtyard of the keep in Verona, as a girl. Not truly, of course. Isabelle could tell that much. Her eyes were open. Beyond the unnatural light of Countess Mihaela's eyes, she could still see that she was standing underneath Castle Dragosi. But that didn't seem to matter. Her memory was more real than reality itself, and she was wrapped up in its recollection.

Isabelle knew the moment well. It was the moment that had started her along the path of knighthood. Even so, more and more details kept crashing over her, shocking in their vividness. The weather. The scent in the air. Things she had never bothered to commit to memory.

In just a few seconds, Isabelle was about to descend the stairs to where the master-at-arms was drilling her father's men. Armed only with a girl's stubborn pride, she would demand that he train her too. He would laugh - they would all laugh - but eventually, after some arguing, he would agree to indulge her. Even then, it had been obvious to her that he wasn't taking her seriously. But in the years to come, Isabelle had shown him better.

In memory, she started to move. But as she did, a warning chill began to creep up her spine. This was wrong. This was all terribly, terribly wrong. But why? How? She couldn't quite pinpoint the source of her dread.

It took her far, far too long to realize that the scene should not have been cast in such awful red light.

In memory, Isabelle looked up, as if admiring the sky. But there was no midday sun hanging overhead. Instead, there were two baleful, crimson orbs that drenched everything in the color of blood.

Those eyes. Her eyes.

Once Isabelle noticed it, everything started to change. To dissolve. In memory, the world around her started to melt, the way Winter's snow melted at Spring's first touch. It was slow, to begin with, but it quickened at a horrible pace. The keep. The master-at-arms. His men. All of Verona, visible over the keep's walls. Even the stairs beneath young Isabelle's feet.

It was all quicksand. It all lost its shape and started to fall away into the sudden abyss that Isabelle sensed hanging underneath the whole world.

The worst part was that she couldn't even make herself scream.

And then, there was nothing.

***

Isabelle felt herself jolted back into the present. She was fully herself again, confronting the countess. And this was her chance! She should strike again, while she had the strength.

But she couldn't. She was overcome with a terrible, gnawing sense of loss that begged all-consuming questions.

What had she been remembering? What had happened that day, as a girl?

Isabelle did not know.

"Did you lose something?" Countess Mihaela asked. Her voice was poison, and full of even darker amusement than before.

For the first time, fear entered Isabelle's voice. "W-what did you just do to me?"

"Don't worry," the vampire assured her. The gleam of her fangs was almost as bright as her eyes. "I can fix it. I can fill that hole in your heart. Look deeper."

The knight could not disobey, and the glow of Countess Mihaela's eyes once again stole her back into the past.

***

It was the same moment again, and Isabelle found herself infinitely reassured. Thank God it was not truly lost. She was a girl again, on the stairs of the keep in Verona, and she was about to run down to speak with the master-at-arms.

But again, the whole scene was bathed in crimson.

This time, though, something changed. A shadow appeared over Isabelle. Looking up, she saw a woman towering over her. She was wearing an elaborate, old-fashioned dress, her hair was dark, and her corpse-pale skin marked her as a foreigner to Verona.

"Hurry back inside, Isabelle," the woman chided, in an accent Isabelle could have sworn she recognized. "Your mother is looking for you. It's time for your lessons."

In memory, Isabelle pouted briefly. Her mother's lessons were always boring, girly things. Needlework, dance, poetry. But after a moment, she acceded. It wouldn't do to keep her mother waiting. The courage she'd been mustering dissipated. She turned and headed back inside to her lessons.

***

That was the end of the memory. Isabelle felt herself once again being roused toward the present. As she awoke from the strange, nostalgic stupor, she tried to tell herself that it was false. That it hadn't happened that way. But those thoughts started to melt away beneath the vampire's gaze, and she felt the new version of events effortlessly slot into the hole that had been left in her heart.

Isabelle blinked. Something had happened again. But what?

"Are you alright, my dear?" Countess Mihaela asked mirthfully. "You look a touch unsteady!"

"You did... something?"

Isabelle's mind was in turmoil. She could sense that some kind of tectonic shift had occurred within her, but it was getting harder and harder to determine where or how. The new memory - whatever it was - had seared itself indelibly into her mind, but it was already setting down roots like a sprouted tree. It was building connections. Spreading seeds.

Changing her.

"What is happening to me?" she breathed.

"I believe that you were about to strike me," Countess Mihaela suggested. "Would you like to try?"

Her words drew attention to the sword raised in Isabelle's hand. It seemed heavier than before. Isabelle realized that her hand on the grip didn't feel quite right. Was she holding it improperly?

Why wasn't she sure?

"No?" The countess laughed. "My mistake, it seems. Then instead, I think, you were educating me about your upbringing! You told me... yes, that was it. You were always a dutiful daughter. You always strove to meet your mother's expectations for the little princess of Verona."

Isabelle winced. Princess. Strictly speaking it was correct, but she'd always loathed that title. It was so girlish. Moreover, Countess Mihaela's words had her perplexed. She didn't remember telling the vampire any of that, and yet it all had the ring of truth to it.

Her head was a mess of fog and doubt, but more memories were starting to form out of the gloom. She remembered sitting through innumerable lessons in everything that was expected of a courtly lady. She remembered that her duty had always come first, no matter how much she'd wanted something more.

No matter how often she had looked out of the window, and watched her father's men training.

"Yes," Isabelle agreed slowly. "I... suppose."

"Then how strange, that you ended up at my door!" Countess Mihaela mused. "Not that I am complaining, of course. You're a lovely thing. Except for this. It really doesn't suit you, you know."

As she spoke, she reached up and stroked her fingertips along the flat of Isabelle's blade.

Fueled by a sudden surge of strength, Isabelle snatched it back protectively.

"Silence!" she demanded, anger making her voice firm. "I won't hear that. Not from a creature like you."

No matter what, Ser Isabelle of Verona was a knight. Even though her duty to her mother had made training difficult, she had still spent her nights pounding away at training dummy after training dummy to hone her strokes. She had made do without a master-at-arms's tutelage.

This sword was her life.

"My, my!" Countess Mihaela mocked. "So proud! You must know it well, that sword of yours."

"Yes!" Isabelle answered, with a measure of her former fierceness. "Do not mistake me, fiend. Call me the princess of Verona all you like. The hours I have spent with this blade shall-"

"Is that truly how you remember it?" Countess Mihaela hissed, overriding Isabelle with demonic, regal authority. "Look at me, dear Bella. Look."

Her command was iron. Isabelle looked into her deep, red eyes again, and lost herself in their mesmerizing glow.

***

This time, when the memory took hold, Isabelle was transported back to Verona once more. She was down in the courtyard, alone, and she was training. She always liked to practice in the evenings, when there were fewer prying, judgmental eyes to see. And after her mother's lessons, it was a good way to vent some of her frustrations.