Katrina opened the window to her bedroom and felt the gentle rush of chill air greet her. No matter how tired or weak she felt this sensation always quickened her. Her brittle body shivered under her thin white nightgown as she looked down to the still busy London street. Carriages made a racket on the cobbled stones, horse’s breath steaming in the autumn cold. She could also see the upper class couples pass under her window, frock coats and high hats laughing and chatting with timid women in decent dresses, white-gloved hand clasping grey-gloved hand as their laughter faded and left Kristina alone at her window.
She coughed and braced herself. Nowadays the coughing had worsened and before long she felt the grinding pain in her chest and reached for her handkerchief, coughing in it. Panting, she took the kerchief away from her mouth and looked at the tiny red stain that marred the delicate piece of cloth. The doctor had told her only last week that she might not see the New Year’s bonfires. The consumption had taken a firm hold of her body, and it had no intention of letting go. Katrina’s parents were complacent, realising they could not marry off their eighteen year-old daughter, leaving her be in her room and focusing on Katrina’s older sister instead, a school mistress betrothed to a banker’s son. Katrina lived through her eyes, looking at the bustling of passer-by, dreaming about what they would do, often conjuring up dark tales of murder, lust and deceit in her mind. When she was not too exhausted from coughing or struck down by fever, she would live her lucid moments to the fullest, having adventures in her mind’s eye to make up for the things she would so dearly miss now and in the non-existent future. And of course, there was the book.
As she meekly sank onto her four-poster bed, she immediately reached for the book on her nightstand. The tome was bound in brown leather, with bold black letters embossed on its front. “Vampyre’s Malady, a Gothic Novel by Edmund Ruxard”…the title alone sent tingles through Katrina’s exhausted body. She had read the novel dozens of times while she slowly wasted away in her room, but the epic tale of a vampire gentleman falling in love with a baroness always made her forget the pain and illness, even if it was only for a short while. Simon, the tragic anti-hero of the story visits the unhappy baroness in her sleep but cannot bear to become a vampire as well to join her strange courtier. She dies from grief, and the vampire cries bloody tears as he greets the sun for one last time, hoping that God will forgive him and let him join his love in Heaven. Her family did not know of this book, which is full of sexual innuendo and rather explicit scenes of Simon seducing women so he can sate his thirst for blood, and they would surely take it away from her, had they even bothered to check up on her.
Katrina opened the book, landing on one of her favourite passages, dog-eared and stained with fingerprints from countless times of reading. Katrina’s slightly raspy breathing increased as she soundlessly read the words to herself, quoting them more by heart than reading them.
“With great care he lay the sleeping girl on the soft bed where the baroness lay looking on with a mixture of fear and excitement. Simon smoothed the auburn hair away from her face, raking his fingernails ever so gently across her cheek. Slowly, the nymphet woke up, glassy eyes looking straight at the baroness.
“My love, this is proof of what I am. I hide nothing from you,” Simon whispered “this and more awaits you when you accept my cold caress.”
The baroness could not utter a word as Simon opened his mouth and revealed two exquisitely white fangs and sank them into the neck of the unsuspecting girl. He suckled on her flesh, whilst his soft hands caressed her between the thighs, the nether regions where normally only uncouth men or stern husbands may dare to stray. The girl swooned and let out a small gasp, as her gaze faded once more and she closed her eyes, body trembling in a final throe of ecstasy before she fainted yet once again.
“By God, what did you do to her,” the baroness exclaimed, trying to ignore the damp she felt growing betwixt her legs”, that poor girl…is she dead?”
Simon merely shook his head. “My dear, she is now accompanied by demons disguised as angels in her dreams, where…
“virtuous lust lulls her to a well-earned sleep.” She read those final words out loud, fingers still lingering around her mound. She brought her hand to her face and smelled her own female scent before lapping up the rank fluid. Lovely Edmund Ruxard. His words always moved her, often in very wrong ways. But what did she have to lose? She placed her hand back whence it came, a fingertip rubbing eagerly on her swollen clit. Crossing her legs, she cautiously entered the anteroom of her vagina, not daring or wanting to thrust through the hymen. The single finger probed gently, as she fondled her breasts, teasing the hard nipples through her nightgown. She moaned softly as she conjured up an image of Simon biting her neck, cupping her small breasts, blood leaving her body accompanied by the divine bliss of orgasm. That’s what she wanted; she wanted Simon to take her away from all of this in one final explosion of pleasure. Katrina gasped for air herself, as she fingered herself to a hard orgasm, arching her back to ride the waves as best as she could.
As the sparks faded and her breathing turned back to normal again, she burst into an intense fit of coughing. She turned on her side and retched, every muscle in her body cramping. Another clot came from her mouth, leaving a red smear on the pristinely white bed sheets. She morosely tried to bring her breath back to normal, sucking on her wet fingers to keep the image of her fantasy lover alive. Shivering she pulled the spread over her body, trying to hold back the tears that inevitably show up after another self-exploration. For her bond with Edmund Ruxard went beyond the book. Ruxard himself had died at the age of twenty-four, months after writing the book. He died of consumption, struck down by the same disease that gnawed at Katrina’s body. She would often fall asleep with Edmund’s book clasped in her arms, pressing it tightly to her heaving chest. Maybe the spirit of the book would make the disease go away, but Katrina knew better. And tonight was no different, for she clutched the book closely to herself, turning away from the blood on the sheets and falling into a dreamless sleep.
After some time, her eyes sprang open and she sat straight in bed. Her heart beat fast, but she had no idea as to what might have caused it. Could it have been a dream? She turned on the oil lamp on her nightstand, looking around her room. Shadows darted up the ceiling as the light came on, sprawled across the ceiling and the walls. The door was closed. No one would have dared, or bothered, to come in. Everything seemed to be perfectly in order. The boudoir was there, with her brushes and powders. Yet still Katrina’s heart beat frantically. Somewhere far off, she heard the noises of the city, ships coming into port…the window! She stared at the light pink curtains, flaring in and out of the room with the slightest gust of wind. There the shadow of the rocking chair. But there was another shadow there, unfamiliar and undoubtedly the cause of her fear, since her heart throbbed in her throat, as Katrina trembled from the cold and utter fear. She gathered the spread and covered herself with it.
“Who is there? Should I call my parents, or the butler? He used to serve in Her Majesty’s army, he’s dealt with nasty men before, I’m warning you!”, Katrina said in a non-too-brave voice. There was no response. The figure shifted slightly, and Katrina swore she could hear the…
thing
laughing.
“Don’t you mock me now! I will get the butler right now, he’ll show you!” Katrina said, her voice quivering. A gust of wind suddenly blew the curtains apart, offering her a glance of the mystery assailant.
“No you won’t. You’re too curious, Katrina.”
