SHE, DEVIL !

     THE HALLS OF CASTLE DRACULA ARE COLD & CREEPING,  needling at the base of her spine is the need to be working, to know which eyes watch her and to find a way to turn the tables, to bring something of use to the castle’s lord or instead disappear until she can provide the service she was created for —- she hates that, in theory, she must kowtow to those who occupy the east wing, and so she decidedly does not. Whether that is good for her continuing immortal health or not is debatable. She is still upright and in one piece, is she not?      “I am busy,” she bites back, pausing only long enough to give the woman a pointedly frigid stare. “I have much to do.” 

born     to     extremes ,     never     in     between ;     a   monster   for   the   frigid   burn   of   summer .     the   dismissal   is   easily   brushed   away   with   eloquent   ease .     she   smiles ,     bared   fang   and   poisonous   beauty ,     and   falls   into   step .     it   doesn’t   matter   to   her ,     what   use   the   woman   serves   to   dracula   (   his   business   is   his ,     and   hers   is   hers   ) .     thus   is   immortality .     it   makes   her   itch ,     a   thing   craving   to   shed   its   skin .

     HIS SKIN WAS ITCHING WITH  the touch of the wind, and his ears were ringing with the echo of iron and silver upon stone. The elixir coursed through him still, filling his limbs with power and his head with a hypersensitive silence. He twitched his head from side to side, still alert for any possible danger, while his medallion thrummed at the aftereffects of the magic used in the fight. It took every ounce of his control not to lash out at Aleera, for right now she looked as much the monster as he did, and as much the monster as the one who lay dead at their feet, torn to bloody bits.       He tensed, ready for the attack his body warned him was coming, when she approached. He knew that he was in no condition to fight her, not with the elixir fading and the wounds he’d sustained draining him of strength and power. But all the same, if it was required of him, if she turned on him now even in the midst of their strained alliance, he wouldn’t hesitate.      It is the lot of a Witcher to always be ready for the kill.      But she merely laid a hand on his chest and complimented him with mocking sincerity. The blood on her hand left a darker print that the stain already drying on his armor, and he made no move. If he did, he was liable to overreact, to move too quickly, to send her hackles up just as assuredly as she has done to him. However, when she touched his face, the contact burned in his mind and he flinched away, snarling like the wolf he had been trained to become.       He grabbed her wrist, his hand flickering through the dark with unnatural speed.       “Don’t fucking touch me.” He bared his teeth. “I’d hate to have to add your corpse to the pile.” 

her     edges     dim ,     twilight   fall   as   he   catches   her   wrist ,     and   temper   flickers   in   her   eyes .     lady   of   the   sea ,     mistress   of     caldell ;     the   last   of   the   lahontov’s .     she   embodies   that   viciousness ,     that   fanged   cruelty   well .     undeath   hasn’t   made   her .     life   has .     she   curls   her   fingers ,     hands   tipped   now   in   claws   --   defensive !     he   has   broken   their   half - pact ,     not   her .     and   even   for   all   that ,     she   still   does   little   but   yank   her   hand   from   his   grasp .     the   violets   of   her   eyes   glisten   in   springtime   fury .     thorned   roses   ready   to   draw   his   blood .

‘          who   do   you   think   i   am ?     another   of   your   mindless   beasts   to   hunt ?          ‘          she   turns   and   gives   him   her   back ,     insolent ,     indolent .     elegance   incarnate ,     a   woman   built   for   the   sinewy   grace   of   the   undead .     graveyards   have   borne   her   epithet   since   the   day   she   came   screaming   into   the   world .     born   among   wolves ,     born   among   sinners .     they   have   made   her ,     bared   teeth   and   all .          ‘          no .     grab   me   again   and   you   won’t   come   away   with   hands .          ‘

  gravely   sent :     "It’s not so bad, my darling. Being dead. It’s like being alive, only colder." from sarah!

COLD ,     AS   IF   SHE   HAS   EVER   KNOWN   THE   MEANING :     she   has   always   burned ,     a   wildfire   out   of   control ,     blistering   desert   heat   under   noontide   sun .     even   when   she   had   been   human ,     she   had   been   dangerous   to   touch .     all   that   fury ,     all   that   life ,     contained   in   her .     fanged   venom ,     even   before   she’d   earned   it .     like   poison ,     like   a   wound   that   never   healed   right ,     misaligned   despite   the   wretched   beauty   of   it .     she   paces ,     a   beast   caged   despite   the   silks   and   niceties   and   perfections ;     restless ,     ethereal   beauty .     a   flow   of   chiffon   and   skirts   and   jewelry   glinting   in   the   moonlight .

‘     i   am   tired   of   being   dead .     ‘     a   voice   meant   for   poetry ,     for   princesses ,     lilted   in   accents   of   song .     a   hauntingly   vicious   wound   in   the   world .     ‘     i   am   tired   of   living .     ‘     no   maudlin   sentiments ;     the   flush   of   blood   and   life   suits   her   just   fine .     she   doesn’t   seek   an   early   grave .     she   seeks   excitement .     a   pause ,     midstride ,     as   she   eyes   sister   with   violet - eyed   mischief .     ‘     you   ought   to   go   to   the   village   tonight .     you   look   famished .     ‘