Insanity Incarnate.

Your night wasn’t supposed to be like this. A few days before, your longtime friend Megan had invited you to spend both of your Saturday nights, in her words, “out and about”. She didn’t do much more to elaborate on that proposal when you asked. She only gave you a: “Just trust me, I know what I’m doing. You’ll have fun!”

You didn’t argue much about it after that, doing exactly what Megan asked you to do: trust her.

Assuming that the words “out and about” signified an eloquent dinner or another function of the like, you put on your best dress saved only for special occasions (though, those special occasions seemed scarce for you), primmed your hair, and slipped on your finest white heels. In Megan’s words, you looked perfect.

You trusted your closest friend would pick out an establishment that carried food to your taste, maybe even select your favorite place off the corner of the street you lived on if she was feeling generous towards you.

Trust her, huh. You never learned with Megan, did you?

The Chinese girl, though well meaning, had a tendency to put people in situations that she herself deemed to be exciting, even though the other had made it explicitly clear that they did not have remotely the same taste for what she signed them up for.

Why you thought this scenario would be any different, especially after she gave you such a vague description of the upcoming night, you had no idea. Perhaps it was her face beaming with excitement while she made the proposal to an exhausted version of you, or how she had mentioned that she would be the one driving, as she knew that you despised being behind the wheel after dusk, that made you believe that this time she would take into consideration what your preferences were. 

Unsurprisingly, placing your trust in the pink-tipped girl ended up with her driving right past your favorite restaurant and off somewhere to the south end of your county.

As the streetlights blurred past in the car window, you turned to Megan. “Hey, Meg… we’re getting awfully far from town.” She didn't turn and look at you, only raising an eyebrow in acknowledgment. “Are we going to a place outside? If we are, you should’ve told me so I could tell Yoonchae that I’ll probably won’t be home until after midnight. She doesn't like it when I come home late unannounced…”

“Oh, yeah, we’re leaving town,” Megan answered. “It’s not a restaurant, though. It’s a… well, you’ll see when we get there.”

You sat in your head for a moment, thinking to yourself that this is what you got for blindly trusting your friend for the umpteenth time since you’ve known her. Though you’ve both grown older since you’ve met, you supposed that this quality of Megan’s would never change.

The glow of the town lamposts faded out, and was then replaced by the void of the night. The faint outlines of pine trees flew by in the window, which reflected your own snitty expression.

Collecting yourself, you rested your face against your thumb and pointer finger and let out an elongated sigh. “Okay, whatever. As long as this doesn't get me arrested or killed.”

On the contrary to what you desired, your destination might’ve just gotten you both — depending on which event happened first.

Megan had brought you to a part of your county you didn’t even know was inhabited by people. As far as you knew, where you were standing was supposed to be acres upon acres of heavily wooded forest as a section of a nature reserve. 

Apparently, just how you were incorrect in your assessment of Megan’s intentions, you were incorrect about that too. 

Tall and imposing houses —  if you could even consider them as houses still, their size told more of mansions — were evidence that you were incorrect in your belief. They looked as if they were transposed out of a gothic novel; the structures of them spoke of a completely different age than this one, with pointed roofs harboring skinny rods and eaves dripping with overgrown fauna. On the exterior walls there were ornate carvings of people, patterns, and all the like. No architect from this era would put such detail into their designs.

You figured that this place was some sort of retreat for the wealthy to spend time away at — absurdly large summer homes, maybe. 

You turned to Megan, now leaning in the hood of her car, checking her phone. “So, um, are you going to tell me where we are now?”

The girl perked up her head in surprise, eyes landing on you. “Oh, yeah! We’re about to go to this like, super high profile house party I found. I don’t know exactly what house it’s in though…” She began looking around the scene, searching as to where the event that she, via lying by omission, brought you to.

You two, along with a few other people, were standing in the middle of an expansive road knuckle with a plethora of parked cars off of a dirt road that led further into the woods, leaving the county. 

Arranged in a circle loomed the most intimidating structures you had ever seen: they were screaming you didn’t belong here. A chill ran down your spine.

The moon casted its faint light from its station in the sky, watching over you. Tonight, it took the form of a waning crescent.

The calls of mockingbirds sounded, providing ambience to an otherwise silent scene.

“Well,” Megan continued, “the person who posted the flyer has the last name Bannerman, so maybe we should look for the house with that name. Maybe they have a mailbox… Do people even have their names on their mailboxes anymore?” Megan’s tone was much too cheery for someone who was quite literally in the middle of nowhere about to spend the night in some complete stranger’s mega-mansion, and probably get so intoxicated that she would have to have you watch her so she didn’t accidentally kill herself.

Her use of the word “post” made your mind ache. Not only had Megan taken you to a party in a place about an hour away from your home in, what was to you, the middle of nowhere, but she had also found it through the internet; not via a friend, or even a friend of a friend. No. She found it by scrolling on her feed.

As much as you loved her, you always thought that Megan was going to get you both killed in her antics one day. 

The situation you were in was probably the example found under “bad idea” in the dictionary. You could get murdered, drugged, kidnapped, and a litany of other things that were certainly avoidable if your friend had just taken you out for dinner like you had wanted.

But you were here now, and you couldn't drive away even if you wanted to: you didn’t have a set of keys for Megan’s car, and she would never take you back herself. Your friend wasn’t the type to concede in opposition to what she wanted.

Well, if you were going to die there, at least Megan was going down with you.

“Come on,” you said with annoyance. “We shouldn’t stand out here for too long. What did you say the name was?”

“Bannerman. It sounds like a surname.”

“‘Probally is.”

Walking closely next to each other, you and Megan went around the street in search of the Bannerman house. You passed yards full of melancholy, grey flowers that looked like they were due to be watered. Thick iron gates enclosing properties told you a forewarning of what was to come. 

Where you were, this conglomerate of off-putting homes, felt like it was waiting for a moment. 

That moment, you hoped, would not have you in it.

Megan’s voice drew you from your dread. “Look, a mailbox.”

Upon further expectation, Megan and you found that it read the name Laforteza. Not your house. Both of you continued your venture.

After another two or three houses, you came across another mailbox, this time with the name Avanzini. Still not the right one. You wondered how long it would take to find the damn place.

The moon rose higher overhead. You had been walking for give or take fifteen minutes now. It was ridiculous how expansive the community was, each house was grand in size and had their own accordingly massive front and back yards. 

Families could easily condense into one or two places, but instead they each had their own. You concluded that Megan must’ve brought you to one of those neighborhoods composed of disturbingly wealthy people. 

“Hey, look at that! That one says Bannerman!” Megan went and pointed ahead at a crooked, rusty metal mailbox with the name “Bannerman” engraved on it.

The house it stood in front of, quite frankly, terrified the living hell out of you. From the front, it appeared to be about three stories tall, with windows stretching almost the entirety of the height of the wall it was a part of. A balcony spanned across the lefthand face of the mansion, overlooking the dirt road and the rest of the homes.

The house was made out of old, slightly stained wood that looked to be pine. Clearly made before the use of brick and plaster in architecture. Or, perhaps the rich preferred to have their homes made out of highly flammable material in the modern day. They weren't known to be the most logical. 

Through the glass, you saw blurs of movement of people inside, and the glow of colorful lights blaring. You thought you could also see an outline of a person chugging a glass of some liquid; it was, despite the setting, a house party, after all.

“Aren’t you excited? I mean, the flyer said that at the end of the night there would be a special performance by a mystery guest. I wonder who they–”

“Megan,” you interjected. “Why the hell would a party at this creepy ass house in the middle of the woods bring out a celebrity. They probably only said that to lure more people here.”

“So you don’t want to go?” There was an inflection of disappointment in her voice. It made you envision her as a small puppy who was just denied its favorite toy, the mental image making you feel guilty. 

You glanced over to the pink-tipped girl, her face now in a slight pout. You sighed in defeat.

“Fine, but only because we drove all this way here. But only on two conditions: first, you stay by me the entire time, and second, we’re not staying for the ‘mystery guest’. It’s probably just some random they found on the side of the road, anyways.”

Megan perked up at your words. She looked absolutely overjoyed, practically bouncing up and down in excitement.

Damn, she really wanted to go to this party.

In slow steps, you started towards the front door of the mansion.

You couldn’t believe you were about to do this: to go into the house of a complete stranger and let someone else — Megan — and maybe yourself, get drunk with alcohol that you had no idea if it was tampered with. To go against everything telling you not to pass the threshold, your mind, your heart, hell, even the house’s atmosphere itself.

Despite yourself, you pushed the door open.

Immediately, your senses were flooded by a variety of foreign sensations.

The interior was just as intimidating as the exterior. The house opened into a foyer spotted with racks of fallen pairs of shoes, as well as a closet that stored coats — fur, cotton, wool — that most likely was worth more than both yours and Megan’s cars combined.

The foyer expanded into a booming grand room, housing walls decorated with intricate paintings depicting a family, presumably the Bannermans, their expressions stoic in all of them. Really, the only person in any of the paintings who truly caught your attention was the girl in the middle. 

A beauty with radiant brown skin and large, entrancing eyes the color of a coffee roast, and plump lips in a slight contort to a frown was captured in fine brushstrokes and paints the shade dreary colors. The canvas appeared to be yellowed from age. Considering that the architecture told of an earlier era, as well as the yellow wear on the painting, you doubted that the woman in the middle was still alive. 

Shame, you thought. A shame for such a breathtaking beauty to pass.

Also found in the grand room was a glistening multi-layered chandelier holding candles upon candles, all alight, blazing in glory.

Despite the grandiose setting, the place still held the characteristics of your run-of-the-mill 21st century house party that you could find really anywhere. 

The entire place was packed, bodies pressing against bodies, grinding, the whole works. In the corner of your eye, you saw two partygoers do an underhand exchange, most likely substances. People wearing skimpy clothes all around held glasses of crimson red alcohol, the type that looked to be far too delicate to be bought at a convenience store. There were drinking games, dares, and other dangerous things happening all around you, all to the beat of some hyperpop song coming from an unseen speaker.

The smell of smoke, aromas of scented candles, bitter alcohol, and luxury leather rushed to your nose all at once in an assault. 

So, it was that kind of party. You should’ve expected nothing less out of Megan.

You turned to the Chinese girl and grabbed her arm. “Remember what I said? We stick together.”

“Sure, sure,” she said in a dismissive tone. “What’cha you wanna see first? Oh! We should go get drinks, did you see what they had in all those—”

Her excited rambling was cut off short by a sudden voice.

“Hey, you two look mighty nice.”

You turned towards the source, it — her — now walking straight towards you, her gate a confident stride.

The woman who approached you was dawning a light red lace made halter dress that came down to her upper thigh. Black heels with golden accents clicked on the varnished wooden floor every time she took a step. Her curled hair fell gracefully on her shoulders and bounced slightly as she walked.

Finally, she stood in front of both you and Megan, though her attention was focused on the latter of your duo.

And apparently, Megan’s attention was in turn focused on her. You saw the way her eyes widened when she saw who was approaching, and you knew it was a precursor to what was going to happen next.

“Hi– um, you uh, you also look nice!” Megan said, completely stumbling over her words in the presence of the unknown character. You honestly thought that it was a little pathetic.

The newcomer’s pantheress-like eyes squinted in amusement. “You look like you could use some excitement tonight," her tone flirtatious, and now reaching her hand out to run it down your starstruck friend’s arm. Megan was eating it up, unsurprisingly. You swear you saw her drool a bit. “Name’s Daniela, nice to meet you.”

“Well, um, nice to meet you, Dani— I mean, Daniela! Yeah, Daniela. Not Dani— I don’t know you like that, unless I can call you Dani— only if you want, though.” It took everything within you from slapping Megan right there. Daniela, though, found it charming, as she only increased the amount of physical contact towards Megan and gave a chuckle at her ramble.

Something shifted in Daniela’s eyes; they now looked brimmed with devilry. She shifted her gaze directly into your nervous friend’s eyes. “Hey,” she began slowly. “Why don’t I show you around?” Now she was gripping both of Megan’s hands, trying to guide her forward. She flashed a smile, revealing what appeared to be a pair of extremely sharp canine teeth. 

“Uh, of course! I’d love to…”

Before you could even get a word of protest in, Daniela began leading Megan towards some further section of the property. The girl who had said that you would stick together for the night had been led away by the first suitor she had encountered. 

You considered calling after her, but taking into account the trance Daniela had put her into, she probably would’ve ignored you anyways. Soon after, they both disappeared into the sea of people.

Effectively, you were lost in the middle of pitch black woods, and your only source of navigation had just been led away by a seductive bush. You made a mental note to kick Megan for this after you both left.

You surveyed your surroundings, looking for a quiet place to reserve yourself in. Not knowing where to look, you picked a random direction — left — and began walking.

You passed people attempting to hand you substances packed in baggies that would probably knock you out after consuming even one. Couples came forward to you, asking if you could follow them to a separate room to “join them in some fun.” You politely declined the offers.

After wandering aimlessly for about five minutes, coming and going into a multitude of rooms, you came across a much quieter hallway, at the end of which was a grand staircase. Like the grand room from when you first entered, the hallway too was lined with ancient paintings. Though, this time, instead of family depictions, these paintings depicted objects, such as spilled wine glasses, burning candles, and a wilted bouquet of langdorffia flowers. These artworks too were yellow at the edges, paint threatening to peel.

Multiple unlocked doors came before the staircase. Their handles begged you to push them open. Normally, you would be against snooping in the business of people you had never met, but considering there were people seeing how much cocaine they could huff up their nostrils, you thought that the host could live with a singular person taking a peak into one of the rooms.

You approached the door farthest to the right, placing your hand on the cold doorknob and pushed down.

The room revealed to be a study filled to the brim with towering shelves adorned with dusty books and a polished mahogany desk with a singular bronze candle holder. The smell of aged paper and spilled ink floated around, strangely comforting you. Curtains hid the widow, and in turn the view to the outside world. 

You stepped past the threshold, your steps featherlight, careful not to create noise and draw attention to yourself. You stood in front of one of the study’s many bookshelves and ran your hand over one of the shelf layers. Dust collected on your fingers — the books hadn’t been touched in a significant time, it seemed like.

You inspected one of the spines, attempting to take in the title on the side. The title was sideways, so you turned your head to be able to read it more clearly. The title imprinted on the stained leather read “The Art of Draining” with the author’s last name listed as Laforteza. The same surname you saw on one of the mailboxes on the way here.

Draining what exactly? 

You removed the book from its place on the shelf and turned it over to see the cover. It was a simple illustration of a figure plunging their teeth into the neck of another figure laying in the first’s arms. 

Deciding to satiate your curiosity for what you held in your hand could possibly be about, you flipped open to a random, yellow and brown aged page. Your eyes landed on a paragraph dead in the middle:

“Humans, as we know them, are fragile things. Their interior is similar to that of a porcelain vase: too much pressure, force, or other excessive motions will shatter them. They, however, cannot be put back together after being broken. Instead of being left with easily cleaned fragments, you’re left with a hollow version of their past self. In order to not, as I put it, shatter them, one must be careful as to not succumb to their urge to take the entire storage. Take small increments, and remove your fangs once you feel your human start to stiffen (this is when it is known when they begin to lose consciousness). Though, if you’re more the type to prefer to not leave any loose ends after a night on the prowl, I suppose you would disregard this part, and be content with letting your vase shatter into pieces.”

Okay. So these rich people are into monsters. Honestly, they could have worse interests.

You flipped to the back and was met with a fully fledged citations page. There was a surprising amount of effort put into this book, which you thought to be a gimmick.

You reached to place the book back where you found it. 

A creak sounded behind you.

“What are you doing so far from everyone else?”

The sudden voice startled you so severely you jumped and let out a high-pitched squeal. You turned around to face whoever had caught you and explain yourself—

The girl from the painting. She was staring straight at you. Same eyes, same lips, same everything. 

Your head felt light.

She stood there scrutinizing you with her stare while you clutched your chest to recollect yourself. Her eyes — those same eyes from before — narrowed in something you could tell wasn’t far off from anger.

“Well,” she scolded. “Explain yourself, You shouldn’t go places you aren't welcomed in.”

No coherent sentences formed in your mind, your brain was focused on how exactly this person from that painting, which you swore was from a time closer to the 17th century then present day, was still alive. It wasn’t possible, no. Your eyes had to be deceiving you; the lack of light was causing this illusion, yes, that was the answer.

You managed to produce a feeble “I’m sorry.”

The mirrored woman only quirked her eyebrow in response, clearly unsatisfied with your pathetic response.

“You have anyone with you, doll?” She inquired. 

You contemplated telling her the truth, but figured that admitting that the person who had dragged you here had been dragged off herself by some random person not even five minutes into arriving was embarrassing. You lied to save your pride.

“No, uh, it’s just me here.”

The woman moved her gaze up and down your body, leaving you feeling a sense of exposure. She settled on your face, making direct eye contact with you. She tilted her head slightly. 

She lifted a finger and pointed the book you were clutching to your chest. “Please return that.”

A wave of heat ran through your face. You scrambled to find the spot where you removed “The Art of Draining.” 

She moved over to the desk in the middle of the room and began to lean on it.

“Well, I can infer that the party isn’t really suited for you, if you’re all the way in my study.” A pause, and then: “You can come upstairs with me, if you would like. It’s far quieter up there; no one will bother you.”

You hesitated, mostly in confusion. You had just invaded the private space of the host of the very party you were at. She should’ve dragged you by the strap of your dress and threw you out.

But instead, she was inviting you to take you upstairs. With her.

The rational side of yourself told you that there was something malicious underneath; that you should turn down her offer and go find Megan — wherever the hell she was — and ditch. Ever since you arrived, this place had given you offputting signals, and this interaction only affirmed them.

The more easily tempted side of you wanted exactly the opposite.

Megan had dragged you all this way, she would be devastated to leave in such a hurry. Plus, like you thought earlier, it was such a tragedy for such a beauty in that painting to be lost.

The night had already gone off course.

What’s one more diversion?

“Lead the way.”

—

The host had led you to the end of the same hallway you had found the study in and gestured for you to step up first.

“It’s the third floor— go past the first landing you see and keep going,” she instructed.

Occasionally, while climbing the stairs, you would turn your head back to look at the ghost girl. Unlike the dated clothing she was wearing in the painting, she was now sporting a sheer white button down that went down to the end of her pelvis over a matching white bra. Walking in a tan set of heels, every step of hers commanded attention. Her long, dark hair was down to her chest cavity, with her once and a while taking a finger to wrap a strand around it. Her skin, still a beautiful shade of brown, under the light, had a noticeable pale undertone to it. 

She was a version of herself transposed into the present.

Or maybe not — perhaps this was a descendant of hers that had been incredibly lucky with her genetics. The chances of that were extremely slim, but so were the chances of Megan actually taking you where you wanted to go, and you had still invested your faith then.

After endless flights of stairs, you had finally reached the one meant to come at. The layout was largely the same as the hallway on the first floor, only now, instead of a staircase at the hall’s end, there was a grand door. It was significantly taller than everything else around it, but didn’t seem out of place by any means.

She can’t be taking me there, can she? 

Coming out from behind you, the coffee-eyed girl stepped in front of you and guided you down the hallway.

“Most of these rooms are for guests,” she explained. “Though, this place doesn’t receive many now. They were placed here with the expectations of a different time.”

“Do you know when this place was built exactly?” There was a hesitation to your question, moving carefully not to accidentally tick your guide off.

She didn’t answer for a moment but kept walking. “It was constructed many years ago.” Dismissive and flatly, she left it at that.

Okay, so clearly she’s still unhappy with me.

“Um,” you started again. “Could I get your name, by chance?” 

To that, she did answer. “Manon. Manon Bannerman.” All of the words she spoke came out as impartial, and you couldn't decide whether it was because you had invaded her privacy or if she was naturally like this.

After your agonizingly stale conversation, Manon stopped at the end of the hall: right in front of the imposing doors that had first caught your attention.

“You can stay in there.”

“And ‘there’ is?” you asked breathlessly.

“My quarters.”

Something within you prickled with alertness at the revelation. This complete stranger, who had caught you snooping in her own home, was inviting you into her room. It sounded exactly like one of those cliche romance books Yoonchae would always insist on buying for you as a backhanded gift. There had to be a clause to this arrangement.

At that moment, that tempted part of yourself appeared again, providing your mind with its assessment. There was an absolutely ethereal woman inviting you into her quarters, and it would be remiss of you to deny you didn’t feel some level of draw towards her. Who wouldn’t? 

You would feel guilty about this, except for the truth of the matter was that your pink-haired friend had left you first, and was doing god-knows-what with Daniela right now. Really, spending time away from the chaos downstairs in a pretty girl’s room wasn’t that large of an offense in comparison to what — really who — Megan was doing.

Manon turned to you and lifted an eyebrow. “You sure you want to spend the night up here?”

You only nodded in approval.

Manon pushed open the double doors.

The size of her bedroom was enormous, easily the biggest room  you had seen in the house so far. Three windows spanning the height of the wall were covered with lace curtains, blocking out the moonlight. The wall itself was covered in antique grey and black flower print. A smaller version of the chandelier in the grand room was hanging above in the center, illuminating the room with an orange hue, along with the other sources of light such as singular candles and lamps throughout. Couches, armchairs, coffee tables, storage units, all sewn with deep red velvet were interspersed. 

Almost everything in Manon’s room was deep brown with golden accents or velvet. The same applied to her bed, the frame a stark dark brown against golden legs, with laced velvet drooping from the canopy over the thing.

There were no outstanding colors, quite on theme for the rest of the place not infected by party activities.

Manon beckoned for you to come sit on the bed with a slight bow and an extension of her arm in the direction of it.

Okay. A bed is a normal place to rest… where else would I sit down?

There were the multitudes of other seating choices, of course, but you choose to ignore them for the sake of fitting the excuse you formed in your head.

You placed yourself down on the mattress; it was soft and full. Your back longed for you to lay down, but you stayed upright, legs crossed.

Manon, to your surprise, resolved to take a seat right next to you. Suddenly, the air felt heavier; your fight or flight instincts threatened to take hold at any moment. Yet you stayed, marveling at every perfect feature of the Bannerman’s face.

For a brief moment, and only then, did you forget about Megan, your past desires,the storm that was downstairs, where you were.

The only thing that occupied your mind was Manon. The way her eyes reflected the light from the lamp on her right nightstand, the bat of her eyelashes when something caught in her, the finely manicured nails on her defined hands resting on her lap.

Then, her smooth voice broke your thoughts. “You asked me my name, I believe it’s only right if I asked you yours.”

Foolishly, you struggled to remember your own name. It was such a simple question, and yet, you produced no immediate answer. After racking your brain for a concerning amount of time, you mustered the answer out. “It’s, um, y/n. Yeah. Pleasure to meet you, Manon.” The words came out at an odd rhythm, first too fast, and then too slow.

Suddenly you had a bit more grace for Megan.

“Y/n… I think it suits you, doll.” You felt the sensation of heat overtaking your body. You prayed Manon didn’t notice.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” Manon started to motion to stand, but you stayed exactly where you were. “I have some options in here.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea—”

“If you’re worried about the strength, what I have in mind isn’t exactly the strongest,” the divine woman interjected. “It also isn’t tampered with like the bottles downstairs.”

“The drinks downstairs are spiked?”

“Well, that’s what I assume, anyways. You hu—” she cut herself off and started again. “I assume that it is. The type of people who come to these types of events don’t strike me to be the most trustworthy. It’s not unreasonable to assume they added some substance to some wine, is it?”

“No, it’s not.” Your reply came immediately after she asked.

Now, standing in front of an opened cabinet, Manon selected two wine glasses from the shelves, along with a shining green bottle. She popped off the quark with ease and began pouring the liquid into both glasses.

The wine was the color of the golden sun under the light, catching and letting light seep into it. 

Both of the glasses were poured nearly to the rim. You were never a big drinker, at most you would take one or two sips on a low alcohol drink at a bar with friends, but never an entire bottle of wine.

Tonight’s been a night of firsts, anyways.

Glasses in hand, Manon walked back to her bedside, where you awaited her return. She handed you the glass from her left hand and took the one from her right for herself.

“Try not to spill any,” she warned. “I changed my sheets last week.”

“I’ll be sure not to, then. Wouldn’t want you to go through the trouble again. I mean, if I were to spill some, I would change your sheets for you.” Bold move coming from you. But a fruitful one: Manon gave a faint smile at your offer.

“Cheers?” Manon raised her glass, prompting you to do the same. The clink of the two glasses colliding echoed in your ear.

The first sip hit you in a bitter wave, leaving your face scrunching at the taste. The next few eased you into the taste, becoming more familiar with you.the more you drank.

After a few sips, you gained the courage to strike another conversation with Manon.

“You don’t seem too excited about the party,” you stated.

Manon looked up from her glass to you, beginning to swirl it gently with one hand. “I’m not. I find these types of things to be useless and needlessly destructive. I don’t even want to imagine what they’re doing to my furniture down there.”

“If you don’t like parties, why’d you decide to host one at your home,” you inquired.

Your question earned a sigh from Manon. Not an annoyed one, but rather a sign born of exhaustion.

“It wasn’t my idea, dear. It was one of my acquaintances’.” from her tone, you could tell that she had little say in how tonight was planned to unfold. “I saw the book you were reading, in the study. If you paid attention, you would’ve  noticed the name was under Lafortza.” You did remember the strange book you had encountered earlier. It was hard to forget, actually.

“Well, my acquaintance, the one who pushed me to do this, is of that very family. She takes after the ones before her quite well, actually. She made the flyer and did all the planning. Always scheming for something… Oh, Sophia. Whatever I do with you.” She mumbled the last part under her breath, though it was still audible.

“Schemming for what?”

At that, Manon simply poured her gorgeous eyes into you. She gave you no response, opting to deflect the question instead.

“Tell me what you thought about the book you read. I’m familiar with it myself, but I would like to know what you thought of it.” You thought the drinks had loosened her up, and you were right: an hour ago, Manon certainly wouldn’t have been asking you these types of questions.

“I thought it was interesting,” you began. “I admire how the offer was committed to never breaking character. He even put a citation page at the end.”

“Mm, so you believe the book to be fiction, yes?”

“What else could it be?”

The woman next to you twisted her lips into a smile and narrowed her eyes in what looked like amusement to you.

You moved on to different things: where you were from, what you studied in school, what types of music you listened to. After every answer, Manon began unraveling herself bit by bit. She allowed herself to laugh when you made attempts at jokes, to lean in closer to you when you did the same.

As the night progressed, the more you depleted your glass. The same went for Manon; by the time you had moved on to your third or fourth topic of conversation, the glasses were nearly empty. The air now had a hint of a bitter-sour from the wine, both from the liquor touching the air, and from the breath huffs you let out once in a while.

The world around you was duller to you now, the edges of your vision becoming less defined than they  were before. Your mind was not weightless; you were aware you were somewhere, but couldn’t recall you were in a complete stranger's bedroom. Though, you acted as if you had known Manon your whole life. 

Alcohol really does release what you’re hiding, doesn’t it?

By now, Manon had leaned in so close to you, the distance between your two faces was only about a pointer finger apart. Those coffee stained eyes you admired looked directly into yours, looking through you. Another wave of heat creeped up your body. Your breathing became sharper.

“You know,” she began, voice low and soft. “You’re quite interesting. More interesting than anyone I’ve ever met in recent years.” She moved her empty hand like a spider towards you, nesting on your thigh.

Your heart threatened to burst out of your chest cavity.

“Thank you, um— you’re more interesting to me, though.” The words came out shaky. She could certainly tell she was making you nervous,

“You asked what my acquaintance was scheming about earlier, didn’t you, doll?” You traced your memory back to earlier, when you had asked her. She hadn’t answered.

“Well,” Manon went on. “To be honest, this isn’t an actual function, no. It’s a front for something else entirely. We needed a large sum of attendants for it, so, Sophia figured it would be in our best interest to have some sort of draw in.”

If you hadn't been so tipsy, you would’ve realized that confession confirmed your suspicion of this place being off and fled downstairs to go find Megan. But due to the sheer amounts of wine you had just consumed the reason you had coming in had swiftly dissipated.

You waited for her to continue.

“The ‘mystery guest’ as she put it does not exist. It was just a means to attract more people. Clearly it worked, there’s about thirty people wrecking my pantry currently.” Manon let out a small huff.

Something in her eyes shifted: contemplation, then regret.

“You shouldn’t have come here. To this place, I mean. You don’t deserve to be caught in what is about to come.”

“And what’s that, hm?” 

You moved closer. Just a centimeter.

Manon took a centimeter too.

“You could say,” Manon whispered. “Everyone here is a part of a larger thing, yes? To satisfy a taste.”

Her eyes, as a trick of a light, held a glimmer of crimson in them, and moved down to just above your collarbone. A bugle of her tongue running over her teeth.

The room was frozen, all except for you and Manon. The only soul was the labored breathing you were doing in anticipation for something. A kiss, Anything. 

All you wanted was for it to come from Manon.

Slowly, with no rush at all, she took another centimeter. Then another. Then three more. 

She was motioning to be on top of you.

Her mouth was now at the entrance of your ear. Her breath hot, sending the hairs on the back of your neck standing. She squeezed your thigh, causing you to gasp in surprise from the freezing sensation.

“I can save you, darling.”

Swiftly, with no further explanation, she unhinged her jaw and shot her mouth down to spot she was eyeing on your neck a moment before.

At first, two pinches. Something you would feel when getting a shot at the doctor’s. Then it blossomed into something fuller, more intense. Pain flowed throughout your body. Teeth punctured deeper into your flesh. 

Your heart was in overdrive, you let out heavy gasps, desperately trying to take in air to keep yourself from fainting. It was to no avail, you felt yourself be lulled into a space of nothing, your vision blurred, a piercing ringing overtook your hearing. 

You felt yourself begin to fracture.

The assault continued, only strengthening in intensity as it went on. Everything was being taken — drained — from you.

After what felt like hours, your head clearled, your vision reduced to only a window shrouded in fog, and your heartbeat began to flutter.

You thought this was where you met your demise, by foolishly trusting someone you shouldn’t have. Was this what you would become? A broken, indistinguishable, missing persons statistic?

At last, the darkness consumed you. Nothing. Nothing at all.

Was this death? An expansiveness of nothingness in which nothing could be processed?

You settled there for a bit. Strange feelings of peace washed over you. Yes, this is where you would remain until the universe collapsed in on itself. Hollow, numb, a shell of yourself.

Drifting.

Drifting…

—

“...I suppose you would disregard this part, and be content with letting your vase shatter into pieces…”

Pain was the only thing you felt when you awoke. A debilitating, sharp, pain.

Your vision was still a blur, but you could make out you were still in Manon’s room. The light of the chandelier overhead coaxed you into squinting your eyes in order to protect them from light.

You were laying on your back on the soft sheets of Manon’s bed, arms and legs sprawled over the surface of the mattress. Still in your hand was the glass that had been handed to you before you had your incident with unconsciousness. It was tipped over now, the last remaining bits staining the satin.

A burning sensation surfaced on your neck. You went to lift your arm to feel it, but the muscles in your arm were so numb, movement created an uncomfortable feeling. You kept moving for it anyways.

Startlingly, the place where you had been bitten — yes, you had been bitten, you remembered now — was ice cold. In fact, when you went to touch your face to ground yourself, your cheeks, forehead, and nose were all at the same temperature.

Panic fluttered within you. You put your hand up to your chest to try and take your pulse yourself, but there was nothing to be felt when you pressed down. You tried again. Still nothing. Then another time, which yielded the same result.

Searching for something that was wrong with your hand, something keeping you from feeling your pulse, you lifted it up over your head.

On your fingers, your palm, your entire hand, was sticky, deep maroon blood.

From your neck.

It took everything in you from not fainting for a second time, instead letting out a high squeal.

The noise drew the attention of Manon, who was off in a corner resting on an armchair, legs crossed. Her head rested on her palm and then turned to you, the source of her disturbance.

“Oh, good. You’re awake.” Her tone was eerily pleasant. She was speaking as if she hadn’t caused you to pass out. “I thought I had drained too much from you briefly.” 

You were absolutely speechless. Your mind was in a million different places at once. Manon had attacked you, yet she was expressing concern towards you. Everything about it was contradictory to itself.

You, still collapsed on the bed, attempted to get a word in, but couldn’t even get a single syllable out, as your throat was as dry as a summer night.

“Poor thing, I apologize for what I had to do to you, alas it was the only way to spare you.”

Spare me? She was the one I needed sparing from…

With graceful and light steps, Manon strode over to her bedside, stopping at a stop where she could tower over you. Her eyes sat on your face, taking in your now dulled features.

“Come on, sit up.” She extended her hand out towards you. You didn’t reach for it back. The first time you had trusted her, it ended in you tasting the edges of death.

The unpredictable woman let out a sigh. “Fine, then. Since you want to be stubborn.”

Before you could register what was occurring, you were in the arms of Manon, the touch of her hands on your skin bringing a chill to your now already freezing body.

Really, you didn’t have the energy stored anywhere within you to protest.

The newfound altitude brought your head back to its lightheadedness from before. Your stomach churned, threatening to rise up through your throat.

The path Manon took you on was a blur, as you were mainly focused on the woman herself, her expressions; any possible signs that she would plunge her fangs into your jugular again. Occasionally. Her eyes would flash over to you, carrying a look of something you wanted to believe was sympathy.

The place she brought you to was a side bathroom attached to the bedroom. Similar to the rest of the house, the walls were a shade of night-black, with almost every amenity being dark colors with accents of red velvet and shining gold. To anyone, including you, it appeared to be a bathroom that could be found in any type of home at first glance. However, there was a single thing missing from the room that other’d it from the rest: the mirror above the sink, or, rather the absence of it.

Closing the toilet seat to allow you a spot to sit down, Manon removed you from her arms, In the dim lighting, she took the same appearance of that when you first saw her in the study downstairs. 

She bent down to access the cabinets under the sink, moving around bottles, rags, and other toiletries in search of some item. The clatter objects clashing against each other hurt your ears. Noises were now clearer and easier to pinpoint, such as the drip of a pipe inside the wall behind you.

Manon stood up, flask in hand, and returned to you. The glass was a stained forest green, with a contrast of red fluid inside. 

“Here, you have dry mouth, don’t you? This should help,” She took her delicate fingers and popped the cork off with a swift motion. Once again, she extended her arm out to offer the flask to you.

You surveyed her, then the flask.

You accepted the offer.

The taste was an offense to your senses. It was the bitterest thing you had ever tasted, with an intoxicationally intense smell. An aftertaste lingered for longer than it was welcome. Though you couldn’t see it then, the brew had managed to stain your tongue splotches of red.

Manon, in her advice, was correct. As soon as you downed the unknown liquid, your throat was cleansed from dryness.

Letting out an elongated wheeze and then sniffing your nose, you addressed the bewitching hostess before you. Just a whisper, nothing booming.

“What the hell did you do to me.”

Manon, in what you took to be an almost sadistic grin plastered on her face, leaned into your space, just as she had before, and whispered:

“I saved you, darling;

did you really think I would let you shatter?”

She took a centimeter, an inch. 

Then a kiss on the temple.

She moved back from you, her stance relaxed.

“You should bathe. Change your clothes. It’s the least I can do, doll.” 

Without the assistance of Manon, you stood with a slight wobble to your step and plodded to the edge of a porcelain white bath. You reached for the knob to turn on the water, but before you could make contact, a hand turned it on your behalf.

“Let me, dearest. You need not lift a finger.”

Steam rose from the heat of the bathwater, creating a light mist in the air. Grazing your hand on the surface of the water, you came to realize the warmth of it was in stark contrast to your own body temperature.

You began shifting out of your dirty and stained dress, pulling it over your head, when in the peripheral of your vision you glimpsed Manon, standing by the door, watching you. You gave a faux cough, attempted to signal her to turn around to give you privacy while undressing. She did nothing except give a soft “excuse you.”

“Um,” you began awkwardly. “ Could you… turn around please? So I can undress…”

“There’s no point in that, darling. I’m helping you wash— I’ll see everything, anyways.” There was no nefariousness beneath her tone, in fact, you might’ve even said it was warmth. That warmth managed to creep up the back of your neck.

While you were stripping yourself down, you were now hyperaware of Manon’s stare boring into you. You felt a flare within your stomach. 

Once in the bathtub, you allowed Manon to scrub your back down with a bar of delicate soap, each and every one of her strokes done with care. When she splashed water on your back in order to wash the suds off and caressed your back to seep the mixture into your skin, you felt at ease. Your muscles lost their tension for brief moments. She moved up to your neck, repeating the same process there.

Interspersed between each location of your body she moved to, she would place a kiss: one on the middle of your back where your spine peaked out, and another on the side of your neck — the side untouched by her fangs.

You titled your neck downward in order for her to be able to scrub the back of it more precisely, landing your gaze on the water.

Your eyes widened.

In the reflection of the water, where yours should’ve stared back, was a blank space, without you. 

This moment, this moment caused by such a simple thing, is when you realized. When you realized that Manon hadn’t bit you in a poor exploration of moving to the first base, that the polar freeze that was your body temperature wasn’t from windchill, that the book — “The Art of Draining” hadn’t been a work of fiction, the part of the county you were in wasn't some retreat for the rich.

That Manon was the person from the painting.

“Manon,” you said, voice soft, not meaning to make an accusation; just a question. “Are you—”

“A vampire? Yes, if that’s what you would call it.” She finished your inquiry for you.

Pressing forward, you continued your inquiry, “Did you… did you turn me? Is that why I feel as if I’m dead?” You interlocked your fingers together, each respective tip freezing despite the water.

“No. Not fully at least. That will come in the near future.”

“Oh,” you muttered breathlessly. 

“Yes, it’s best if you get it over quickly.”

Shortly after your inquiry, Manon had finished scrubbing your body. She handed you a stack of freshly folded clothes. They matched the color of her own white-laced outfit: a lengthy white gown that hung at the shoulders and a pair of cream undergarments.

Has she… worn these?

They settled on your body perfectly. Not that you could’ve made that observation yourself, it came from Manon, actually. She took quite the time to inspect you, her gaze sliding up and down every inch of your body.

“Doll,” she called to you. “We should head downstairs. I have something to attend to.”

—

The both of you had headed down the grand stairs from which came. The hall at the bottom was exactly the same as you had left it. The air was deathly stiff. The only sound that ever came was the groan of the floorboards from your feet.

“You can return to my study, if you would like. I’ll be right next to you, there.” The vampire nodded her head towards the door directly across from the study. “I’ll be quick, be assured.” She turned on her heel and started towards the door standing before destination.

Deciding to take Manon up on her offer, you made your way to the place you had been caught. 

The study was exactly how you found it: same scent of paper mixed with ink, same desk, same shelves. The book you had removed was the only one that had no layer of dust masking its spine.

Maybe one of these will tell me what the hell’s happening to me…

You scanned the titles of more leather bound books. You assumed that the shelf layer you had found “The Art of Draining” on was the layer dedicated to pieces dedicated to nonfiction. The notion that vampires were nonfiction did not completely process for you, but you persisted nonetheless.

None of the titles stood out to you, most of them pertained to the history of intercontinental vampire relations — though interesting, not information that could aid you in your predicament. You kept searching, getting halfway down the row and still found nothing of use.

Almost at the end of the shelf and hope running thin, you came across another work with the same author as “The Art of Draining”: Laforteza.  Same family as Manon’s acquaintance, you recalled. If that was the case, did that mean she was in attendance, too? That was unimportant. You brushed the thought to the side.

The title read “The Perplexity of Turning and Fledglings”. You displaced the title from its place on the shelf and flipped to the table of contents:

A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR — ix INTRODUCTION TO TURNING — 1 PHYSICAL AND BIOLOGICAL EFFECTS — 17 FLEDGLINGS AND THE “DECAYING DAYS” — 35 OVERPOPULATION AND HANDLING YOUR FLEDGLING — 67 DIFFERENCES BETWEEN DRAINING INDUCED DEATH, TURNING, AND FEEDING — 92

From what scarce vampire media you had consumed before, you figured that what you were was a fledgling. That was assuming that a cheap vampire romance novel Yoonchae had given you as a gag gift was accurate. 

You turned to the section “FLEDGLINGS AND THE ‘DECAYING DAYS.” Quite a promising name.

“As we discussed in earlier chapters, the process of converting a non vampire-born organism, or turning, is the in-between stage between vampirism and humanity; a one way bridge connecting the two worlds. Immediately after enough (a non lethal amount) blood is drained and fangs have been removed from the flesh, is when the ‘bridge’ begins to be crossed. The mortal would now be classified as a fledgling at this stage. Fledglings, in summary, are mortal presenting organisms with blooming characteristics of vampirism. Though these characteristics differ on a case-by-case basis, the most common include  sensitive hearing, heightened sense of smell and vision, cool or ‘frozen’ skin, and vanishing reflections. Fangs and feeding desires can also be a symptom, though those are considered to be unusual for fledglings originating from most vampires.”

You flicked your tongue over the top row of your teeth. Your canines were the appropriate length. You sighed with relief and kept reading.

“Being in the limbo of life and death is not a stable position to be in. The bridge we speak of is made of thin planks of wood, able to collapse at any moment. For fledglings, this bridge has a life expectancy that is measured in the units of decay days (DCD), which was coined by the Laforteza family back in 1756. Decay days are the amount of time a fledgling has to complete the turning process before, for better or worse, their body fully decays. Since they are not alive, a fledgling’s organs are not upkeeping themselves; however, since they are not dead either, they are not entirely dysfunctional. This can be thought of as an old machine. Eventually, if the fledgling goes so many decay days without completing the transformation, the bridge will falter, and the fledgling will succumb to death. The more DCD accumulates, the more effects that can be felt throughout the body. 0–3 decay days in, it is not uncommon for the lungs to feel the effect of deterioration — shortness of breath, labored breathing, difficulty speaking. 4–7 brings the shutdown of the liver, kidneys, pancreas, bladder, and small intestine. At 8–10, the days where most perish, is when the brain and heart send their goodbyes. There are no records of any fledgling managing to survive after the 10 day mark. In order for a fledgling to transition into vampirism, they must consume approximately 225 milliliters of blood from a living (this detail is very important) mortal. It can be from any place on the body, though it is recommended that it comes from the jugular vein. After this, the fledgling will feel their organs 'preserving’ and repairing themselves, and over the next few weeks, will witness the gradual paling of the skin and the development of fangs in place of human canines.”  

So. You were, in simple terms, rotting. 

You shut the book with a sharp motion, causing a loud thump to sound throughout the room.

Okay. Okay… so, I’m basically dying. I am dead— well not really. It’s… I can stop this, Yeah, I can. All I have to do is drink some blood… that’s not a casual thought…

The only thing you had to prevent yourself from your rot was to consume blood — a small can’s worth. It was easier thought than done, though it wasn’t an easy thought either. You would have to stare into the helpless eyes of some poor soul while draining them of their life; sink yourself into the tender flesh of the damned to save yourself.

The prospect sickened you. 

Your chest began heaving, the room’s once familiar air shifting into something thin, hostile to breathe in. The room closed in on itself, creating a narrow, limiting space. Acidic liquid rose through your throat, landing in a daze of overwhelming taste in your mouth. 

You doubled over while a flow of scolding hot, thick, bile spilled onto the floor below you. Your brian fogged, your vision became obstructed by rising tears. 

It was the single most painful thing you had ever experienced.

After eternity, the flow ceased, and you gasped for air in sharp, desperate breaths. You took your fingers and wiped the excess bile from your chin. The color was a deep wine red with discolored pink chucks of some piece of a system of yours you did not want to think about.

You leaned against the wooden desk, taking refuge for a moment; reeling.

The door to the study opened behind you. You already knew who it was by her footsteps.

“Doll,” Manon practically gasped. “Are you alright? What happened?” She rushed over to your side, gripping you at the shoulders, inspecting your weakened state.

“I think,” you mustered out. “Those decay days… I think I just felt what they brought.”

The full vampire’s face shifted to that of worry, eyebrows furrowed. She thought for a beat before speaking: “Come with me. Now.”

Without any further words, she took your hand — with her fingers locked between yours — and dragged you back towards the front of the manor. 

She took you through rooms you vaguely remembered and also places you had never seen. The youtube she took was convoluted and much longer than the one you had taken to get to the grand hall, though that was mostly due to you wandering your way there.

The two of you arrived at the grand room —  the expanse with the family painting you had first seen when you arrived.

The room was lifeless, all the partygoers had disappeared, leaving traces of fragments of glass, empty baggies, and discarded clothes behind as signs of life.

There was nothing but waste here. You felt confused as to why Manon had dragged in such a hurry. Not that you were complaining about being dragged around by her.

“Are we going outside?” 

“No, to the basement.”

You turned to her, confused. “What’s down there…?”

She met your eyes with her own, pupils widened by focus.

“The special performance that was on the flyer.”

—

The basement staircase was to the back of the room, sitting behind a sofa that had been pushed up against the wall, presumingly to prevent anyone from opening the thing from the inside.

In conjunction with Manon, you pushed the coach back onto its legs and set in out of the way.

The staircase stretched down into endless shadows, preventing you from seeing anything that might lay at the bottom.

The deathly stench wafted through the air, triggering a wave of nausea. 

Manon led the way down, stepping with confidence, while you trailed behind, making sure each one of your steps was precise in order to not slip and knock both you and the woman in front of you.

At the bottom of descent, Manon shifted in the void and returned with a handheld lamp with her. She switched it on, illuminating the basement with a sphere of light.

For the second time, your stomach flipped inside out.

You had found where everyone had went: down to the basement to watch the “special performance.”

The scene was a massacre. A bloody, horrifying mess.

Tens upon tens of people were either slumped on the ground or sprawled on the floor, all their necks craned to the side. Right above the crooks of their necks — the same place Manon had bitten you — were deep gashes, spreading all the way back to the nape. The victims’ skin had resolved to undertones of purple, and the light within their eyes was not existent.

Was this what Manon had claimed to have saved you from? This bloodshed all around you? 

The performance… It was a trap, to lure people down here to be fed on. Christ, going upstairs was a good idea.

Megan.

Where was Megan?

If she had stayed on the main floor like everyone else had, she must’ve been swept down here with the crowd.

No, no, no. She can’t be— I’ll believe it when I see it.

Pushing the thought that your friend could’ve been one of the multitude of unfortunate souls stolen of their lives, you steadied yourself.

“There has to be someone here,” Manon spoke under her breath, lowly. “Sophia, don’t tell me you drained all of them…”

She trudged onwards, stepping over appendages of bodies, in search of something that would aid you in your plight. You tried not to imagine that one of these bodies adorned pink hair dye at the tips of its hair.

Manon’s senses were hyper alert, head darting towards the source of the slightest noise. Her eyes glimmered with something you had seen in Daniela’s — the look of a predator in search of prey.

Then, a faint moan.

The vampire’s neck snapped to the direction it came from.

With feather light steps and fluid steps, Manon closed in. Her eyes were now in slits, focused solely on her prey.

A faint gargle of a woman startled you.

Closer now, Manon sped up her pace. You attempted to keep up with her.

Her feet halted. You took the opportunity to catch your breath,

This was what she was preying on.

An Indian woman sat slumped against a brick wall next to a rack of white wine, clothes stained with her own excrements. Her chest heaved shallowly, and her large brown eyes were faint and glazed over. Her mouth drooped open, slick blood dripped down from the corner of her mouth all the way down to her chin. Though there was a gash present just like the rest, it had not yet reached the back of the slumped woman’s neck.

She looked up at the both of you, producing a fragmented plea interrupted by gasps: “Please… please, no… I can’t…” She trailed off, not finding the stamina required.

Manon turned her head at you, then subsequently nodded back to the feeble thing below the both of you.

“You know what you have to do.”

If your heart could’ve burst from your chest, it would have in that moment. This is what the book had described: the consumption of human blood to cross the bridge of fledgling and vampire.

All you had to do was exchange this poor character of her lifeforce. 

You knew what would happen if you refused to. The rot, the pain you had felt before.

You observed your saving grace more closely. The wound on her neck was deep and fresh, causing her to certainly lose more than a liter or two already. She wouldn’t survive.

But you could. You had the chance to take the bite.

Brewing inside you was an urge to tear open the pre-existing gash before. As if it was a reflex, you slid your tongue over your canines. Though they were still that of a human’s, to you, they were sharper than ever.

You kneeled. She winced.

You drew closer to her in the same way Manon had done to you.

Just a centimeter at a time.

You were a vase, in a way. Fractured from pressure, but still cohesive, pieces intact. This, this, would seal your fractures back together.

You whispered into a pierced ear: “I’ll make this quick.”

With precision, you took your mouth lower down, and bit fiercely.

The woman writhed in pain, attempting to push you off of her. The harder she struggled the deeper you bit.

The taste of pure iron crashed down on your tastebuds, taking over the bulk of your senses. It was nothing like you had tasted before; intoxicating bliss was what it was to you.

Your bliss’ movement stilled under you the longer you drank, and the longer you drank, the more uncoordinated you became. Your bites became erratic, desperate for another taste of the dying subject underneath you. Her blood spilled over onto your dress, ruining the fabric with deep red splatters.

“Doll, I think you’ve had enough,” Manon called out to you. You ignored her. Why would you stop now? Why end the pleasure now? You went to push your prey’s dark hair out of the way to allow yourself better access. 

“Doll,” Manon called again, this time a warning. “You’ve had enough.” You had no intention of ceasing yourself, only stopping when you felt the cool grip of Manon’s hand on your shoulder.

You released your hold on the Indian girl. She collapsed to the ground.

You rose from your knees with a newfound sense of energy. You peered down at your dress. If you hadn’t known better, you would’ve mistaken the original color for red.

“Darling, did it feel that good for you?” Manon’s eyes were filled with something you decided was shock.

“Of course it did,” your words slurred together, you still collecting yourself from your meal. “Does it always taste like that?”

Manon only let out a sigh and closed the distance between you two. Leaning into you, she went for your heaven-stained lips and pressed her own against yours. A hand found its way onto your waist.

No, this was pure bliss.

— 

Back upstairs in the grand room where Manon had left you for a bit, you laid on an armchair, deep in your thoughts.

Am I a vampire now? That’s… Well, so is Manon, and she’s really sweet…

You thought about what exactly you would tell your roommate Yoonchae as to why you were out far past the agreed time between you. You had already used the “my car broke down, sorry” excuse once before, so that was out of the question. You elected to let Megan come up with an explanation.

Megan, fuck. You had completely forgotten her once again. You sat up in alarm. You were about to leave your rest position to find her when you heard the sound of paired laughter coming from the right of you.

“—and you certainly know how to please, cutie.” You recognized the voice — the one who had swept Megan away from you.

Of course. You weren’t even surprised. Nothing phased you anymore.

Megan came around the corner waist to waist with the girl — who you were now certain was also a vampire, it was obvious in hindsight — and head resting on her neck.

“Oh, y/n! I was worried about you.” Megan’s tone was light and airy, like she was in a different headspace entirely.

By the looks of the marks on her neck, it was probably the work of Daniela.

With your enhanced vision, you noted that Megan’s pupils were now enlarged, and there was a slight collection of white powder next to her noise.

You opted not to mention that to her.

“Woah, you look… rough. What happened…?” 

“I um,” You scrambled to come up with a believable fib. “I spilled my drink on my dress, and then the hostess gave me one of hers. Then I spilled another glass on myself. Clumsy me.”

Daniela cocked her eyebrow at that, but said nothing — a silent agreement to go along with the nonsense you came up with.

“Ah, well, okay then… just making sure you didn’t kill someone, aha…”

You let out a stifled laugh. 

If only you knew…

Daniela slipped out of Megan’s grasp, retiring into some other corner of the manor. Though, not before she mouthed a “call me” at the smitten girl.

Your friend took a seat on the ottoman, staring into a distant wall. Realizing that neither of you were in the proper state to make such a long drive back to your town, the only option was to spend the remainder of the night here.

With Manon.

Growing tired of waiting for Manon, you found yourself trekking your way back upstairs to her quarters. You pushed her door open, finding her clutching the purse you had left when you had changed your clothes.

“Oh, doll! I was going to come to you to return your bag.” Her voice was a melody to you. You could’ve stayed listening to it for as long as you lived.

“That’s thoughtful of you,” your tone light and hopefully pleasant to her. “I forgot I even brought it up here.

“Hey,” you started. “I can’t… I don’t think I’ll be able to drive back tonight. If it’s okay with you,” you hesitated for a beat. “Could I spend the night with you? In here, I mean.”

A smile, then approachment. A gentle kiss on your forehead.

“Of course, my dearest.” Your savior wrapped her arms around your waist, and in turn your head found its way in between the crook of her neck.

You stayed like that for what was hours for you.

You made a mental note to thank Megan for bringing you here.

⏾ deity's notes: so um. that was a lot. yes, megan did snort cocaine off of dani's stomach . yes, you did just murder the lara raj. yes, yoonchae is going to murder you in turn once you return home. sophia... well if i get enough requests to make another part, you'll find out about her then.