7 comments/ 15244 views/ 15 favorites Indigo Ink Ch. 01 By: Belengo Author's Note: This (part 1 in a series) is a work of vampire erotica – complete with all the tropes associated with that genre (mesmerism, blood, mild violence). If you are disturbed by these, please do not read further. This series is more story than sex, so if you're looking for a quick romp, this probably isn't for you. ________________________________________ Indigo Ink Ch. 01 The bathroom was as lavish as the bedroom, with marble floors and brass fixtures. After reliving herself, Ink paused to wash her hands and splash some water on her face. Her hair was tousled, but her makeup had already been washed away. "What is going on?" she wondered aloud. It didn't seem likely that some rich stranger had kidnapped and bathed her. She laughed at herself as much as the absurdity of the thought. Maybe someone had slipped her something and she'd hooked up with a high roller... who had silk negligée conveniently on hand? Maybe he had a sister? Staring at herself in the mirror Ink struggled to recall anything. It was remarkably hard. She remembered Felicity pushing her out of the bathroom, walking through the park. There was another girl. Ink slowly raised a hand to her mouth, pressing fingers to her lips as she remembered the kiss. "Oh my God," she said, stepping back from the counter. The smile... she remembered the Cheshire smile. Like photographs, memories came flooding back. Impossible memories. She examined her hand, flexing fingers that she remembered him breaking. Benjamin. His name was Benjamin. She studied her face for signs of bruising. There were none. Even her knee was unblemished. Fangs. He had fangs. The panic began in the pit of her stomach and the back of her throat. Then her knees turned into jelly. Ink sat on the ledge of the claw-foot tub for a moment before sliding down into it, pulling her knees up against her chest. Rocking quietly, Ink began to cry. The sound of the door opening in the bedroom made Ink flinch. "Ink?" a woman called. Ink didn't answer. She had no voice. "Oh, Ink," Lavinia whispered, as she stepped into the bathroom. Kneeling beside the tub, she reached inside and gently stroked Ink's hair. "I'm sorry I wasn't here when you woke. You're okay. You're safe. Look at me, Ink. It's okay. Please. Look up. Let me know that you can hear me." Slowly, Ink lifted her head from her knees and lost herself in Lavinia's eyes. Once again, a strange soothing sensation came over Ink, blunting the sharp edges of her horror. "That's good, Ink. Calm down," Lavinia said softly. "You're in my house. I brought you here last night to recover." "Recover?" Ink repeated, dreamily. "How?" she asked, holding up a hand that should have been maimed. She wiggled her unbroken fingers for emphasis. Lavinia took Ink's hand in her own and kissed a fingertip. "There's no easy way to put this, so I am just going to say it. Okay?" "Yeah," Ink said, blinking away the last of her straggling tears. "Ink, I am a vampire," Lavinia said, pausing to allow let words to sink in. "Do you remember what happened to you?" "Benjamin," Ink muttered. His name was an obscenity. Lavinia cocked her head in thoughtful surprise. "Yes. You remember his name. Impressive," she said, the last word mostly to herself. "Benjamin-" "I know," Ink interjected. "He bit me. Did that make me a vampire too?" Lavinia sighed and shook her head. "It doesn't work that way," she said, a hint of resigned amusement sneaking into her voice. "Listen, Ink, I am suppressing your emotions right now. I would like to stop so that you can think clearly. Can you handle that?" Ink regarded Lavinia with suspicious eyes. "You've done that before," she accused, slurring her words. "I have. Can I stop now?" Ink shrugged. "I don't know. A vampire tried to kill me – twice. Another one is making me question my sexuality. It's been a rough night." Lavinia tried not to laugh. Her failure brought a smile to Ink's face. "You're so pretty." "Okay... Hey, settle down, Ink," Lavinia said, leaning back to evade a clumsy attempt to kiss her. "I'm going to stop now." "Wait!" "Yes, Ink?" "Before you do, I need to ask you something." "Go on," Lavinia said. "Are you going to kill me?" Ink asked, reaching out to touch Lavinia's hair. If the answer is yes, it's probably better to hear it this way, she thought. "That's up to you," Lavinia said flatly. Ink glanced up from the golden lock twirled around her finger. "That's pretty fucking ominous, Lavinia." The vampire's serious expression dissolved into a bark of laughter. "Yes, I suppose it is. Scoot up." Ink obeyed, inching forward. Lavinia slid into the tub behind her, drawing Ink onto her lap and enfolding her in her arms. "That's nice," Ink purred, reclining her head against Lavinia's shoulder. For a few minutes, they sat in silence, Ink sinking into the comforting embrace. "Okay. I'm ready." The change was anything but subtle. The full weight of Ink's emotions came crashing down on her in an instant. Lucidity, recollection, and comprehension tore through the artificial calm with the jarring suddenness of a car crash. Her chest lurched. Nausea threated to empty her stomach. "Oh, God," she uttered. The arms around her tightened and Lavinia kissed Ink's temple. "Is this real?" "Yes." There was cold finality in Lavinia's voice. Ink's tears came easily, her breath came hard. She began shaking uncontrollably. Her mind raced as a million questions competed for her attention. Several half formed words died on her lips before she finally regained enough to composure to speak. "How did you fix me?" "I fed you some of my blood. It healed you," Lavinia explained. "And, no, it didn't make you a vampire. Not yet, at least." "Not yet?" Ink asked. Lavinia said. "I claimed you, Ink. I had no choice. Benjamin would have killed you otherwise. Now, in accordance with our laws, I must turn you unless you forsake my claim. If you do the latter, Benjamin will come for you. He won't let something like this go. I'm offering you immortality, but being one of us isn't easy. Everyone you know and love will grow old and die. You'd spend every day hiding from the sun. You'd spend every night hiding what you really are. I won't force this on you." Ink scoffed. "So, either I let you turn me into a vampire or I let a psychopath murder me?" "Like you said, it's pretty fucking ominous." Ink laughed. It was a pathetic, mirthless sound. "I don't understand. If you're a vampire, don't you kill people too?" Lavinia sighed, her breath a soft rustle in Ink's hair. "We aren't human, Ink, but we don't have to be monsters. We don't need to kill to feed. I fed from the girl in the stall. I fed from you on the dance floor. I take a little here, a little there. Most people enjoy the experience. You certainly seemed to." Despite the turbulence in her stomach and the pounding in her chest, Ink still managed to blush. "I thought you just had really good fingers," she said, choking out another pitiful laugh. Behind her, Lavinia chuckled and kissed Ink's head. "There were no bite marks?" "No. I use a little of my blood to heal them when I'm finished." "You did something to me, didn't you? When we were in the bathroom at the club. You made me want you." "Yes," Lavinia confessed. "But what happened on the dance floor was real." Ink took a deep breath as she tried to sort out her conflicting emotions. Lavinia had manipulated her, but she'd also saved her life. Could she forgive that first deception? Did she really have any choice? Lavinia represented her only chance to survive. It was more than that, though. Ink felt something, something she couldn't explain. Even given the extraordinary circumstances, she hardly knew this woman. Yes, they had been intimate on the dance floor, but that intimacy had been based on a lie. Even knowing that did nothing to stem the tide of uninvited feelings. Some part of her wanted Lavinia, wanted what Lavinia was offering. The woman was a vampire and yet Ink felt safe in her arms, even found comfort there. She struggled to push those feelings aside. How could she trust them? How could she trust a vampire? "Do I have to decide right now?" she asked. "No. But soon..." "Can I go home?" "My claim protects you alone. Anyone around you would still be in danger. Benjamin is precisely the kind of monster to take advantage of that. Also, our laws punish those who carelessly reveal our existence to humans. If you were to tell anyone, we could all suffer for it. It would be best if you were to stay here, with me, until you make a decision. You understand? Good. I know this isn't easy, that you never asked for this. Benjamin hates me. I'm sorry I brought this upon you." So that's why she saved me, Ink thought somberly. She felt guilty. "You didn't," Ink said. Her voice was little more than a whisper. "I met him on the dance floor. We danced. He wanted more. He got pushy, so I kneed him in the balls and ran. That's why I was in the restroom when you found me." Behind her, Lavinia shook with poorly contained mirth that evolved into open laughter. Unable to even say why, Ink started laughing too. Lavinia tightened her embrace and Ink stopped resisting the allure of her touch. The weight of her emotions, the trauma of Benjamin's attack, and the revelation that the world she knew was just an illusion meant to hide the wolves from the sheep was overwhelming. With her guard lowered, it all washed over her like a flood. She curled into Lavinia and let exhaustion reclaim her as the immortal held her and kissed her hair. Indigo Ink Ch. 01 Coyly, Babineaux fingered one the straps of Ink's dress, feigning consideration. "Perhaps later, but for now..." Rather than finishing the sentence, the vampire pushed Ink backwards. She landed on a sofa already populated by entwined lovers. Strange hands fondled and pulled at Ink's dress. A mouth captured hers and Ink accepted it, kissing passionately. Fingers wrapped around Ink's legs and parted them. She offered no resistance, as their soft, inner flesh was bathed in kisses that crept ever upwards. Ink's hands were lifted over her head. Her dress followed. Ink paid it no mind as it joined other discarded garments on the floor. The kisses found their way to the apex of her thighs and Ink gasped with pleasure. Other hands and mouths explored the rest of her – suckling, kissing. Her body bucked with the exertion of orgasm. Ink's anonymous lovers lowered her onto her back. One of them – a lean, tattooed boy with spikey, auburn hair – mounted her. Ink's body shuddered as he entered her, hips moving in time with the music. She convulsed as one orgasmic rush flowed seamlessly into the next. Her moans were swallowed by a sultry kiss from a girl with neon, blue hair. When the first boy was finished, another replaced him. Someone fed her a small pill as a third lover rolled Ink onto her stomach. She swallowed and muffled her panting with a cushion. Fangs exposed, Babineaux's satisfied smile was carnivorous as she surveyed the decadence. "Let the games begin..." To be continued... Next: Indigo Ink – 2: Blood Lust Indigo Ink Ch. 02 Author's Note: This is part two in a vampire erotica series - complete with all the tropes associated with that genre (mesmerism, blood, mild violence). If you are disturbed by these, please do not read further. This series is more story than sex, so if you're looking for a quick romp, this probably isn't for you. Indigo Ink - Part 2: Blood Lust Ink blinked as her eyes adjusted. Broad shafts of sunlight poured into the room though open windows. Tattered curtains shifted lazily in a soft breeze. Ink sat up. She'd been sleeping on a stained mattress -- one of several scattered around the ramshackle bedroom. Some of these were occupied by other sleepers in various states of undress -- some alone, some in pairs. Even Ink's mattress was being shared by another girl. The room smelled of stale smoke, sweat, and sex. It looked like a nest of junkies. In place of her dress, Ink was wearing an oversized t-shirt that was much too large for her. She couldn't remember where it had come from. Your friend is dead. Babineaux's voice came clearly through the jumble of Ink's memories. All of this is your fault. The girl lying beside Ink roused. "Oh, you're awake," she said drowsily. Her pixie cut hair was dyed black and accented with swaths of metallic red. She wore threadbare jeans and an open-sided shirt that threatened to expose modest breasts. Two angry looking puncture marks stood out on her neck. Her arms were spotted with purple bruises. Ink guessed she was eighteen, nineteen tops. The girl pulled herself upright and spread her arms out in a luxurious stretch. "I'm Delilah," she said companionably. "What's your name?" Ink stared blankly at the girl. A frown crept onto Delilah's face. "They really did a number on you, didn't they?" Ink didn't answer, but her stomach did, grumbling audibly. Delilah stood and offered Ink a hand up. "C'mon. Let's get you something to eat." You are not allowed to die. Ink accepted Delilah's hand and allowed the girl to lead her away. "This place can seem crazy at first," Delilah said as she guided Ink through debris littered hallways. "Once you get used to it, it's actually pretty awesome." Ink wasn't really listening. They walked past several other rooms, identical to the one Ink had slept in. Here and there, they passed others in the hallway. "We party hard here," Delilah said self-consciously as Ink regarded them. Strung-out and vacant, their distant, sunken eyes looked right through Ink. So, this was the fate Babineaux planned for her, Ink realized with apathetic detachment. You had your chance to die. It's too late now. The kitchen was massive. Old refrigerators lined the walls, some seemingly dating back to the fifties. Toasters and microwave ovens competed for counter space. Several large garbage cans stood overflowing with wrappers, crumpled cans, and empty bottles. Delilah ushered Ink onto a stool around a central island. After rummaging through the refrigerators, Delilah served Ink a microwave pizza and soda. "Breakfast of champions," she said cheerfully. Ink ate in silence while Delilah prepared a pizza for herself. "Everything's free here," she said between mouthfuls. "Are you ready to tell me your name yet? No? That's okay. C'mon, I'll show you were you can shower. You look like hell." With a smile, she added, "You smell like it too." The bathroom was neat and well supplied with soaps and lotions. "They like us clean," Delilah explained. Ink didn't have to ask who 'they' were. "We're livestock," she said, stepping into a rain of hot water. You should pay for what you've done, Indigo. On the other side of the shower curtain, Delilah was silent for several moments. When she finally spoke, her voice was a small, uneven thing. "Yes," she said. After another significant pause, she added, "It's not so bad. They take care of us... and sometimes they give us blood." She spoke with an addict's reverence, needful and shameless. Ink shuddered involuntarily. She remembered the blood, its searing heat. It was like swallowing the sun. She remembered its fire spreading through her veins, over her skin, through her thoughts. Babineaux's blood had burned away Benjamin's smile, burned away the mental image of Felicity's broken body. Everything burned until only a delirious, ravenous hunger remained. What had come afterwards -- the orgy, the drugs -- was an indecipherable blur. Ink didn't care. It didn't matter. The blood made the pain go away. Ink rested her forehead on the shower wall and fought against the craving. It was a losing battle. Ink sat, drawing up her knees and wrapping her arms around them. Streaks of hot water snaked down her face and back. Babineaux's phantom voice was relentless. The sound of the water drumming against her head could not drown it out. Ink increased the flow of hot water, shutting the cold off completely. Clouds of dense steam gathered around her. She flinched as the scalding water poured over her, but the voice carried over the pain. Only the blood silenced it. Delilah threw open the curtain, swearing as she reached through the stream, and shut off the water. "What the hell?" she asked, draping a towel over Ink's shoulders. Ink didn't respond. Her body shook, but no tears came. Delilah sat on the edge of the tub and gently dried Ink's shoulders and hair. "You're really not okay, are you?" Delilah muttered under her breath. "Wait here, okay?" She took Ink's silence as acquiescence. Delilah returned a few minutes later with a bundle of folded clothes. These she placed beside the sink before returning to Ink's side. "Here," she said, offering Ink a small blue pill. "Take this. It'll help." "What is it?" "You're a disaster. Does it matter?" Despite herself, Ink barked a single, desolate laugh. "No," she admitted, accepting the pill. "Ink," she said after swallowing it. "My name is Ink." "Thanks. That's a cool name," Delilah answered, smiling warmly. "Now, let's get you dressed. That mop on your head could use some attention, too." Ink slipped into a summer dress and sat while Delilah delicately brushed her hair. The pill's effect came in subtle increments, slowly chipping away at Ink's consciousness. By the time Delilah finished sorting out the knots, Ink could hardly keep her eyes open. "Why are you doing all of this for me?" Ink asked groggily as Delilah escorted her into one of the mansion's communal bedrooms. "I didn't want to be here either," Delilah said, helping Ink onto a mattress. "Last night I found you huddled in a corner, crying. I guess you probably don't remember. I was the same way my first night. A girl named Ally took care of me. I don't think I would've made it without her. I guess I'm just honoring her memory." "What happened to her?" Ink mumbled. "Get some sleep, Inky. You'll be alright. You'll see." Ink's unseen tormentor chased her into her dreams, telling her otherwise the whole way. *** The music started about an hour before sundown. That was when Ink first saw them. Delilah called them 'handlers'. They moved through the mansion, dispensing narcotics and inspecting their herd. Ink sat on the floor, her back against the wall, in the converted ballroom. When she'd woken, Delilah had greeted her with a joint. The marijuana didn't silence the voice in her head, but it did make it a little easier to think beyond it. They were on their third joint when a pair of handlers walked past them, selected a tattooed boy that Ink vaguely recognized, and escorted him away. He offered no resistance. "Where are they taking him?" Ink asked. "There's another house out back," Delilah said, gesturing towards the rear of the mansion. "Every night they take some of us back there. You know, for them." Ink nodded, having guessed as much. She took a long drag and held it as she scanned the room. Here and there, others were also being sequestered and led away. Some even solicited the handler's attention in the hopes of being selected. Ink supposed that she could understand why. When Lavinia fed from her on the dance floor, the pleasure of it had been indescribably intense. And then there was the blood, the searing, mind-numbing blood. It was a drug in its own right. Ink suppressed a slithering hint of envy for the ones being led away. Exhaling a cloud of pungent smoke, she asked, "Do they always come back?" Delilah didn't answer. "I thought not." "Most times they do," Delilah said at last. Her hand self-consciously moved to the bite marks on her neck. "Is that where the bruises come from too?" Ink asked. Delilah's sinking gaze was all the answer Ink needed. "Why don't they heal you with their blood?" Delilah's gaze remained fixed on the floor. "They only give it to you if you please them. Even then, they might not. A lot depends on which one you get." Ink took another hit as she considered the ballroom. A crowd was forming in front of the speakers, dancing wildly. Some gathered around the furniture in small cliques, drinking and smoking. Couples paired off, kissing, holding hands. Others wandered in and out of the room as though adrift on psychedelic tides. There had to be at least forty or fifty people, not counting the handlers. "How many vampires are there?" Ink asked. Delilah shifted uncomfortably at the word 'vampire'. "I've only seen four. There's the one that brought you here. Babineaux. Do you remember her?" Ink nodded that she did, and Delilah continued. "She likes to make people perform for her first." Her emphasis on the word 'perform' left a sour taste in Ink's mouth. "She can be pretty generous with the blood. There's Valentine. He's usually pretty straightforward. Sex first, and then he drinks. He can be a little rough sometimes. He almost never gives blood. I had him last time," she explained, folding her arms protectively around herself. The expression on her face was thinly veiled repulsion. "He doesn't bother enthralling you first." "Enthralling?" Ink asked, sliding an arm around Delilah's shoulders and drawing the girl against her. "That's what they call it. When they play with your head, you know?" Delilah answered, nestling into Ink's comforting embrace. "They can make you forget things or remember them all wrong. They can make you feel however they want you to feel. Valentine doesn't do it. He just takes you as you are. When he's finished, he bites gently -- the way that feels good. They don't have to, you know?" Ink did know. There had been no pleasure in the way Benjamin had torn into her wrist. "When he bites you like that, you forget about the other stuff, so he's not all bad." Nothing in Delilah's tone or posture lent much credibility to that. "Tell me about the other two," Ink said, hoping to draw the girl out of her painful memories. "Sierra is the nice one. She's very pretty and she never makes you do anything too weird. She never leaves you all marked up and she always gives a little back when she's done. She's everybody's favorite. Sometimes she even comes here to pick for herself. The only thing is, she likes to take the same people several nights in a row. After a while, it gets hard to keep up, you know?" Delilah looked up and studied Ink's face for a moment before continuing. "Ally was one of Sierra's favorites," she said, gaze returning to the floor. Ink cradled the girl and kissed her multicolored hair. "The last one is Benjamin?" Delilah nodded gravely. "Sometimes the others have to give you blood when he's finished. It's worth it though, for the blood." She was serious. The realization turned Ink's stomach. Her revulsion darkened quickly, yielding to something more volatile. Anger, like a sharp knife, cut across her inebriated haze and the underlying misery it was meant to conceal. Babineaux's voice echoed in her mind. But you did hurt people and you deserve to be punished for that. Yes, Ink decided, the guilty did deserve to be punished. Your friend is dead. Ink's fingers tightened around Delilah. No, she thought, not this time, bitch. The specter of Babineaux had no answer for that. Ink would mourn Felicity, but that would have to wait. She needed to avenge her first. "There's another one, but nobody knows much about him," Delilah continued. "I don't even know if he's real. They say he makes you forget him if you see him." "If that was true, how would anybody know about him at all?" Ink asked. "Sometimes things come back to you." "Yes," Ink agreed. "They do." *** On the third night, he came to her again. When the doorbell rang at 4:06 AM, she had answered it armed with a tennis racquet. "May I come in?" the man outside asked. He was exquisitely androgynous. His voice had an airy, musical inflection. Night black hair was slicked back in a style reminiscent of the twenties. Dark eyeliner framed stormy pools of murky blue. Moist, red lipstick drew her eyes down towards tantalizingly supple lips. Unable to force her tongue to perform the complex maneuvering required to form actual words, she had merely stepped aside to permit his entry. It wasn't until he asked her name that she rediscovered the faculty of speech. She told him and he repeated it. "Felicity Monet." He made her name sound like poetry. "You are in grave danger." His words rang with perfect, compelling sincerity. "You must trust me. Please, come with me." She did both without reservation. Still clad in Mickey Mouse pajamas, she followed him out into the night, leaving the racquet leaning against the doorframe, forgotten. "What is going on?" she had asked in the back of the stranger's limousine. He fixed her with sapphire eyes and smiled. "I will explain all in good time," he said, taking her hand. Felicity held her breath. "You do trust me, don't you Felicity?" She nodded slowly, never breaking eye contact. "Then for now, it is best if you ask no questions. Know that you are safe and all is well. Nothing else matters." Two days had passed since the man who called himself Illivander brought her to his luxurious penthouse. Each night he came to her, enfolded her in his arms, and ensured her that she was safe and all was well. Felicity's days slipped away with her lost on a cloud of daydreaming bliss. Servants dressed in finely tailored suits served her gourmet meals, prepared her baths complete with floating rose petals, and dressed her in clothes from exclusive, foreign designers. They called her 'Ms. Monet' in tones of respectful deference. For a girl raised in a rural trailer park, it was like living a fairy tale. She was, she decided on the first day, dreaming. By the second day, she was less certain on that point. Still, Illivander's words -- in good time, you are safe, all is well -- hovered there on the periphery of her thoughts, consistently soothing away her concerns. Now, on her third night in the penthouse, as she sat waiting for her beautiful host to arrive -- as he always did shortly after sunset -- Felicity once again began to innocently question her storybook circumstances. "Good evening, Felicity Monet," Illivander's singsong voice felt like a caress. Felicity stood, determined to speak before she could lose herself in his eyes, his lips, his... "I need to make a phone call. My roommate will be worried." Still standing in the doorway of the dining room, Illivander's effeminate features rearranged themselves into a mask of heartfelt sympathy and concern. "I am afraid that will not be possible," he said apologetically. Around them, the servants laid out the first course of evening's meal -- a rich smelling, creamy soup. In long, graceful steps, Illivander closed the distance to the table and took his customary seat across from her. "Your friend is part of the danger that you are in," he explained, idly stirring his soup. "Ink?" Felicity asked, a stab of disbelief penetrating her subdued fascination. Ink was her best friend. They were blood sisters -- a pact sealed with an old pocket knife after their first real fight. Ink had a liked a boy named Michael who'd spurned her to pursue Felicity. That was when Felicity first told Ink about her preferences in that department. "What do you mean? Is she in some kind of trouble? Tell me," she demanded. The conciliatory turn of his features and the tugging corners of his mouth conspired to undermine her mounting outburst. Illivander set his spoon down with the severity of a chopping block. "Your friend has become a monster," he said. *** Not wanting to be overheard -- the kitchen became popular in the early afternoon -- Ink waited for an opportune moment to pose the question. "Delilah?" she asked, between bites of microwave burrito, "You ever think about trying to get away?" Delilah sat bolt upright, color bleeding from her face. She checked over both shoulders before answering. "Don't talk like that," she whispered in a hiss. "Someone might hear you and tell the handlers. The last time someone tried, they beat him to a pulp and brought him to Benjamin. They made us keep the music off so we could hear him scream. It went on for hours. Please, Inky. Don't even think about trying anything." "Okay. I won't. I was just asking," Ink said, entirely for Delilah's benefit. The answer had been, more or less, what she'd anticipated. The other girl heaved a ragged sigh of relief. "Besides," Delilah said, after another quick glance to make sure they were still alone, "Where else would we get the blood?" Ink nodded her understanding and fought to keep her disappointment from showing. This too, she had anticipated. Dependence was the only thing that made any sense. Why else would these people be so complacent about their situation? How else could they party while waiting eagerly for their turn to be tortured or even killed? They were all -- Delilah included -- living in the kind of denial that only the insane or the addicted could conjure. Drink. Babineaux's voice still infiltrated her thoughts. Drink, it beckoned. It feels good, doesn't it? Ink closed her eyes and willed both the voice and the craving to subside. "How do the handlers pick who to take every night?" she asked, hoping it would distract her from the gnawing blood lust. Delilah's brow scrunched thoughtfully as she chewed. "I don't know," she shrugged. "Sometimes they ask for specific people. The handlers mostly seem to pick at random, but they usually don't take you more than twice a week. Sometimes..." her voice trailed off momentarily and she looked away, unable to meet Ink's gaze. "Sometimes people try bribing the handlers." The self-loathing evident in Delilah's diminished posture left little doubt as to how such bribes were paid. "Does that work?" Ink asked, careful to filter the disgust from her voice. Lavinia hadn't had told her much about vampires. Ink knew they were strong and manipulative. She knew they feared the sun. Beyond that, they remained a mystery. If she was going avenge Felicity, she would need to learn as much as she could about them. That would require being selected by the handlers as often as possible. Was she willing to use her body as the currency to purchase those opportunities? Ink's revulsion turned inward. The vampires were just going use her for their pleasure anyway. What did it matter if the handlers did too -- especially if it got her what she wanted? Was this how Delilah justified it to herself the first time? "No. Not often," Delilah said, snapping Ink out of her introspection. "Good," Ink replied, the word slipping out before she could catch herself. That night, the handlers took Delilah. As a consolation prize, Ink was given a small, plastic baggie with several pills inside. These, she tucked away. The blood wasn't the only addiction that kept the herd in check. Half of the people living in the house walked around in a perpetual, drug-induced fugue. Ink had no desire to become one of them. Instead, she kept to herself and waited as near the door as the handlers would permit, the knot of worry in her stomach growing with each passing minute. It was only a few hours before dawn when Delilah returned, escorted by a pair of handlers. She wore different clothes -- a man's dress shirt held closed by a single button and a skirt that only just showed beneath it. Lipstick was smeared across her mouth and dark rings of eyeliner circled her eyes. The handlers shoved Delilah into the ballroom hard enough that the disoriented girl stumbled and fell. Indigo Ink Ch. 02 Ink ran to her. "Delilah?" she asked, kneeling beside her. Delilah rolled onto her back. Her smile was delirious, her eyes wandering and wild. Her whole body moved as if unable to bear stillness. A sheen of sweat glistened on her unblemished skin. The bruises and bite marks were gone, healed by vampire blood. "I'm so warm," Delilah murmured, snaking an arm around Ink's neck and trying to pull their faces together. The girl's strength came as a surprise. Ink only just managed to slip free in time to avoid being kissed. So, added strength is another benefit of the blood, she thought as she struggled to fend off the smaller girl's advances. Maybe she could find a way to use their blood against them. Of course, enhanced strength wouldn't do much good if it meant being reduced to an incoherent, writhing mess. "Stop it!" The rebuttal seemed to genuinely confuse Delilah, but she relented with an exaggerated pout that dissolved into maniacal giggling. "Which one did you get?" Ink asked, hoping that the unsoiled shirt was a good sign. "Babineaux. Come dance with me, Inky," she implored. Ink had no illusions about what that might be like. It feels good, doesn't it, Babineaux's voice taunted. "Not tonight. You go. Have fun." When the blood and debauchery had run their course, Ink collected Delilah and carried her upstairs. With a damp towel from the bathroom, she gently washed away the makeup and the sex. From a hamper of clean clothes, Ink dressed the sleeping girl and curled up behind her on a mattress. For hours she lay there awake, cradling Delilah and desperately trying to figure out a way to save them both. There, on the cusp of sleep, it came to her. You will not renounce Lavinia. You will live under her protection. The handlers didn't choose either of them the following night. On the night after that, Ink saw her opportunity. "Over there. That's her," Delilah said, pointing to the center of the ballroom. Ink shifted for a better view through the mingling crowd. "I don't..." she began, voice trailing off when she spotted the vampire. Sierra wore a short, crochet dress that teased glimpses of the ivory skin beneath. Her face was exotically striking, with high cheekbones and a squared chin. A black headband held long, tangled brown curls at bay. Those nearest stopped to watch her, but none approached, their stillness emphasizing her deliberate, prowling grace. Even surrounded, Sierra seemed alone and untouchable. Under her protection, Ink reminded herself as her courage wavered. "Okay. Here goes." "Wait. What are you doing?" Delilah asked, grabbing Ink's arm. "I'm going to talk to her." Delilah's eyes widened. "You can't! We're not allowed. The handlers will drag you off if you try." Ink flashed what she thought was a reassuring smile. Delilah looked anything but. "Please don't do anything stupid," she begged as Ink extracted her arm. Delilah was still trying to dissuade her when Ink started toward the vampire. "Sierra," Ink said. A pair of handlers hovered nearby like bodyguards. She had taken a circumspect route, using the crowd to cover her approach. She'd gotten within arm's reach before the men noticed and moved to intercept her. By then, it was too late. The vampire's eyes turned on her just as the handlers took seized her arms. "I am Indigo Paige, claimed by Lavinia. Choose me. I dare you," she blurted, struggling against the handler's attempts to pull her away. With a subtle wave of her hand, Sierra called the handlers off. The men released her roughly. Aside from the strafing lasers and the pulse of the strobe lights, the room stood still as the vampire considered Ink with dark, unreadable eyes. More handlers arrived and the crowd shrank away from Ink as though they might share her punishment for the crime of proximity. "Please! She's new. She doesn't..." Delilah rushed to Ink's side, pleading. Another gesture from the vampire saw Ink's friend forced back into the gathering crowd. Ink's insides swam, but she met the vampire's gaze unflinching. The music stopped. There were now at least a dozen handlers at the front of the circle of people surrounding Ink and Sierra. One gesture from her and they'll beat me senseless. "Pick me," Ink said with considerably more confidence than she felt. The vampire's head tilted to the side, a quizzical gesture that made Ink think of puppies. Slowly, she tilted it the other way. She smiled then, a gesture not entirely suggestive of sanity. Come on. Take the bait, you crazy bitch, Ink prayed. Just as it seemed that Sierra was going to speak, a girl broke though the wall of handlers. Her long hair was strawberry blonde, skin milky white, and eyes furious. Before Ink knew what hit her, the other girl slammed into her, driving them both to the ground. Again, Sierra stayed the handlers. In school, Ink had been in her share of the ubiquitous slapping and hair-pulling kind of fights. This was not one of those. The other girl, aided by both momentum and surprise, quickly took the advantage, kneeling on Ink's stomach and pummeling her. Blow after blow took Ink in the face. "She's here for me, cunt!" the girl screamed as handlers, finally signaled to intervene, drew her off of Ink. "Take Asha to my room. I will have her again tonight," Sierra commanded, her honeyed voice came in a slow drawl. The vampire turned to follow as the girl with strawberry blonde hair and bloody knuckles was being led away, but then paused to reconsider. Ink had only just managed to sit up and wipe a handful of blood from her face when the vampire crouched beside her. "You are a curious thing," she said. One eye already swelling closed, Ink met the vampire's gaze as best as she could. She didn't even flinch as Sierra ran a finger over her busted lips. Head tilted again, the vampire briefly regarded Ink's blood on her finger before sucking it off. "Yes," she said, as if agreeing with herself. "I can still taste the Julian blood. There' not much, just a hint. Your face is a mess, silly girl." Opening her mouth to reveal extended fangs, Sierra pressed her thumb against one of them, sinking it deeply into her flesh before withdrawing it. Around them, the handlers turned on the crowd as they inched forward at the sight of Sierra's blood. "Drink, Indigo Paige, chosen of Lavinia." Drink, Babineaux's voice echoed in her mind. "Only if you pick me tomorrow," Ink said, hoping her blood lust wasn't as obvious as it was compelling. Please let this work, Ink thought, I don't know how long I can resist. Besides, my face is killing me. Sierra laughed. It sounded like tinkling of little bells. "Precocious little thing," the vampire chided. "I agree." Ink tried to resist the blood's gravity, but as Sierra slipped away and the music resumed, it pulled her under. Bloodstained but uninjured, Ink danced. The next night, the handlers came for her. *** Ink scrutinized her reflection. Her freshly washed hair was pulled back into ponytail, revealing her neck. For easy access, Ink assumed. A strap tied behind her neck was the only thing holding the black dress up. The neckline plunged to her navel, making a generous display of her cleavage. The back was open all the way to the small of her back. High heels and a scandalously high hem accentuated her long legs. Mascara made her blue eyes seem luminous. Black lipstick and nail polish completed the ensemble. The look was as subtle as a shotgun. All of these things had been provided by the handlers as per Sierra's instructions. Once her preparations were complete, a pair of handlers escorted her through a guarded door and into the rear grounds. The other house was everything that the mansion was not. The exterior was clean and in good repair. Its gardens were well tended. While it was smaller than the mansion -- Ink guessed that it had originally been intended as a guest house -- it was still larger than most homes in Ink's home town. Ink and her escorts were met at the door by a tall man in a suit. "Thank you, gentlemen. I will take it from here," he said, dismissing her guards. "I trust I'll not have any trouble from you," he said to Ink in a stern tone. "This way please." Inside, the smaller house was no less luxurious than Lavinia's home had been. The thought sent a twinge of longing through Ink. How could she miss someone she hardly knew? Nonetheless, she did. Her melancholy was short lived. A pair of winding stairwells led upwards from the grand foyer. Standing there, at the second floor landing, was Sierra. Despite herself, Ink was pleased by the pleased expression on the vampire's face as her eyes surveyed her. "The precocious one cleans up nicely," Sierra called down to her. There was nothing patronizing in her praise. "Thank you," Ink said, as the vampire glided down the steps to join her. Waving the butler away, Sierra circled Ink, tasting her with her eyes. Ink kept her own eyes forward, even when the vampire paused directly behind her. Hands touched her back and then slipped beneath the dress as they reached around to caress her stomach. The vampire's warm breath on Ink's bare neck sent a shiver down her spine. Sierra placed a small kiss against the nape of Ink's neck, intentionally brushing her fangs against the vulnerable flesh. Ink closed her eyes and tried to keep her breathing steady as Sierra nuzzled her. "You're not afraid," Sierra said, an observation, not a question. "No," Ink answered, her body tensing as one of the vampire's hands slid up, cupping her breast. Sierra's other hand slid slowly in the opposite direction. By the time the vampire's wayward fingers reached their destination, Ink was ready to receive them. Lavinia. Pretend it's Lavinia, Ink told herself. "Oh, God..." she muttered as Sierra coaxed her towards climax. Reaching back over her head, Ink slid her hands into Sierra's hair as her body began its trembling ascent. At the moment of Ink's ecstasy, the vampire fed. The first rush was eclipsed by the second, like candlelight against the sun. When it was done, Ink's head spun. The vampire walked her to coach and sat her down. "Such a responsive body. The blood is so much better that way," Sierra mused, touching the corners of her mouth to tidy up. "Does it really matter?" Ink asked between quick breaths and a surreptitious check of her neck for bite marks. There were none. "Oh, yes!" Sierra answered, enthusiastically. "You're never more alive than in the throes pleasure or panic. Did your mistress teach you nothing of what you were to become?" Ink didn't care for the implications of 'were', but she chose not to press the issue. "We didn't have much time together before I came here," she answered. "What is a Julian?" Sierra scoffed in a distantly unladylike fashion. "So many questions from my wild flower girl..." Ink's brow furrowed at that. "Wild flowers?" she asked, perplexed. Sierra turned slowly in place, arms outstretched and face turned upward. "Yes. Wild flowers and open spaces." The vampire paused, mid-spiral. "You taste like the countryside." Ink blinked, stunned by the vampire's insights. "I was raised in the country. You got that from my blood?" Sierra fixed her with another of her whimsical smiles. "Oh, yes. And more. You are sad and angry." "No shit," Ink said before she could catch herself. The vampire's laughter briefly filled the foyer, ending with abrupt severity. "Indigo, it is time for you to go," Sierra said. The creature that now stood before Ink seemed irreconcilable with the flighty, giggling woman she had been only seconds prior. "Come, claim your reward," she said, bringing her wrist to her mouth. "No," Ink objected before Sierra could bite herself. "I don't want your blood." The vampire lowered her wrist, head tilting. "I want to know more about what I was supposed to become." Sierra considered this in silence, eyes fixated on Ink as if searching for something in her expression. At last, she said, "Let's make a deal..." To be continued... Next: Indigo Ink - Part 3: Foolish Games Indigo Ink Ch. 03 Author's Note: This is part two in a vampire erotica series - complete with all the tropes associated with that genre (mesmerism, blood, mild violence). If you are disturbed by these, please do not read further. This series is more story than sex, so if you're looking for a quick romp, this probably isn't for you. Indigo Ink Ch. 03 "Babineaux wins," Delilah answered without hesitation. "She's in charge, I think." Before Delilah could elaborate, a handler paused outside the laundry room and, seeing what he was looking for, stepped inside. "Get cleaned up and put on something that won't get in the way. Babineaux wants you both tonight," he said. Something that won't get in the way, Ink mused. Such a way with words! Indigo Ink Ch. 04 Author's Note: This is part four in a vampire erotica series - complete with all the tropes associated with that genre (mesmerism, blood, mild violence). If you are disturbed by these, please do not read further. This series is more story than sex, so if you're looking for a quick romp, this probably isn't for you. Indigo Ink -- Part 4 *** Ink followed Sierra through the now familiar corridors, passing the defaced portrait of the young, aristocratic woman that Sierra had once been. The vampire didn't spare a glance for the painting. Ink, on the other hand, found it impossible to ignore. That girl is still in there somewhere. If I can find her, maybe I can save her. Sierra's intervention had saved Ink from being violated by Babineaux. She saved Delilah's life. Whatever else she may have done, Sierra deserved something for that -- even if it was just harboring hope for her. Around the corner from the painting, Sierra stopped outside the same room Ink had been led to the night before. Sierra's expression was dark, glints of cruelty rekindled in her eyes. Whatever they had shared in the foyer was clearly over. "After you," she said, gesturing towards the closed door with mock civility. Ink reached for the knob, drew in a deep breath, and crossed the threshold. As before, a single, bedside candle provided the room's only illumination. When she glanced back towards the vampire, Sierra gestured for her to continue. Ink was in the center of the room when she heard the clink of a rustling chain. The sound was coming from the bathroom, once again obscured by deep shadows. "Asha?" Ink asked, taking a tentative step towards the darkness. Suddenly, the metallic patter accelerated, accompanied by the slap of bare feet. Hands reached out of the darkness, grasping once for Ink's throat before the choking tether reached its limit and her own momentum jerked the rabid girl off her feet. Naked and bound by a metal collar, Asha hit the floor and rebounded instantly. Standing at the edge of the candlelight, Ink was mere inches out of the reach Asha's scrabbling hands. "Fuck me," Ink blurted, retreating several steps. When it was clear that Asha could not reach her, the chained girl stood up and wrapped her arms around her stomach as though cramping. When Sierra came to stand beside Ink, Asha slunk back into the shadows. "What the..." "Sometimes it's hard at first," Sierra said. "The thirst burns white hot and all you can think about is trying to stop the pain of it. She just needs to feed. Once she's slaked some of her appetite, she'll be able to think clearly. Until then, she'll try to eat anyone that comes within arm's reach. It doesn't matter who it is. Mother, daughter, lover. Anyone. Starve any of us long enough and we're no better. You have two questions left." "You turned her," Ink said, comprehension finally dawning over the adrenaline-spiked rush of her thoughts. So, this was what Babineaux meant when she taunted Sierra about her 'little fledgling'. "Why did you do it?" Sierra's tone was perfectly nonchalant. "You asked me to save her. This was the only way. She was too far gone. How is your hand?" "What? Oh, it sucks. Your face is hard. I think I broke two fingers on it." "Enough vampire blood can heal most injuries," Sierra explained. "Exsanguination, however, is a tricky thing. When a body has too little of its own blood, introducing ours results in a turning. I'll fix your hand when we're done for the night. Two down, one to go, Ink." Ink's attention was abruptly divided between formulating her final question and trying to guess the significance -- if any -- of the vampire using her preferred name for the first time. Sierra is in my head in ways Babineaux could never manage. It wasn't precisely a comforting thought. The soft scrape of metal links in the darkness reclaimed Ink's full attention. "Asha?" she called to unseen girl. Sierra arched an eyebrow as if she was also curious as to how the fledging might respond. The voice that called back was parched and frayed. "It burns," Asha rasped, drawing out the last word as though it were a knife being pulled from a wound. "I'm sorry, Asha. Maybe I could..." Ink began. "She'll kill you," Sierra interpreted, reading Ink's intentions. "Once she starts drinking, she won't stop and by now she's strong enough to impose her will on you." She's baiting questions, Ink realized. She wants me to ask about their strength or why she hasn't fed Asha. "Good to know," she parried. "Sierra?" "Yes, Ink?" Ink turned to face the elder vampire, deliberately making eye contact. There was bedlam in those immortal eyes, but there was humanity trapped somewhere in there as well -- Ink was certain of it now. Sierra had protected Ink, saved Delilah, and Asha too, albeit not as Ink had intended. "How do I kill a vampire?" Time ground to a crawl as the two women faced off. Sierra's expression cycled between sardonic amusement, scathing condescension, and something unreadable that Ink hoped was thoughtful consideration. "Sunlight makes us weak and unable to heal. Eventually, it burns," Sierra said at last, her tone dry and academic. "Fire can kill us and is difficult to heal. Decapitation kills outright." Briefly stunned by Sierra's candor, several moments passed before Ink found her voice. "So, normal stuff like guns are useless?" "Not entirely. We are resilient, but not bulletproof. Healing consumes our strength, strength we replenish by feeding. If you do enough damage, you can exhaust our ability to regenerate making us considerably easier to immobilize for beheading or burning purposes." "Stakes through the heart?" "Are painful and apt to make us quite cross, assuming you're strong enough to punch through the ribcage." "Holy water?" "Makes us wet," Sierra replied, undermining her monotone delivery with a mischievous smile. "How about..." A sudden realization brought Ink up short. I don't need to play her game anymore. Sierra watched her expectantly, like a teacher prepared to call upon a raised hand. Is this another test? Abruptly, Ink thought she understood. "I can't think of anything else," she admitted. "So I guess that brings us to my end of the deal." "You forgot garlic," Sierra prompted. "I guess I'll have to ask about that with one of tomorrow's questions." Sierra's eyes narrowed into suspicious slits. She doesn't think I'll come back. Maybe she doesn't want me to. Is she trying to protect me? "Unless, you're backing out of the deal? We never discussed any terms for that." For an instant, Sierra's carefully constructed masks slipped. The woman underneath was confused, insecure. She was wounded and desperate. Ink stepped into Sierra, wrapped her arms around the vampire, and kissed her tenderly. At first, Sierra simply stood there, stunned. Then, her arms returned the embrace, her lips found motion, and she kissed Ink was a passion that Ink had never known. The kiss was all-consuming, her embrace needful and longing. When their lips parted, Ink was flushed and breathless. Sierra blinked and hints of icy hardness began seeping back into her expression. "No," Ink said, resting her forehead against Sierra's. "Don't do that. You don't have to." She's afraid to be vulnerable. "Let's not torture Asha. Take me somewhere else and make my blood sing for you." When Sierra didn't move, Ink added, "Do you dare and do you dare?" "I do," Sierra whispered. It was the voice of a long sleeping ghost remembering what it was like to live. Taking Ink by her good hand, the vampire led her across the hall and into another bedroom. In a flurry of discarded garments, the two women stumbled toward the bed, kissing furiously. When Sierra bit her wrist and offered Ink the blood, Ink gently pushed it aside. "Not yet," she whispered. "I want this to be real." Sierra withdrew her hand and Ink began a sinking procession of kisses that culminated with the vampire's body arched and shuddering. When the last echoes of Sierra's climax sank into the warmth of afterglow, Ink kissed her way back to the vampire's mouth. "That's the first time I've ever done that," she confessed when their lips parted. "Precocious," Sierra said, fondly. "Not bad for a beginner. I think, however, that you could use a few pointers." Ink kissed her. "What deal will I have to make for that lesson?" *** Dean Gamble handed the cell phone to his mistress, the text message still open on the screen. "An address?" Lavinia asked. "Yes, my lady," Dean replied. "It's an isolated estate several miles outside of the city." Despite having served Lavinia for nearly sixty years, Dean still had the youthful appearance of a man in his early twenties. Such were the benefits of a regular supply of vampiric blood. He still wore his hair back, in the style of the fifties, but his suit was modern and professional. He had the kind of baby-face that drew women to him, but the distance in his green eyes bore witness to the things he had seen and done in the service of his immortal masters. For over half a century he had been Lavinia's daytime runner, her bodyguard, and her friend. When necessary, however, he also served as an assassin for House Julian. Lavinia glanced back down to the cell phone. The sleek device made her feel unbearably ancient. She could manage its most rudimentary functions -- making calls, sending texts -- but the rest remained a mystery to her. As it was, she typically entrusted the device to her servant's care. That's where it had been when the text arrived in the middle of the afternoon. "I do not recognize the phone number. Should I?" "It's registered to Indigo Paige." "Ink?" Lavinia looked up from the phone, startled. The girl had gone missing a week ago, her apartment ransacked. The words 'Julian Cunt' -- a pejorative clearly meant for Lavinia -- had been smeared on the living room wall in human blood. The macabre scene had Benjamin Alquist's name written all over it. Was he really foolish enough to provoke the wrath of House Julian just to avenge the perceived slights of a single night? Lavinia couldn't rule it out. Benjamin, a strong-arm for House Barcid, was a notoriously sadistic and petty creature. But was he willing to face the justice of the court? The law was clear -- those who have been claimed are sacrosanct, none may slay one that has been claimed. The Sanguine Court seldom deviated from their standard punishment for those who violated their laws. Would Benjamin be willing to risk a slow, torturous death by sunlight just to kill a human girl? No, that was unlikely, even for him. Any hope that Ink had been the one that sent the text was stillborn. The girl wouldn't have known Lavinia's cell number. Even if Ink had somehow discovered it and gotten to her phone, would she have sent such a cryptic missive? The address in the text, 18 Adlington Place, had been properly capitalized -- hardly suggestive of a message sent in haste. Those who trespass uninvited into another's haven do so at their own peril. That was also law. "So, it's a trap," Lavinia sighed in bitter resignation. "I should think so," Dean answered. "Shall I investigate?" *** Ink awoke alone in the downy embrace of a warm bed. She might have contentedly lingered there, but the aroma of food coaxed her out from under the covers. With uninjured hands, Ink slid the breakfast tray off of the nightstand and onto her lap. The food was arranged and covered in a room service fashion. Beneath the metal lids, she found freshly cooked bacon, sausage, biscuits, and eggs. After a moment of herculean restraint spent to savor the aroma, Ink attacked. After days of nothing but microwavable junk, eating real food was neigh orgasmic. She hardly paused to breathe. When every last crumb had been mercilessly devoured, she returned the tray to the nightstand and went to the adjoining bathroom. Toiletries that had not been there the night before, now sat neatly arranged for her use. Her clothes were missing but Sierra's crochet dress hung on the back of the door. Ink ran a hand down its perforated length with a sigh. She wore this the night we met. How had that become a fond memory? Her emotions were a restless collection of inconsistences. They followed Ink into the shower like a buzzing swarm. One night. One terrifying, surreal night. That was all she had with Lavinia. The memory of their time together was a bruise on Ink's heart, tender and aching. Would the hours she'd spent last night in Sierra's arms become another one? Felicity's death left little room for fresh wounds. The hot water washed the previous night from her skin, but her conscience wasn't so easily cleansed. I don't want to feel guilty. Why should she? Had Lavinia promised her anything other than forever? Could Ink even have feelings for someone like Sierra? Who knew how many lives her volatile instability had claimed? How could she make love to a killer? We aren't human, Ink, but we don't have to be monsters. As far as Ink could tell, Lavinia was the only vampire that wasn't one. Did she really think she could fix something as broken as Sierra? Was she really willing to risk herself in the attempt? She got out of the shower, dried off, brushed her teeth, and put on the crochet dress. The girl in the mirror looked darkly alluring and a little frayed around the edges. Must be the dress, she mused. When Ink stepped out into the corridor, a handler was there waiting for her. Bald, broad shouldered, and serious, the brute towered over her. His arms were thicker than her head. His hands seemed more suited to bludgeoning than touching. He was the kind of man that was accustomed to making people feel uncomfortable and, unlike most handlers, he had a sidearm. Ink was eyeing the pistol holstered at his hip when he spoke. "My name is Terry," he said by way of greeting. His voice was a deep, imposing rumble of disapproval. "I'll be escorting you anywhere you go." Ink waited for him to tell her where to go. After several moments of silence, she realized that he was waiting on her. "Can I go anywhere I want?" she asked. Terry shook his head. "If you try to go somewhere that you're not allowed, I'll stop you." "You and what army, Terry?" Ink taunted, feminizing the sound of his name. She'd been tortured by psychopaths. She'd made love with a madwoman. A bouncer was not about to intimidate her, gun or no. Without waiting for a response, she headed for the stairs -- pausing briefly to touch the portrait of Sierra. "We dare," she whispered to the canvas. Once downstairs, she began exploring in earnest. What she found was primarily mundane. Aside from Babineaux's red leather room and a library - populated in equal parts by books and suits of antique armor -- there was nothing remarkable. Knives in the kitchen and swords in the library. It wasn't much, but it was a start. The second floor was dedicated to bedrooms, of which there were roughly a dozen -- including the one Ink had awoken in and the one presumably occupied by Asha. It wasn't until Ink tried to climb the stairs to the third floor that Terry spoke up. "No," he said simply. "No?" Ink asked, hedging for time as she peered up into the unknown. I bet I could outrun him. As if sensing her thoughts, Terry drew closer and put a heavy hand on Ink's shoulder. "No. Third floor's off limits." When Ink asked why, the question seemed to surprise him. "They give the orders. I follow them. I don't ask why." "I bet you don't," Ink retorted. "Probably makes it easier for you to sleep at night. You sleep well, Terry?" The grasp on Ink's shoulder tightened. That struck a chord. "I mean, after a hard day's work of facilitating addiction, rape, and murder, it must be nice to just not think about things. Am I right?" "You don't know anything about me," Terry snapped. Ink's expression was a study in condescending incredulity. "I don't have to explain myself to you. You're just Sierra's latest pet to get a sleepover. You think you're the first?" His single bark of derisive laughter was a slap to Ink's face. "When she gets bored or distracted, you'll be lucky if you wind up back at the mansion. The rest end up in the incinerator. I know. I've cleaned up enough of them." "It's different this time," Ink protested. The words had come so fiercely to her lips, but once there, they withered. The anger fell away from Terry's expression, eclipsed by what looked like genuine pity. That was the worst part, his sympathetic expression -- his 'you poor thing' eyes. It was different. He just doesn't understand. Terry shrugged, an unconvincing concession -- the kind given you've reached an impasse. "Maybe you're right," he said in a 'you poor thing' voice. Ink pulled free from his grasp and retreated downstairs. She didn't stop until she reached the front door. A light drizzle was falling as she walked back to the mansion. Set against a backdrop of stormy gray, the crumbling building looked like something Edgar Allen Poe might have envisioned -- melancholy and foreboding. Ink approached it slowly, allowing the misty air to dampen her face. This was the first time she'd made the walk between houses during the daytime. The light revealed much that the night obscured. Worn paths in the overgrowth indicated the preferred paths of the guards. Ink scanned the upper floors and roofs for lookouts -- two, atop the mansion, both armed with rifles. She made note of the carriage house -- an adjacent, two story building converted into apartments for the handlers. Ink could just make out the front edge of a utility van parked along its far side. So, all I need to do is kill the vampires, avoid the snipers, and spontaneously learn how to hotwire a van. Piece of cake. Delilah was on the floor when Ink found her. Soiled and unconscious, she was laying as near to backdoor as the handlers permitted. An empty vodka bottle stood watch over her. She waited for me, Ink realized. Only, I didn't come back. It wasn't hard to imagine what conclusions Delilah might have drawn from that. "It's okay," Ink whispered. "I'm back." When sitting her up failed to wake Delilah, Ink carried the comatose girl to an upstairs bathroom. Terry, who did nothing to help, was polite enough to wait in the hallway as Ink undressed Delilah and slid her into the bathtub. "Huh?" Delilah groaned as the water roused her. "It's okay, Delilah. I'm here now," Ink said as she ran a hand through the girl's dirty hair. "Ally?" Delilah muttered, reaching out to touch the crochet dress. Ally -- the girl who'd taken Delilah in when she first came to the mansion. She too had been one of Sierra's favorites. The rest end up in the incinerator. Ink pushed the thought away. "No, it's me..." Ink said, but the slurring girl talked over her. "She let you wear her favorite dress again," Delilah's smiled drunkenly. "I know how happy that makes you." The words were ice in Ink's veins. She tried to speak, to correct Delilah's case of mistaken identity, but no words came out. Her mouth was too dry, her tongue too clumsy. A swimming knot of doubt formed in her stomach. "Ally?" "Yeah," Ink said, forcing the word out. It was easier than trying to reconnect Delilah to reality. Whatever Delilah had wanted to say to her old friend remained unspoken, lost to the unintelligible depths of her intoxication. By the time Ink finished bathing her and had her wrapped up in a makeshift, towel toga, Delilah had slipped back into unconsciousness. "Let's get you to a mattress and then I'll see about finding some clothes for you," Ink said, mostly for her own benefit. "It's a good thing you're so damn tiny," she complained, heaving the girl. When she fumbled the door open, Terry was waiting on the other side. Indigo Ink Ch. 04 "Here," he said, holding out a dress. It was a pretty thing, white with a floral print. Ink regarded the garment as though it might be venomous. "What's that?" she asked, suspicious. "A dress," the handler said, sardonically. "I thought your friend might need a fresh one." The inconsistency was frustrating. Sierra was a monster, only she might not be. Terry was a heartless brute, only this was an act of kindness. Ink took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. "Just toss it on top of her. Thanks," Ink said, carrying the girl and the dress back into the bathroom and kicking the door closed. When she emerged again, the toga had been replaced and the girl in Ink's arms looked to be sleeping peacefully. "Why did you do that?" Ink asked the handler as she laid Delilah down. "The dress. Why?" "Oh... Look, kid. I'm not what you think I am," the big man said. His presence had ensured them a bedroom to themselves. "Okay. I'll bite," Ink said, skeptical but willing to listen. When the big man sighed it sounded like a tire going flat. "Cancer," he said, eyes drifting towards the open windows. A warm breeze ruffled the tattered curtains. There was just enough sunlight making it into the room to lend sparks of lazily drifting substance to the air. "I have it bad. The blood's what keeps me alive, you see? Only difference 'tween me and the kids here is that the vamps figure I'm more useful." For a solid minute, Ink considered and revised her response before settling on the nicest version she could think of. "So you help them ruin lives to save your own?" "Yeah," he said without looking at her. "Easy to judge from where you're sittin', I know. Morality is the luxury of people who aren't shitting blood and hurting." Ink drew a breath, ready to expend it in a scathing rebuttal. What would you do in his place? The question was an insidious knife that peeled back the layers of her effortless ideals. Would you just let yourself suffer and die? Ink exhaled her ammunition, deflating. Terry wasn't proud. His averted eyes, weighed down by guilt, were ashamed. I'd find some other way, she assured herself. "Terry, what if there was another way to get the blood, a way where you didn't have to live like this?" Terry looked at her, a frown tugging at his face. The handler's eyes were brown, sad, and tired. "I know about why you're here," he said. "Don't make offers you can't keep, girl." "When I'm turned, I could..." "You ain't never gonna be turned. Don't you get it? Look around you, girl. This ain't no place for happy endings," Terry said, walking to the doorway. "I'll be in the hall." He left Ink there, sitting beside her friend, at a loss for words. Worse, his departure left her to the mercy of her own treacherous thoughts. *** The thrum and thump of the dance music fell away as the mansion's door closed behind her. The last clinging fingers of daylight painted the sky in shades of fading violet. Clad in black leather and borrowed boots, Ink looked more like predator than prey. Terry followed a few paces behind. Neither had spoken to each other since he'd walked out of the bedroom. That suited Ink just fine. Around them, the handlers escorted others towards whatever fate awaited them in the guest house. Most seemed too consumed by the prospect of blood to care about anything else. They'd trade places with Terry in a heartbeat. If not for Delilah, Ink would have held them all in contempt. The butler was standing in the threshold, accepting or rejecting the cattle brought before him. Those that met with his approval were escorted inside. The rest were taken back to the mansion, often forcibly as they begged the old man to reconsider. The silent ones are the worst, Ink decided. At least the ones that fight still care. The quiet ones simply moved as instructed, their minds hermetically sealed behind walls of apathy, intoxication, or madness. Perhaps the ones who end up in the incinerator are luckier. Ink was not subjected to the butler's judgment, merely a disapproving glance as she walked past him. Two girls and a boy were taken off to the left -- playthings for Babineaux. One boy was taken towards the library -- Valentine perhaps? Ink couldn't imagine Benjamin choosing such a sophisticated venue for his depravations. For her part, Ink headed upstairs and back to the room where she had awakened. Once again, Terry waited in the hallway. In her absence, the bed had been made with clean linens. Fresh towels hung in the bathroom. Virgin candles sat on the nightstand. No matches or lighter, Ink noted with dark humor. For a time, she paced in silence, running over all of the things she wanted to say when Sierra arrived. Tell me about Ally. Tell me that this is different, that I'm not just some passing fancy. Her rehearsal was interrupted by the swishing of the door as it opened. Sierra stood there in the doorway, draped in an elegant, purple evening dress. Far from her usual tangled mess, the vampire's hair was up in an intricate nest of curls. Sierra was glamorous, like a vintage Hollywood starlet. The sight of her banished the buzz of Ink's apprehensive thoughts. "Wow," she gasped. "You're gorgeous, Sierra." Sierra smiled, seeming pleased by Ink's glowing appraisal. "You came back, my precocious fool." "You have more to teach me," Ink answered, spicing the words with a coquettish smile. The double entendre was not lost on the vampire. She floated across the room and gathered Ink in her arms. They kissed, far too briefly for Ink's taste. As long as they were kissing, Ink's doubts about the vampire's intentions were distant, fuzzy things -- lacking definition and easily dismissed. When their lips parted, and Ink could once again peer into Sierra's enigmatic eyes, the uncertainty returned. "Kiss me again," she asked. This too seemed to please Sierra, who obliged Ink once more before drawing away. "I can't stay," Sierra said, apologetically. "I have some delicate matters to handle poorly." "Asha?" Ink asked. Sierra shook her head. "No, she's still fasting." "Why?" Ink asked. Asha was in pain, but the price of relief would likely be a life. It was an impossible situation. This ain't no place for happy endings. When Sierra hesitated, Ink added, "You can consider it tonight's first question." "Very well," Sierra said, closing her eyes. They opened as pools of cinnamon melancholy. "I am of House Barcid. It is a Barcid tradition, three nights of starvation after turning. Three nights of merciless thirst. Three nights to see what we truly are. Three nights to unlearn everything you're hoping I'll remember, my ambitious flower." The last traces of warmth bled from Sierra's voice. Her disconsolate smile twisted into a bitter scowl. She's remembering what it was like for her, Ink realized, suddenly sorry she'd asked. "On the first night, the pain is unbearable. On the second night, you learn that pain is a bottomless pit. You'll do anything to make it stop. Anything. On the third night, there's nothing left of you. Your name, your memories -- they all go away. Far, far away. All that's left is rabid, feral hunger. The fast ends with your first kill, your baptism in carnage. Everybody kills. You can't stop yourself. You don't even try. If your master is concerned that you might still cling to some lingering humanity, he selects your first meal with care. Usually, it's somebody you loved." "Oh, my God," Ink muttered, appalled. "Someone did that to you... Sierra, I'm..." she said, reaching out. "Don't," the vampire snarled, fangs exposed. She slapped away Ink's hand and Ink drew it back against herself. Not broken, but it'll be badly bruised. Sierra's eyes moved to the cradled hand and -- for just an instant -- her expression softened. Then she left, storming out without another word. The door ricocheted off of the wall and drifted closed. A moment later, Terry glanced inside. Ink glared at him. I'm not ready for the incinerator yet. He gave her a slight nod and then closed the door. Ink sat on the bed, still clutching her hand, and cried -- for herself, for Asha, and for the girl in the painting. *** When the bedroom door swung open, Ink stood. Once again, she had assembled a list of things to say - apologies mostly. Once again, her preparations were wasted. "Hello, Indigo," Benjamin said, his voice embellished with mock pleasantry. "You look good enough to eat." Another man followed him into the room. Tattooed and pierced, scars crisscrossed his face. He looked as dangerous as the razorblades he wore like jewelry. He chuckled at Benjamin's humorless joke. Is this Valentine? No. He's too flush, too alive. Human. "I'm not ready to kill you yet. Come back later," Ink said, defiantly meeting the vampire's gaze. Benjamin's mouth slid into one of his Cheshire smiles. Behind him, the thug laughed. In the plain light, the vampire was handsome, with long black hair and a terrible, beautiful face. His eyes were brimming with malicious anticipation. Sudden fear, like ice water, ran down her spine. "Where's Terry?" "He's off for the night. Why? Do you think he'd help you?" Benjamin asked, his smile unwavering. "Sierra will be back soon. She..." Benjamin laughed. "Who do you think told me where to find you?" Ink didn't want to believe that. She wouldn't have. "You don't believe me. That's precious. You would have made a perfect Julian. You have no idea what it means to be a vampire. We're not human. Humans mean nothing to us. We play with you and we eat you. Speaking of which," he paused, bringing his right hand to his mouth. He bit down and then held a bleeding finger out toward Ink. She scowled, as much at his offer as her own urge to accept it. "We're going to have so much fun together," he said, smiling. "You can live through a lot, Indigo, and I can always wipe the slate clean and start over." His words conjured images -- images of Felicity, tortured and dying. Rage broke the iron grip of her fear. "You better kill me, Benjamin," she spat. "Because I promise, whatever the punishment is for breaking that that law, it'll be merciful compared to what I'll do. I know how to wipe the slate clean too." Benjamin's companion laughed. The vampire did not. If anything, he seemed amused by the threat. "I will make your turning fast seem like a happy memory. You better kill me." That wiped away the Cheshire smile. So, I was right. They're all Barcids. No wonder they're all such monsters. Knowing the horrors he'd endured did nothing to abate her hatred. Benjamin's mouth twitched, one corner curling upward "This is Alvo," he said, indicating the other man. "He'll be watching over you. He thinks you're very pretty." The thug grunted his agreement. "You're going to want Alvo to be happy with you. If he's not happy, it'll make me unhappy. If that happens, I'll devote an entire night to playing with that little girl you used to live with." The vampire's mocking smile returned accompanied by a low, rumbling chuckle. "Felicity?" Ink blurted. He's lying. She felt dizzy and fought back the urge to vomit. "She's..." "Alive? Yes. She is deliciously alive. Did someone say otherwise? How sadistic of them!" Ink didn't know where to hope it was true or pray that it wasn't. "You're lying. I saw the blood." "A liar?" He asked, feigning injury. "I would hate to think that you held such a lowly opinion of me. I'll tell you what, Indigo. I'll leave you and Alvo to get to know each other better. When I get back, if you've made him happy, I'll show you proof. Sound like a deal?" So, this is it, Ink thought. This is where I become a monster too. She forced herself to slide suggestively off of the bed, all the while locking eyes with Alvo. She nodded slowly. "You'd better hurry," she said, recreating the flirtatious smile she'd given Sierra earlier. "I make boys like this one happy very, very fast." Benjamin's smile waxed suspicious as Ink stalked towards her new handler. When she reached him, Ink took a fistful of Alvo's hair and pressed her mouth hard into his. The man tasted like whiskey and cigarettes. His rough, eager hands grabbed her by the waist as he answered the kiss with his own. After a moment, Ink pulled back, allowing the man to kiss and bite at her neck. "Run along, little vampire," she said to Benjamin. With a bemused snort, the vampire took a step backwards, turned, and left. Now I just need a few minutes to make sure he's gone. Snaking her hand between them, Ink worked at Alvo's belt and zipper. She found him hard, his shaft lined with studded piercings. His hands groped at her breasts as she stroked him, panting with manufactured passion. When he tried to push her away, towards the bed, Ink sank to her knees and took him in her mouth. He shuddered as she worked. "We can't do it in here," she said, releasing him. "Sierra would be furious if she found out we did it in her special room. I want you so bad, I don't know if I care. What can she do to us, right?" she asked, kissing the tip of him. Take the bait, Alvo. The handler squirmed uncomfortably. "We better not. She's fucking crazy," he said. "Mmmm..." Ink said around him and then stood, tucking him away. "Come with me then. I know a place," Ink opened the door and crossed the hallway. Alvo followed obediently. Kissing him again, Ink opened the door and backed into the room, kicking the door closed behind them. The bedroom was dark, save for the flickering light of a single, bedside candle... To be continued: Next: Indigo Ink -- Part 5: Bound Indigo Ink Ch. 05 Author's Note: This is part five in a vampire erotica series - complete with all the tropes associated with that genre (mesmerism, blood, mild violence). If you are disturbed by these, please do not read further. This series is more story than sex, so if you're looking for a quick romp, this probably isn't for you. Indigo Ink Ch. 05 By the time the other handlers arrived, the sharp tang of metal on concrete echoed in the ballroom. A rifle butt to the back of her head silenced it.