The Official Website of Karen E. Taylor
(author, dreamer, red-headed stepchild)
Still in progress, but coming soon!
the vampire legacy series
After the kiss, I buried my face in his neck. Now, I thought as I heard the blood pulse in his veins, Oh, please, now.
I nipped him at first, savoring the moment, my low moans echoed by his. Then when my teeth grew longer and sharper, I could hold back no longer. I bit him brutally, tapping the artery and was rewarded by the flow of his blood: hot, salty and bitter. He shuddered violently and fought to push me away, but his resistance was futile. Finally his struggles ceased and his body grew limp as I continued to draw on him, gently now, almost tenderly. I drank a long time, slowly, relishing the feel of my own body being replenished, then I withdrew.
Arising from the couch, I caught sight of myself in the mirror. No longer pale and haggard, my skin glowed with life and my eyes shone, victorious and demonic. A few drops of blood were trickling down my chin; I wiped them away with the back of my hand and turned from my reflection in disgust.
Hungry. The human scent of Sam still lingered in my nostrils. Oh, God, I was so hungry. I wanted to live the word, wanted to glut myself on blood, any blood. And as that thought took hold, so did the hunger, a blinding, burning-red wall that loomed before me, cutting me off from the rest of the world. There was, at that moment, no one who loved me and no one whom I loved. Nothing existed but a raging hunger, gnawing my stomach, and the hot wild visions of teeth tearing flesh.
I stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk, forcing the crowd of evening pedestrians to swear and part around me. My eyes were closed, fists clenched so tightly that my nails dug deeply into the flesh of my palm. I centered on the pain, smelled the rich warm scent of blood dripping onto the concrete under my feet.
Concrete, I thought scornfully, what business did I have here, in this city, surrounded by concrete and glass and steel? A hunter was what I was: predator and creature of the night. I craved clear night skies and wide forests to run, with wild, swift and velvet-skinned prey to pursue through the evening shadows.
Deep shudders shook my body and I seemed to close in around myself, sinking to the sidewalk, flames of pain shooting through me. The calls for help that rose in my throat became guttural growls on the way and I felt the startled shock of the pedestrians surrounding me, scented their fear and their flesh, heard the tearing of cloth as it ripped away from my limbs. A small human voice cried out in the back of my skull. "No!"
The shimmering figure in the mirror is little more than a girl. Sitting before the reflection, she brushes her lustrous blond hair and studies her pouting image. Finally, satisfied with the results, she rises from the vanity stool and, with a flirtatious shrug, drops the white satin robe from her shoulders. The girl's skin is almost as white as the clothes she sheds; perfect and unblemished, it glows in the flicker of many candles.
She runs long, delicate fingers over her breasts and thighs, giving a high-pitched, tingling laugh at the shivery sensations the touch brings. The mirror reveals her as young and succulent, a girl only beginning to wake to the mysteries of life, lips yet unkissed and a body still only dreaming of the passion that awaits her.
Deeper in the reflection lies a huddled mass of bed clothes, underneath which rests the young lover chosen for this special evening; chosen for his strength, the curl of his dark hair, and the blue of his eyes. It was the eyes that had decided her on this man; the way they watched her over a glass of wine, the way they burned into hers. It is time, she knows, long past time, and he will be the one.
The girl smiles at herself in the mirror one last time, knowing she should not, knowing there are reasons to shun her reflection. Mirrors, she has learned, should never be trusted. Still, she looks on herself and smiles.
But you must know, mon amie, the mirror lies, for the girl's reflection changes and a demon grins back at her. The lips curl and snarl, the teeth sharpen to fangs, the eyes glow with lust and hunger.
The mirror lies and the mirror will always lie; I know, for I am she in the mirror. My name is Vivienne Courbet and I am no girl.
Like countless others before him, my youthful lover is deceived by an innocence lost over three hundred years ago, yet still perfectly preserved in my face and body. And although he will not have the virginal conquest he expected, rest assured he will be more than compensated for the blood he gives to sustain my evil, unnatural and wonderful life.
Tom took me in his arms as the band began playing a slow song and we danced. Laying my head against his chest, listening to his heart beat, I hid my triumphant smile. Finally, something familiar. I was remembering. It turned out to be as simple as being in an accustomed situation, meeting people similar to those I’d interacted with in the past. I knew now that there had been many men in my life, not lovers, but donors. And that Max had often arranged for me to meet them. Here in this club.
With each step of the dance, I inhaled the smell of the man pressed up against me, remembering the sweet touch of blood on my lips, on my tongue, the tingling of my gums with the growth of my fangs.
Soon, I would take this man by the hand and lead him to a quiet room. I would slowly unbutton his shirt and welcome the warmth of his hands on my body. My eyes would meet his and hold him there; slowly and sensuously, my mouth would whisper the words of seduction, then come down on his neck and I would drink my fill . . .