Highway to Hell [Master]

[Finley Prim]

Finley was told to wait, and forced to gulp; she swallowed the bile that had already started to rise as a lump in her throat, the taste of it causing her to wretch once more. That hand of hers, so smooth with its nails painted their bright red, lifted to cover her rouge-smeared lips. Even as they stumbled across the threshold, she could hardly hold on; splatters of vomit seeped through her fingers, one small mouthful worth. But it was then that she was lowered, and it indeed was her knees that she fell to. The runaway bride curled in on herself, the dress not allowing for much movement otherwise.

Although she should have been asking so many questions, instead she grasped for the vase – unaware of its age of value – and released the contents of her stomach. There wasn’t much food there. Bits and pieces of snacks mixed in with alcohol. Lots and lots of alcohol. The vomit was a chunky kind of amber, mixed through with an acrid green, a few shades of yellow. Not at all pretty, no matter what your view on beauty might be. Even if imperfect things have their own kind of allure, this was just all kinds of wrong.

Finley was only vaguely aware of the body behind her, which exuded no warmth. Instinct warned her that she was somewhere she didn’t recognise, with someone she did not know. The knowledge sat at the back of her mind, a warning ready to be unleashed. For the moment, however, she was far too preoccupied by her aim – trying only to vomit in the vase and not all the way around it. She was of course aware of her dirty hands, of the way it smeared the side of the vase, and the floor which she momentarily clawed at to keep her balance.

Although she was in the process of emptying her stomach of any remnant of alcohol she had swallowed that night, she was still dizzy. A headache was beginning to form at her temples, but it was the kind of headache that was numbed until the effects of the alcohol were to wear off. Except, Finley’s whole body felt numb. Her vision was blurred. Although she’d been floating on a cloud for the last few hours, now she was coming crashing back down to the ground. She’d taken a dive from a cliff and her psyche was split – one half of her ready to leap out of her own body and watch her own gruesome death with a detached kind of interest, and the other half screaming because, well – it was about to be smashed open on the rocks below.

She could feel her heart in her chest, beating at a rate that could not possibly be normal; slamming so hard against her chest she thought that if she was to rip the dress from her body, she’d see her ribs vibrating in time with her racing heart. It hurt. There was something wrong. Something…

”…oh” she gasped. No. She groaned, before she wretched again. It was only bile, now, burning its way up her throat. This wasn’t normal. It was too early for this. Too early for the hangover to start. The nausea – regardless of the upside-down trip from the car. This felt like a drug. And if it was the wrong kind…

”M’allergic,” she said, gasping for breath. Who’d done it? One of those sleaze-bags back at the pub. Hadn’t one of them been angrier than the others when she’d been saved, and taken away? A waste of a perfectly good roofie.

She reared backwards and started to tear at her dress. How the **** did this thing come off?! Oh, she hoped it was just a panic attack, but it didn’t feel like it. No, it felt like that time as a child when the doctor’s had given her that drug for that death-flu – the drug that was supposed to make everything better but made everything worse instead. The one that her body had rejected. And now someone had slipped it to her. And she felt like she was dying.

Get it off, she screamed. Except she didn’t scream, just gargled, murmured, growled as she clawed at the lace. There it was again – that one half of her body soaring, thinking the removal of the dress would solve all her problems, slightly bemused. The other, trapped and smothered by this child that only wanted to pull it under, all reason and common sense completely snuffed.

[Stonehouse]

Grabbing hold of a beautiful woman’s hair, using the flowing locks like reins to bring a feisty mare under control, was usually an extremely pleasurable experience for Stonehouse. However, when the thoroughbred filly in question was hurling her guts up, creating ungodly noises that would wake the dead, the scenario wasn’t quite as appealing. The pungent odour of the acidic vomit almost burned the tiny nasal hairs of the chivalrous gentleman as he crouched beside the trembling bride, keeping loose blonde strands away from her sticky mouth with his nimble fingers. It was as if he’d snorted napalm.

“Jesus, woman,” exclaimed Stonehouse, shaking his head as he attempted to prevent an ironic snigger from escaping through his curled lips, “just how much did you drink?”

Releasing another jet of bile, clearly scraping the bottom of the barrel that was her stomach in spasm, the wobbling woman in white suddenly stumbled backwards. Her pasty face looked as pale as her wedding dress, as she attempted to speak, mumbling a few incoherent words while saliva dribbled down her chin. Clumsy hands tried to claw at her bridal gown, as if she were trying to rip it off her quivering body like a snake attempting to shed its skin. Stonehouse mopped the face of his unexpected visitor, displaying rather uncharacteristic paternal traits, with his already grubby handkerchief. He looked at the soiled dress, noting how incredibly tight it looked as it clung to her chest.

“Come here, Sweetheart,” said Stonehouse sympathetically, “let me help you with this. Then you need to have a lie down and get some rest.”

Dodging a pair of flailing arms as they tugged at the back of the ivory dress, Stonehouse began to unpick the intricate corsetry of the elegant garment. In her rush to remove her silky straightjacket, the bumbling bride had knotted the threads in a way a boy scout could only dream about.

“Bloody hell,” announced Stonehouse with a rather frustrated tone to his voice, “I’m not sure that even Houdini could escape from this!”

Supporting the bride in one arm as she gasped for air, the restrictive dress giving her an unwanted bear hug, Stonehouse leaned towards the smooth skin of the blonde’s shoulder blades. Razor sharp canines extended outward from his gums, acting as tiny knives, allowing his skilled mouth to slice through the laces with consummate ease. His lips gently glazed the exposed creamy skin of the attractive woman, letting the vampire sneak the briefest of tastes. For a moment, Stonehouse was distracted, her scent arousing an inner urge deep inside of him.

“Not today, mate,” Stonehouse told himself aloud, “not this one, not now. No birds with broken wings.”

Regaining his focus, the somewhat restrained Englishman continued with the task at hand. Stooping low to the floor, Stonehouse once again draped the drunk, in her state of semi-undress, over his broad shoulder, and carried her into his master bedroom. The room’s decor was minimalistic, comprised of a couple of large wooden wardrobes, a matching chest of drawers, and two bedside cabinets nestling up to the left and right side of the huge king-sized bed. Mirrors were irrelevant to Stonehouse, but a silver-framed full-length offering hung on the wall, a constant reminder that he no longer owned a reflection.

Like a doting parent placing a baby into its crib, Stonehouse gently rested the spluttering bride onto the thick, comforting purple duvet that adorned his place of slumber. Weren’t vampires supposed to sleep in coffins, or was that simply Hollywood lying to its gullible audiences? He carefully resumed his task of peeling away the restrictive dress, revealing the beautiful, toned body encased within, her modesty still spared from the male’s inquisitive eyes by luxurious bridal underwear. Victoria would be keeping no secrets from the tall, handsome gentleman. Stonehouse screwed up his face as he looked at the slightly swollen feet of the blonde. Her expensive shoes that had been such a struggle to get back on, dug into her flesh like exquisite barbed wire. He really should have left them off earlier in the evening.

Stonehouse paused, allowing his dark, shining eyes to roam freely across the semi-naked blonde lying on his bed. Although he was physically a vampire, with cool, shadowy blood filling his arteries and veins, mentally he was still a red-blooded man. A gorgeous woman in skimpy underwear and heels was a slice of fantasy, and such a vision was always going to tap into Stonehouse’s special place.

“Focus, you Muppet,” said Stonehouse, chastising himself once again for allowing his male mind to sail off course. "Some unlucky soul has really missed out on a treat tonight, but it's not you."

Unclasping the straps to her scuffed bridal footwear, tossing the shoes across the carpeted floor, Stonehouse rolled the chuntering woman onto her side. There was the distinct possibility that she could throw up again at any time, and Stonehouse certainly didn’t want a Jimi Hendrix situation on his hands. As he placed his hands on her clammy body, he noticed how hot the blonde felt, as if she had developed a fever. She continued to mumble under her breath, almost as if she were trying to tell him something, but couldn’t quite spit it out. She seemed to be drifting in and out of consciousness, like a light bulb flickering before the element finally gives way. It was obvious that the woman was inebriated from her alcoholic excesses, but there was something else at work here, something more sinister.

Stonehouse stretched her delicate mascara-clad eyelids, like the wings of a butterfly, wide apart, gazing into the bloodshot orbs inside. Her pupils seemed a little too dilated for Stonehouse’s liking. He was no doctor, but the businessman had spent enough time working in and around hospitals to know a few basics. His strong hand stroked her bare arm; she wasn’t just hot, she was burning up. Instinctively, Stonehouse grabbed the woman’s slender wrist and checked her pulse. It seemed weak, her blood pressure apparently very low.

“Oh, ****!” exclaimed Stonehouse. “What else have you taken?”

There was no time to waste. In a flash, Stonehouse scooped up the limp body, and rushed into the bathroom, plonking the shivering bride rather unceremoniously on the tiled floor of his spacious shower cubicle. Reaching upwards, Stonehouse twisted the metallic knobs, causing the power shower to erupt into life. Cascades of water lashed down upon the couple while Stonehouse cradled the coughing, intoxicated blonde, holding her like he would if she were his child.

[Finley Prim]

They say that a person’s life flashes before their eyes when they die. In Finley’s case, it wasn’t untrue. Like any human being, like any hot-blooded animal, her instinct fought for survival. If she muttered and mumbled, she didn’t know what she was saying. It could have been something about calling an ambulance. It could have been curses at that ******** who’d slipped that drug into her drink. Or she could have been begging for life; she was still far too young to die, and what had she achieved in her short lifetime? Nothing. She’d always been grasping at straws, grasping for something better, something more than what she was.

They weren’t anything more than ants in an anthill. Rats in a rat race. Humanity scurried to and fro, many believing in some higher power – whether that be a god or gods, or science. They believed in furtherance of their kind. They reached into the deep seas, and stretched their arms and their minds into outer space. Those were the special ones. The majority, however, didn’t have the liberty to reach for anything. They didn’t care about space. They didn’t care about the latest scientific discoveries, and they didn’t believe in any god because why should they? Would omniscient being would ever leave their creation to this kind of… drudgery? Poverty, war, dirt and delusion. Money had become their god. Money, and power. With money and power, anyone could achieve anything.

Money was what Finley had grasped for. It was a way out of the slum of her life. It was a way into security, and comfort. That’s all her life had been. Although there were a few gems, a few good memories of great times, most of her memories consisted of anxiety and stress, the hope for something better, something more. She’d wasted so much time searching for utopia that she’d forgotten to enjoy the life she had. And now it was too late to change.

Finley wasn’t entirely aware of being moved. If she was, she might have complained about being hiked over the guy’s shoulder again, like a sack of potatoes. As it was, she grunted and groaned, pain spiking through her abdomen and chest as her heartrate became more erratic. If she remembered any of this, the way he carried her around might have earned him a slap. Didn’t he know how to carry a woman? Any woman could tell him that she’d prefer to be carried in both arms, face up, cradled, rather than unceremoniously tossed over a shoulder.

As it was, she probably wouldn’t remember. She wasn’t even aware of the dress being removed, revealing underneath the matching lace underwear; a strapless bra holding her modest chest, underwear clipped by garters holding up the sheer cream stockings.

The fever soon took hold, wracking the frail body as her jaw locked and her eyes continuously tried to roll back into her head. If she understood what was being asked of her, she might have screamed. She was a drunk, sometimes – she liked a good drink – but drugs were not her thing. Some prick did this. Some asshole who’s dick she’d like to rip clean from his groin. That’s what he was intending on using against her. He wanted her in this state so she couldn’t fight back; so that she might not even remember. Little did he know that he’d have been using a dead woman.

When the stream of water hit her, Finley gasped, sucking in air. Though every time she breathed, her chest felt like it was on fire. At least she didn’t feel like she was being strangled any more. At least her eyes were now open, wide, her fingers grasping at the sopping clothing of the man who held her.

She might have imagined a gasp for help. She may or may not have pulled that singular word from her throat, croaked it out like a frog spitting up a bad bug. Not that it would have mattered if an ambulance were called. They probably wouldn’t make it in time. If she’d opened her mouth to speak, it now slammed shut with the force of the seizure that took hold of her body; her pearly whites but deep into her own tongue, blood spilling out the corner of her lip as her body jolted and jerked. Nobody forced onto death’s door wants to die. But sometimes, they just don’t have a choice.

[Stonehouse]

“Gettin’ married to the Devil, you can hear the wedding bells.”

~The Pretty Reckless~

The warm, electrically powered waterfall crashed onto Stonhouse’s head, turning him into nothing more than a drowned rat after mere seconds. Clothes were not important, life was all that mattered, and the sands of time were being washed away at a rapid pace, eroded via some kind of poison. The infinite droplets of shower water glistened on the smooth skin of the bride, like a veil of diamonds, complementing the gemstone that twinkled in her engagement ring. It must have cost a pretty penny, but it was worthless in comparison to the precious gift of life.

Stonehouse slung a damp arm around her slender waist and yanked her body backwards, performing the Heimlich manoeuver in the hope of clearing her airways. He knew that she wasn’t choking, but the tall Englishman was willing to try anything. Ironically, his actions seemed to make the situation worse. Limbs began to flail uncontrollably as the mysterious blonde’s beautiful body began to shake. Convulsions, indicating that her condition was dire, continued, causing the despairing damsel to bite her own tongue. The sight of blood strengthened Stonehouse’s will to rescue her from the approaching abyss, but he was running out of options.

Stonehouse no longer believed in God. His faith has been torn away, stripped and discarded following the death of his mother, but for this one desperate second, he prayed. He prayed that the refreshing cascades of soothing rain pouring down on the shivering body of the soaking bride would in some way revitalize her, renew her existence like the baptismal waters in a cathedral font. But this was no fountain of endless youth, and Stonehouse was not John the Baptist. He wasn’t a prophet for the Messiah, paving the way for the journey towards eternal life; he was a vampire, an immortal bloodsucking creature of nightmares.

Suddenly, as if the showerhead had begun to shoot bullets of inspirational genius directly into Stonehouse’s panicking brain, a theory so crazy that it simply had to be true penetrated deep within the scientist’s core. He was immortal. His whole body was a fountain of youth, filled with a rich elixir of delicious blood that afforded him limitless life and rejuvenation. Stonehouse was the reincarnation of John the Baptist, and he needed to christen the blonde with his unholy oil.

Leaning down, Stonehouse cradled the head of the dying woman, her eyes bulging as she struggled to inhale any dregs of air, tiny capillaries ready to burst. He kissed her quivering lips in an overblown, extravagant fashion, tasting tiny droplets of her luscious blood that had spilled from her tongue, fuelling his passion and determination for his hypothesis to work.

“I’ve got you, Sweetheart,” he yelled with exuberant optimism, “I can save you. I know I can save you.”

Stonehouse was flying by the seat of his saturated pants. He had no real idea how to execute his spontaneous plan, but he knew that failure was not an option. He had to succeed, or the bride was heading for a honeymoon in Hell.

Gazing into the heavily dilated pupils of the pasty-faced woman, Stonehouse gouged a wound into his wrist with the piercing edges of the diamonds that adorned her engagement ring. Smoky black blood spurted from the gash, coating the pale face of the feeble female like the baptismal oil at a church christening, anointing her with obsidian shadows. The gushing waters from above rinsed and cleansed her skin, dispersing the wispy fluid that was still oozing from the open cut on Stonehouse’s arm.

“Bollocks!” muttered Stonehouse under his frustrated breath. “This isn’t going to work, not this way.”

It was time for a more direct approach. Maybe she needed to ingest the quenching juice; maybe the patient needed force-feeding? Sadly, Stonehouse had not read any manuals on the subject. Bringing his squirting wrist to the trembling lips of the bride - that were now turning a worrying shade of purple - Stonehouse almost rammed his flesh into her face. Subtlety was now completely out of the window as the situation was clearly critical, yet the almost lifeless, limp lady seemed not to care any more. She was unresponsive, drifting into an ocean of oblivion.

“Jesus, woman,” begged Stonehouse, “just put it in your mouth and suck!”

Stonehouse was normally the personification of coolness under pressure, but not now, not in this scenario. The gauge was spinning out of control and the gasket was going to blow. Stonehouse’s belief in God and Heaven may well have been destroyed years ago, but he’d seen enough evil and destruction in his life, especially recently in Harper Rock, to hold a firm conviction in the existence of Hell. If this crazy plan didn’t succeed, then the prophetic woman who, earlier in the evening, was standing on a table singing “Highway to Hell” was about to commence her final journey. She was going to die and become another of Satan’s unwilling brides. She was going to Hell.

[Finley Prim]

Finley was unaware of being tossed around like a ragdoll. She was riding away on waves of darkness; the current fluctuated between blissful numbness and searing pain. That pain was evident in the way her body flailed unintentionally, her eyes so wide because she was fighting against the darkness that kept trying to creep in from the edges. The water, at least, had managed to keep her awake; it had managed to divert her focus. Her body fought against the allergy that would eventually kill it. Every human instinct to survive had kicked in.

And yet, when the man shouted his last words, it wasn’t just desperation that had her biting into his flesh. With uncanny energy her jaw clenched, dull teeth tearing the already existing wound a little wider. Maybe it had something to do with memory; maybe it was just the last dregs of her attitude coming out to play. Men, and their ******* way with words. Put it in your mouth and suck! Hadn’t she heard that once before? The unfortunate soul who’d thought to command her in such a crass way had ended up in hospital, poor doctors trying to stitch the woeful nub of his ruined penis back into its proper shape. Finley had not sucked. She had used her teeth, and he’d felt the full fury of her feminist rage. Finley was prepared to please men in all kinds of ways if they deserved it. If they demanded she put it in her mouth and suck, however, as if she were there only to be on her knees for them, they could go to hell with a broken penis.

Honestly? Finley’s faith in mankind was so low that she assumed some asshole had drugged her and dragged her back to his place. In the back of her mind, she was dying and all he could think about was fellatio. Could he not see she was on death’s door?

The taste of the blood that her gnashing teeth helped to procure, however, was unlike any blood she had tasted before. It wasn’t as if she made a habit of going around and biting men’s penises off, but every human knew what blood tasted like, even if it was only their own. This was… heady. It was sweet and yet savoury. It was so alive, and yet there was a necrotic undertone. This was like cough medicine for the hopeless. And it was so ******* good.

As soon as it hit her tongue she swallowed. She couldn’t help it. It should have made her gag, the thought of swallowing blood, but instead, she swallowed again. And again, and again. She gulped like a babe who’d had no milk since birth. And this milk was life-giving. It was almost as if her body, despite the objections of her mind, understood that this cruor would save her life. And yet, it was not coagulated blood. It was not old, or stale. It was smooth, and sharp. A low moan rumbled, husky, reverberated from her chest, her spasming body soon curling around whatever source was providing her with this milk. Her fingers, nail polish still completely intact, clutched at the arm, the wrist. She drank, and she drank, like she would never ever stop.

That was until the knife struck her gut. Deep it went, and it twisted. Finley gasped and coughed, black wisps of blood spilling from her lips like acrid smoke. Instead of clutching at the providing wrist, she clutched and clawed at her stomach, searching for the blade. And yet, there was none.

A shout erupted from her tongue as yet another knife stabbed her just beneath the ribs, curled in tight like the worst kind of heartburn. Her whole body was on fire and she couldn’t breathe, stars dancing behind her eyes. She couldn’t be aware of anything else but the pain – not the shower, not the man cradling her. This was a different kind of death. She gagged as if she were going to throw up but nothing came out. She’d already thrown up all the contents of her stomach. But her body was rejecting whatever was there, anyway. Any skerrick of leftover food or alcohol was being purged from her organs as they all shut down, one by one.

Finley’s shouts were interspersed with sobs. What the **** was happening?!

[Stonehouse]

“**** me!” exclaimed an exuberant Stonehouse. “It’s working!”

A radiant smile burst into life across Stonehouse’s worried face, his beaming grin on the brink of creating a huge rainbow of joy as it reacted with the cascading droplets of shower water. His crazy plan was working; it was actually doing the trick. And what a trick! Forget pulling a fluffy white rabbit out of a magician’s top hat, the soaking wet sorcerer had seemingly dragged life out of the black hole of death. The warming shower really was like a cathedral, and the dying bride had been brought to its altar, ready to be immersed in the rejuvenating blood flowing from Stonehouse’s fountain of youth.

Like a nomad who had been wandering aimlessly in the desert of nightmares, on the verge of deadly dehydration, the blonde bride had stumbled across a rich oasis of thirst-quenching water. But this water was unlike anything else that she had ever tasted before. The elixir of eternal life was irresistible, lining the parched tongue and throat of the greedy woman like liquid velvet as she guzzled down the tangy juice.

Teeth, even whiter than her discarded bridal dress, dug into Stonehouse’s wrist, ensuring that not a single drop of intoxicating blood was wasted. Fingers wrapped around his forearm like an octopus engulfing its prey, clamping the flesh of Stonehouse’s limb tightly to the blonde’s full, red lips. She drank, furiously, like a suckling baby, milking his onyx blood into her arid mouth, feeding her insatiable craving.

Stonehouse cradled her head, stroking the saturated blonde locks of the young woman’s hair as his dazzling eyes gazed down in amazement while she gulped back his potent potion. The water shimmered on her creamy skin, as if she was being filled with energy that caused her to glow like an early morning sun. How was he supposed to react to this unholiest of communions? Was this normal within the vampire community? Could this be how he had become a creature of the night all those months ago? There were more questions than answers, but for now at least, Stonehouse appeared to have solved the first dilemma – how to save his new “friend”.

Suddenly, a guttural growl, like the sound of rolling thunder, erupted from the lips of the startled bride as she jerked away from the weeping wound on Stonehouse’s wrist. She clutched at her chest as if a powerful bolt of lightning had crashed into her ribcage, almost choking on her own ungodly screams.

“No!” yelled Stonehouse, as a look of panic shot across his chiselled face. “Don’t let me down now!”

The businessman’s first thought was to shove his oozing wrist back between her lips, to force her to drink more, after all, his plan had been going perfectly. Her immediate coughing and spluttering alerted Stonehouse to the fact that he was no longer helping the bride; he was actually harming her. His blood wasn’t some kind of magical concoction that would rescue the blonde from death’s door; it was a poison, corroding away at her body from the inside like caustic acid.

Stonehouse stared hopelessly into the eyes of the bride, eyes that only a few second earlier had been radiant like stars but were now akin to the dying embers of a burned out fire. He could sense the life draining out of the innocent woman, as if the Devil himself had pulled the plug on her soul. She gasped for air, desperately clinging on to her very existence while the icy fingers of death clawed at her, shredding her apart, inch by inch.

“Come on, Sweetheart, please,” begged Stonehouse as he squeezed the trembling woman, her skin cool as gooseflesh corrupted her silky smooth exterior, “fight it!”

His pleas were in vain. Stonehouse watched in despair as the beautiful girl’s convulsions gently subsided, and her limbs slumped to her sides as her slender body become limp in his strong arms.

Stonehouse may well have wept, but the relentless rain of shower water would have instantly washed away any tears from his soured face. He sat there, crumpled in a heap on the wet tiled floor, for what seemed like an eternity, caressing the porcelain skin of the bride’s cheeks as her lifeless body remained draped across his lap. An hour or so ago, the vibrant woman was dancing on tables while wearing her gorgeous wedding dress, singing her heart out to a rowdy crowd, full of vitality. Now she was pale, virtually naked, and alone, except for the pathetic “friend” who had allowed her soul to slip away into the endless abyss. Summer had become winter; warm sunshine had given away to a frozen blizzard.

Eventually, Stonehouse arose from his watery tomb, carrying the still body of the blonde close to his chest, the remnants of her mascara marking his shirt. He left a trail of water in his wake as he took her into his bedroom, carefully placing her onto the king sized bed, delicately drying her soft skin with a fluffy towel. He paused, leaning down to place a sorrowful kiss upon her forehead.

“I’m so sorry,” he said meekly, “please forgive me.”

Stonehouse wanted to address her by her name, but he wasn’t sure if the bride had actually mentioned it. He wasn’t really sure about anything. He probably wouldn’t be able to recall his own name if anybody should ask.

Wrapping the motionless blonde in the towel, like a newborn baby in old-fashioned swaddling clothes, Stonehouse hung his head and slowly retreated from the bedroom, closing the door behind him and leaning upon it. He sighed, deeply, as he brought his hands to his face, the picture of abject failure.

Wandering into the lounge like a lumbering zombie, Stonehouse approached his bountiful drinks cabinet. An ironic smile momentarily crept across his chin as he plucked out a half full bottle of rum from the wooden cupboard.

“I guess that I did have some rum,” he muttered as he unscrewed the cap.

Relaxing on his brown leather sofa, Stonehouse brought the bottle to his cool lips. He knew full well that he’d be violently ill if he nailed back the spicy liquid, but he didn’t care, he didn’t care at all.

[Finley Prim]

Finely was hyperventilating; the oxygen wasn’t getting to her brain. Her lungs were no longer working. The pain rocketed its way around every limb, through every nerve, until finally the body couldn’t take it anymore. Dead. That was her last thought. She was dead. Why hadn’t she just stayed at the wedding?! Death was not a better alternative.

In death, she did not breathe. In death, she didn’t even dream. There were no white lights; there were no shadows, no fiery depths of hell (because, let’s be honest, it’d be the latter that would greet Finley, if there was a heaven and hell). There was absolutely nothing. If Finley had her senses, she’d have been terrified. But she was right where she needed to be. She – the soul, the spirit of Finley Prim – was safe inside the now clean, dead body. A body that was slowly sobering up, mending itself, completing the cycle of death and rebirth. A body that had shut down and locked Finley’s consciousness away in a box of silent, numb darkness until the process was finished. It was a way to help her to survive.

When she did finally open her eyes she sucked in a deep, ragged breath. Although her lungs expanded with it, they didn’t burn. Her tongue moved around her mouth, swallowing excess spit. It tasted bitter. It tasted like vomit. It felt like cotton wool. Although her lungs didn’t burn, her throat did. Her gums throbbed, like one hell of a toothache. Except it wasn’t just one tooth, it was two. Three. Four? Two, maybe. She couldn’t tell. When she lifted her thumb to her mouth, her arm felt too light. Feathery. Her body felt strange, unhindered. Free. When she rolled from the bed, however, her head near split in half with a migraine that had been lurking just off the sildelines.

A hangover, maybe? What the **** had happened? She couldn’t remember anything beyond the bar. She remembered dancing on the bar. She remembered … did she remember getting off of the bar? She groaned as her fingers pushed through her hair. It was still damp. Had she showered? She soon ascertained that she was wearing the same underwear she’d put on that morning… except, it was still night time. Was it the same night? How long had she been passed out? God, but she was so ******* thirsty.

Slender fingers had hooked into the silk of the blankets beneath her. So smooth, and yet she thought she could feel every tiny little stitch. Her fingers were hypersensitive to it, so much so that she leaned over to rub her cheek against it, humming at the coolness of it. It was so tempting to just curl into the comfort and softness of it, to pull those blankets up over her head and let the darkness engulf her. Something snapped within her, however; that craving for darkness lasted only a nanosecond before she was sitting bolt upright again, wanting nothing to do with it.

A pink tongue ran over canines sharper than usual as her blue eyes widened. The lights weren’t on. All this time she thought she’d been sitting beneath the glow of a dim lamp, but there was no lamp. And yet she could make out everything in the room as if it were bathed in light. But, there was a glow seeping from under the door, and to this she gravitated. She didn’t hesitate to open the door, but she regretted it as soon as she did. The light burned her retinas and she hissed as she raised an arm to shield herself from it. In this way, looking as if she were being assaulted by the full force of the sun’s rays, she cautiously made her way out to the living room where she made out the silhouette of a man on the couch.

”What the **** kind of drug did you feed me? Did we sleep together?” she asked. She couldn’t even be angry. She’d gotten herself into these kinds of situations before. Hell, she was probably very very willing.

She was, of course, completely oblivious to anything untoward.

[Stonehouse]

Stonehouse was mentally exhausted. Thoughts were constantly running through his mind like thousands of competitors in the London Marathon, each pounding pair of heels crunching against the cold hard road of the circuit leaving the normally composed businessman both restless and shattered. The scenario repeated itself over and over again, a relentless record with its confused grooves being bombarded by a tormenting stylus. Just what had he gone and done?

Since his arrival in Harper Rock, Stonehouse had grown to accept that killing was par for the course; that some people simply had to die in order for others to exist. But this situation was different. The young woman didn’t have to die. Stonehouse didn’t have to intervene like some kind of shining white knight, rescuing the damsel in distress. Effectively, he had killed her, at least that’s what Stonehouse thought, that was the conclusion that had been drawn in his mind after what seemed like an eternity of contemplation. He didn’t have to assume the role of the fireman and drag the blonde from the proverbial burning building, he could have simply walked away and left her to catch fire. Sure, the drunken bride would have probably spent what should have been her wedding night getting fucked senseless by some greasy excuse for a man, but at least she’d have woken up the next morning, and not be lying dead in his bedroom. Better to feel like death warmed up with a bucketful of regrets, that to kick the bucket and actually be dead.

Stonehouse had no right to step in, to act like the perfect gentleman, the hero. But yet he couldn’t resist. Maybe it made him feel almighty and powerful, that sensation of strutting through the crowded bar like a show pony and walking away with the trophy for which half of the pub were craving? Maybe he simply liked the challenge, and enjoyed the theatre of the situation? Maybe, just maybe, there was an ounce of decency still left inside his darkened heart, and he thought that he should do the right thing?

The bottle of rum hadn’t really been touched. Stonehouse had initially taken a huge mouthful of the amber liquid, allowing the alcoholic warmth to radiate across his tongue, but he had hastily spat out the contents before swallowing a single drop. There was already a pungent odour of vomit wafting through the air of his apartment from the earlier escapades of the recently deceased bride without the need for another load erupting through the Englishman’s lips. Stonehouse maintained a tight grip on the neck of the glass bottle, holding it in the same way that a small child may handle a comfort blanket. The leather sofa on which he had slumped seemed to mould around Stonehouse’s body, supporting him in his hour of discomfort and need.

A genuinely unexpected voice, accompanied by the creaking of the living room door as it was shoved wide open, almost caused Stonehouse to jump out of his seat and send the contents of the bottle splashing across the floor. She was alive! Startled, like a timid rabbit caught in the headlights of an oncoming bus, Stonehouse spun around as he leapt to his feet. He stared at her, almost gawping in disbelief. The blonde looked a little dazed, but other than that she appeared to be remarkably healthy. Her skin, the vast majority of which was on full view of Stonehouse’s eagerly scanning eyes, looked virtually perfect.

It was fair to say that Stonehouse would normally have absolutely no hesitation in allowing his dark, sparkling eyes to roam freely over the body of a beautiful woman in nothing but skimpy bridal underwear, but this was definitely not a normal situation. It was as if his sister, Kate, had just got out of the shower and was standing in front of him. The blonde was like the wife, girlfriend, or sister of one’s best friend: you simply wouldn’t - couldn’t - go there. Nevertheless, Stonehouse couldn’t resist responding to the young woman’s question in his customary fashion.

“Did we sleep together?” replied Stonehouse. “There wasn’t much sleeping going on, Sweetheart. That thing you did with your tongue… wow, just wow.”

Stonehouse paused. Now was not the time to deliver cheap, corny lines.

“No,” he added swiftly, “we didn’t sleep together. I promise you. Just my bad joke. And there were no drugs, I swear it.”

A bad joke would probably sum up the situation quite nicely. Stonehouse had delivered the long build up, the meat of the story, but hadn’t exactly thought about the punch-line. Was the woman really alive, as in alive like a human, or was she technically dead, but a vampire like Stonehouse? The answer to the first part of the woman’s question held the key to this quandary. What kind of “drug” had he fed her? Was his blood really some kind of super-potent elixir that could restore life, or even give life? The pharmaceutical companies would be creaming their pants if they got hold of the secret formula!

Grabbing his jacket that had been dumped across a chair arm, Stonehouse moved, slowly, towards his confused guest.

“Are you cold?” he enquired. “Do you need to cover yourself up a little?”

Stonehouse needed to know if he crazy plan had succeeded. To all intents and purposes, it looked like it had. The woman was most certainly alive, but alive how? Suddenly, a plan popped into Stonehouse’s head. He couldn’t see his own reflection in any mirrors or reflective surfaces, so if she were the same as him, then surely she wouldn’t have a reflection either? It seemed like a logical plan, assuming, of course, that all vampires didn’t possess the mirror image of themselves that all humans took for granted. Stonehouse simply had to get the bride back into the bedroom, where a huge silver-framed mirror hung neatly on the wall. He’d be able to take a sneaky peek; she’d never know what he was doing. Perhaps he should have told the bride that they had slept together, and did she fancy a repeat performance? Instead, he’d have to adopt a more subtle approach.

“I have a few shirts in my wardrobe that you can borrow if you feel a little shy?” said Stonehouse in his most polite voice. “Come on, follow me, and I’ll explain everything.”

He beckoned the blonde bride to shuffle her way back into the bedroom as he gently placed a sympathetic hand on her exposed shoulder.

“Oh, and I’m Grant,” he added, “just in case you’d forgotten.”

[Finley Prim]

Finley didn’t even blink.

She should have – what she should have been thinking was how dare this asshole take advantage of me while I’m drunk?. Instead, in classic Finley fashion, she thought: He’s younger than my type. The ‘bad joke’ hadn’t horrified her; it hadn’t amused her, either, because she’d thought he was being completely honest. It wouldn’t have been surprising. In fact, it was the words that followed that Finley thought were the joke – that they hadn’t slept together, and there were no drugs. ********, no drugs. How could he account for how absolutely ratshit she felt, then? Or the fact that she still felt high?

The confusion didn’t abate. The stranger didn’t explain, then, why she was in his apartment. Well, she assumed it was his apartment; it was large, and it was well-kept. With her discerning eye, she could tell that it was expensive, and that one word made her mouth water. No explanation was forthcoming. Instead, he was overly concerned about her attire, about potential shyness. A low laugh rumbled in Finley’s throat as she went where ushered, a mild glance spared for the bridal underwear that… was it damp? Maybe he’d rescued her from the rain…

”I’m not shy, honey, but if you’re uncomfortable we can find me something to wear,” she drawled. Apparently, introductions had been made. Again, she had to laugh.

”Finley,” she said. If introductions had been made, she remembered nothing – including whether she’d given her own name. Was her purse around here, somewhere? He’d have been able to identify her if he’d gone rifling through it. How exactly had she wound up in his man’s den? It was a mystery. Finley loved mysteries. Back in the bedroom, she could now see a little better; she could see where she’d taken up space in the bed, and the way the sheets were still wet.

”As much as I love mysteries, though,” she started, momentarily forgetful that Grant was not privy to her inner dialogue, ”Really, I’d love you to explain. Why is my underwear wet? Is it raining outside?” she asked, sparing a glance over her shoulder, careful to go where she was being led. Movement in the corner of her eye caught her attention; at first she was startled, jumping a little in her skin, she winced as the pounding headache reminded her of its presence. There was no one else there, though – it was just her own reflection in the mirror.

”…Jesus,” she muttered, leaning closer to the glass, tugging at her lower eyelids and poking at her lips. ”I look like death,” she said. And it wasn’t an exaggeration. Unbeknownst to Finley, the mirror presented to her a dead body. A corpse, as it would look hours after death. An image that would get worse over time, but for now it still looked pretty grim. The skin had a blue tinge to it, the lips dry and cracked. The eyes were bloodshot, they had no life – the pallor was distinctly zombie-vogue. The more she looked at herself, the more Finley grew concerned.

”I really look ******* dead, man. What the **** happened to me?!” she blurted, voice rising in pitch.

[Stonehouse]

A few years after leaving university, armed with his psychology degree and a wallet full of disposable cash, Grant Stonehouse was happy to assume the role of wannabe playboy. The budding businessman’s relationship with Joanna Shaw, the only real love of his life, had crashed and burned, leaving Stonehouse to play the field. And play he did. He could have been up for the top scorer award, if such a trophy existed.

On one rather memorable occasion, the charmer had agreed to spend the weekend with an attractive, albeit slightly ditzy, blonde called Charlotte Harrison. The posh girl was nicknamed “Champagne Charlie” due to her love of the highlife and all things that sparkled and fizzed, and she viewed the up-and-coming entrepreneur as a potential meal ticket. Although Stonehouse craved intelligent conversation and witty banter, he was, at the end of the day, still a red-blooded male with a tendency to think with the contents of his pants as well as the contents of his skull. An opportunity to pop Champagne Charlie’s cork was simply too good to miss.

However, the manipulative young man had insisted upon one condition, a term of their weekend contract to which the shapely seductress had to adhere. In order for the blonde-haired beauty to be granted Stonehouse’s precious time, she had to agree to spend the entire weekend wearing nothing but the skimpy underwear that he’d bought for her. To be fair, Stonehouse’s taste in lingerie was impeccable, and he’d judged her measurements to perfection.

Champagne Charlie jumped at the chance, agreeing to the arrangement faster than mummy’s sporty cabriolet could carry her, sensing an opening to flaunt her goods and win the heart of the handsome character. How naïve. Needless to say, the walls around Stonehouse’s darkened heart were never going to crumble, and there was only ever going to be one outcome of this indecent proposal.

Stonehouse took everything that he wanted, and even claimed a few extras for free, before ditching the gullible Charlotte at the end of the weekend, tossing her aside like yesterday’s newspaper. She wasn’t the first, and she certainly wasn’t going to be the last, woman to be sucked in by Stonehouse’s smooth-talking ways, only to be discarded when he’d had his fill. Stonehouse enjoyed playing with toys, but he quickly grew tired of them, needing a new one to quench his appetite.

There was an interesting sting to this story’s tale, the scorpion hiding in the fluffy bathrobe. Once a thoroughly distraught Charlotte had stopped sobbing and wiped the smeared mascara from her pretty face, she promptly relayed the whole escapade to her doting elder brother, Ben. Known as “Big Ben” at his local rugby club due to the fact that the man mountain was 6’6” tall and built like an African bull elephant, Charlotte’s caring brother decided to dish out a bit of family retribution. Flanked by a couple of teammates, Ben dragged Stonehouse into a back-alley scrum, and administered a sound beating, with accompanying warning to leave his sister alone. The bruising encounter was, to say the least, a painful lesson.

Interestingly enough, the Photoshopped pictures of Ben that mysteriously appeared on Facebook a few weeks later, clearly showing the manly rugby player getting “up close and personal” with a colleague, were far more damaging to the giant’s reputation than any punch. Suddenly, the reason why Ben had been head boy at high school appeared to become more apparent. Who would do such a dastardly deed?

As Stonehouse stared at Finley, having finally learned her name, he wondered whether the potential pain of this latest hair-brained scheme involving an attractive woman in her underwear would be equally as intense. Had the self-confident gent bitten off more than he could chew?

Stonehouse prided himself on the fact that he was a learned man. He was a firm believer in the mantra of knowledge being power, and would attempt to assimilate as much information as his neural circuits would allow. The control freak liked to read, to study, to watch documentaries, anything that may afford him an edge over his competitors. Yet here he was, struggling to know exactly what to do, flapping in the breeze like a flag that belonged to a country with a population of just one.

Since his arrival, and unexpected extended stay, in Harper Rock, the once flamboyant socialite had effectively been alone, getting drawn further and further into the shadows by the claws of solitude. Stonehouse could almost feel that his former charismatic self was draining away slowly, as if there were tiny cracks in his shell that allowed his essence to seep out. His was no longer the true master of his own destiny, he lacked knowledge; he lacked power.

Stonehouse could go to the electrical store and buy a state of the art TV, with an instruction manual the thickness of War and Peace written in a seemingly infinite number of languages, but when it came to knowing about vampires, that was a totally different ball game. Stonehouse had barely worked out the On/Off switch, let alone the intricacies of life as bloodsucking immortal. There was no manual, no cheat sheet with hints and tips. To all intents and purposes, the ultra-organized professional was making it up as he went along.

He’d managed to somehow preserve the life of the blonde bride by feeding her his own immortal blood, but was that more a case of good fortune than actual skill? Just when the quick-thinking Englishman had thought that he had come up with a masterplan to explain what had transpired, by showing, or not showing, Finley her reflection, his hopes were dashed on the rocks of confusion. Two puzzles had emerged simultaneously, throwing Stonehouse’s plans clean out of the window. Firstly, the recently reawakened bride could see her reflection, which was something that Stonehouse had never managed to do. Secondly, according to the dazed woman, who to Stonehouse appeared positively radiant, she looked like death warmed up.

Despite his relative lack of understanding about the bodily mechanics of vampires, Stonehouse was at least aware of various differences that seemed to manifest themselves among the species, if species was the right word. Stonehouse was yet to decided whether vampires were just messed up humans, or a step up on the evolutionary ladder. Some vampires possessed strange mental capabilities, telepathic talents that could invade the head of unwilling subjects, while others seemed to harbour skills that made them fearsome hunters, deadly powers focussed on killing. Then there were the ones akin to Stonehouse, those with traits that allowed them to seamlessly blend into the dark shadows, to disappear without a trace. Stonehouse had made a calculated assumption that Finley would somehow follow in his footsteps, having consumed his magical blood, his vampire DNA for want of a better explanation, but that didn’t seem to be the case.

There would be plenty of time to unravel the mystery of Finley’s attributes, perhaps all eternity, but right now, Stonehouse really needed serendipity to lend another helping hand. Should he try to blag his way through an explanation, or simply come clean and tell the truth? Sure, tell the young girl that you’re a vampire, tell her that she guzzled down your crimson juice like a suckling baby gulping warm milk, and that she’s now a vampire too. What could possibly go wrong with that scenario?

“Hey, I’m more than comfortable with you in your underwear,” said Stonehouse, “it’s a great look, although, I must confess to also loving your wedding dress, too. You clearly have excellent taste.”

Excellent taste, yes. He had no idea what she actually tasted like, and was still somewhat curious, not to mention pretty intrigued as to what he must have tasted like as she drank from his wrist last night. Maybe he should ask her, come straight out with it? Would she need to drink more, would he have to feed her? There were so many bloody questions, and barely a single answer on the horizon.

“Oh, and trust me,” he continued, “you look amazing! You probably just feel a bit tired. It was quite a heavy night.”

Stonehouse patted the corner of the bed, gently as if he were stroking a dog’s head.

“Here, come and take a seat, Finley” added Stonehouse, “and let me explain what happened. Don’t worry, I won’t bite.”

Well, at least that was one line of truth that had escaped from his unusually dry lips. There was a genuine, deep-rooted, sensation that the vampire wouldn’t actually bite his bemused guest, despite an on-going urge to sink his fangs into her sumptuous flesh and feast to his heart’s content.

“I’ve got a pretty interesting story to tell you,” said Stonehouse, looking at the stray that he’d taken in, “and I have this crazy notion that you won’t believe a single word.”