[KO-FI REWARD] BATCH 1 // SLOT 4: An extremely secluded vampire coven has an unexpected visitor. Though unplanned, the Lalondes are nothing if not the most gracious of hosts.
Snow is an age-old motivation for the lost and those prone to trespassing. It sticks to fabrics of all types, heavy and digging needle-sharp cold into bones. Joints, primarily. The weight is unbearable after a mile, worse after five, mountainous when the count is lost. But like a moth, helplessly bewitched by flame…
This is something meant to be seen through, to the end.
A small town once offered shelter. Not far, but further than realized, from this perilous destination. “There are women up that way,” said one adventurous local, who claimed the journey was almost forgettable. Insistent on that detail, in fact.
Yet even now, disparagement slips away. Like water, sand, through trembling frostbitten fingers. A glazing of ease, a balm that soothes away any want for warmth, unless provided by the sprawling mansion ahead.
“Strange women,” the local had said, eyes half-lidded in listless recall, “—Taller than trees, with spidery hands. They are firm, but soft. Eager, son. They are so eager.”
That word will not unstick. Burned, branded onto a lonely mind, unlikely to be forgotten. Company is rare for a traveler, and much-wanted. Yearning is a beast, hungry, clawing, bearing a battered body through a gate barely cracked open. Just wide enough, just inviting enough.
Come in. Out of the cold.
Doors older than familiar foundations creak, opening on the first of desperate presses. An entryway, devoid of light but lingering with heat. Seeking the source is mindless, guiding every step deeper despite unsightly stains or evidence of…
As before, the thoughts are slipping away. Mesmerized, taken, downright spellbound. Snow and ice are stomped from trudging boots with ease, forgotten in clumps that lead from half-wide entrance to flickering hearth. Collapsing there is easier than any other action ‘til this moment. Here, it is time to bask. Aches are tended by flickering kisses of—
Touch?
“What is it,” comes the murmur, “—so small and frail?”
“A man-thing, Mother calls them. Shaped like us, but malleable. See how it shakes?” And shakes does not begin to cover the bone-deep terror that lives within. Chest heaving, beset by palms unburdened by things like mortality or the whimsical passage of seasons. Fear is king, but not in the hosts that gather around, crowd close.
They are jewel-eyed. Brilliant white fangs flicker in bloodless faces, curiosity or something more lurking. Thankfully, one seems keen to make a fine impression. Her tousling of sweat-soaked hair is almost gentle, barring the scrape of nails too long— too sharp —to be natural.
Her hands are… warmer now. “Poor little beast. No wonder it heeds our invitation. You were caught in the rain?” Forgetfulness is not a familiar thing, but it must have been what happened. Outside, there is no snow. On the rug, only puddles. The damp is beginning to lift from feverish flesh, and the girls are crowding ever closer.
No words come. But the hosts, the ladies, see no fault in that.
“You must be tired, little thing. Come. You will see yourself to a warmer place, better than our dirty hearthspace.”
Better? Is that even possible, cradled to her bosom this way, lost in her amethyst eyes?
“My nieces will tend your scrapes.”
When did the injuries appear? Cuts and bruises, from climbing or slipping?
“Rosalind.”
The eldest, besides the gentle one. Stout, round, impishly smirking at the state of undress. Clothes are being tugged free from every direction. Impossibly safe. No concern for one’s own safety, wrapped in forgiving embrace.
“Roxanne.”
Taller. The tallest, maybe. Sharp features but a soft composition, hips nearly as wide as her sisters’ collective. She is tending to the boots, left behind, set on a tray beside the fire to dry. A cotton weave pulls tight over her body when she stoops, bringing to mind… many things. Wanting, desirous things.
“Jasmina.”
Smallest, roundest, youngest. Bouncing with energy, practically alight. Mischief is afoot, because this one pulls. At hair, fingers, toes, and— south of the belt. Gasps are escaping, unable to be stifled. Is it meant to feel this good, laid back in a bed that smells of copper aftertaste and perfume too expensive to conceptualize?
“Stay a while, little beast. We would be honored to have you for supper.”
