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Violet had been a woman of ‘good character and breeding’ which is to say a wife. Not any wife, but an important one, which is to say married to a wealthy councilor, an upcomer, could be archduke one day or so her father said. Hence why she played her role, the dutiful wife who would say nothing and smile and charm, with a deft hand. She could make any man feel like the smartest in the room or the strongest or funniest, it just depended on what he wanted.
None of that mattered to her husband, of course. She tried every tact she could think of, quiet and demure, an extroverted nymphomaniac, the stalwart rock helping his ambition, nothing satisfied him. Until she realized what pleased him most was her failure, that he liked her best when she begged for his mercy on her knees, lip bleeding, the apologies she meant but knew were lies tumbling out of her mouth.
And no one noticed, of course. Healing potions and facial powders covered a multitude of sins but more than that, no one wanted to see it. He’d shove that fact in her face sometimes, “I can do whatever I please to you, Lotte and what could you possibly do about it?” He was right of course, the happiest she’d ever seen her parents was at her wedding. They didn’t need to state the obvious, she was never particularly talented at the things that let a woman be independent, a marriage was the best she could hope for. And to fail at that? Well, that would be unforgivable.
So, for decades, she powdered and smiled and laughed and did as she was bid. That was until her savior came along, a man at one of the blur of parties she attended. He recently inherited his title and wealth and there was a lean and hungry look about him, something to prove.
He smiled at her without showing any teeth and said “Violet, that’s an unusual name for one of our kind.”
“Luinecaranlotte is a mouthful even for me.”
“I suppose Violet is more poetic than Lotte.”
She smiled at that and the next time he approached her, he brought with him her namesake. She perched it in her braids at the base of her skull and her husband didn’t notice.
She sought out the strange man, in the corners of parties and galas. Always with a flirtatious line and an acute observation about her. Then one night he said:
“You could kill him you know.”
“Who?”
“Your husband.”
She laughed at that, a polite chuckle with a hand to her lips, it was a joke, of course it was a joke, it had to be.
He took her other hand and moved up her sleeve, revealing the bruise. “Someone who loved you, would never hurt you so.”
She was so distracted by the fact that someone had finally noticed that she didn’t note how frigid his hands were.
He gave her a poison, told her to slip a couple of drops each day into her husband’s meal. Her husband would get sick and die and no one would suspect murder much less her. Of all the things he ever said to her, at least that one was true.
She played the role of the grieving widow as well as any of her others. Wept and eulogized like she ought to. And her savior came to her. His offer was simple, marry him and he’d grant her eternal life as his consort. How could she possibly say no? Why would she? Finally, a man who saw her, in her entirety, even her want for power.
They waited the polite amount of time, for her mourning to end, for no one to talk. Yet still he wed her in secret. She did not question this, who would she even want to invite? Certainly not her parents.
He consummated their marriage with his fangs in her neck like a shard of ice to pleasant numbness and then only darkness. As she dug her way out of her own grave all she felt was excitement, elated excitement, finally her life could begin.
But it was a lie because of course it was. He put his hand on her chin and told her to kneel and she couldn’t even resist. But by far the worst part was, had he simply asked she would have.
What followed were a series of degradations, he liked the way she cringed when forced to bite into a rat, liked the way her body spasmed in fear when he ran a knife along her naked flesh, liked how she’d cry out in relief when he finally stabbed her. And then he’d be kind, he’d dress her in finery and pretend at her being his consort when they both knew her to be his concubine.
For him, she was a cheap conquest. With just a few sweet words he managed to take out a dangerous rival and take his fortune, wife and all.
And as Cazador thrust into her, her flesh tearing no different than her late husband, Violet thought perhaps all men are like this. Perhaps I am a fool.
She was his first spawn, but she would not be his last. One night, several years but yet to be several decades in, he brought home a man, no a boy really, still damp with the earth of his own grave.
“He could be your brother, you two look so alike.” It amused him to no end to have her ‘play’ with her ‘brother’. She supposed he enjoyed the image of the two of them so similar that it was impossible to tell where one started and the other ended contorting in pain and pleasure. It made her skin crawl, until one day she simply decided it wouldn’t.
Cazador enjoyed a docile spawn or a defiant spawn, so she became neither. She laughed and screamed in equal measure in the face of a beating. Reveled in torturing as much as she seemed bored by it. She undid the tight braids and buns, let her hair flow down knotted and snarled. In short, she became a mad woman.
Unbeknownst to her, centuries later her brother would claim that he tried all of the gods and none of them answered, but she swore she heard the voice of the Prince of Demons. The entrancing song of the Imprisoned One. It felt nice to let go and stop trying to appease everyone. To just embrace what was happening to her.
She didn’t mind, not really, all the horrible things she did at Cazador’s request or in the hopes that he would leave her be. Sometimes she felt like a passenger to this mad thing committing atrocities. Sometimes she thought she might be enjoying it. But mostly, she told herself that one day Cazador will die, and she will return to herself.
Whatever the fuck that means.