Work Text:
“The following Spring my father took me a tour through Italy. We remained away for more than a year. It was long before the terror of recent events subsided; and to this hour the image of Carmilla returns to memory with ambiguous alternations—sometimes the playful, languid, beautiful girl; sometimes the writhing fiend I saw in the ruined church; and often from a reverie I have started, fancying I heard the light step of Carmilla at the drawing room door.”
-Carmilla, by J. Sheridan le Fanu
Laura watches as the luggage is carried onto the ship, scarcely hearing her father enthusiastically thank Don Giovanni for hosting them. The light plays on the water, a brilliant fractal that dazzles as much as it blinds. She feels a presence behind her, and turns to see a fetching redheaded woman of about her age, smiling affectionately at her.
“Ah, dear Laura, how it pains me to be parted from you!” Danielle Giovanni, the Don’s pretty young wife, cries, throwing her arms around her and kissing her rapturously on the cheeks. Laughing, Laura returns her embrace, her arms wrapping around Danielle’s cinched waist. “You must write; I insist on it! I wish to hear all of your return to Styria!”
“There will be precious little to tell, dear Danielle,” Laura laughs, reluctantly pulling from the other woman’s arms. “But I swear to tell all that can be. I can’t begin to thank you enough; you have been a...” she pauses, swallowing her own tears at the bittersweet parting. “A great friend to me, this past month. I shall not forget your kindness.”
“Laura, come. We must be off.” her father calls, and Laura and Danielle share a commiserating look before, with a final lingering kiss upon the cheek, Danielle sees Laura off.
“Quite an agreeable woman, wouldn’t you say Laura?” her father asked, as they waved goodbye to the Giovannis from their ship. “Her husband is lucky to have her – would that all men had such wives.”
“Yes, father.” Laura agreed blandly, feeling the familiar fog fall over her mind as Italy fades from view, and Styria draws ever closer. “Quite a woman, indeed.”
“And have you enjoyed your time in Italy, my dear one?” he asks, as they head below deck to their cabin. “I know you have been ill at sorts since...” he trails off, his rationalist mind struggling to put name to the terror that had haunted them both this past year, in different ways.
Laura shakes off her fog for her father’s sake, smiling brightly at him as if nothing had changed. “I feel much better now, father,” she assures him, knowing that she is lying but unable to convey the truth to him. “Indeed, I do believe that the worst is behind us...”
**
She is wrong, of course. Over the next nine years, she proves to him just how wrong she is. It starts as night terrors, dreams that wake her screaming, or sobbing, or filled with too many emotions to quantify. Then it becomes churlishness, harsh words spoken to servants, to Madame Perrodon and Mademoiselle De Lafontaine, even on occasion to her father. Finally, her night terrors leak out into the light of day – servants find her curled on benches outside, sobbing and shrieking, or dancing by herself in the abandoned ballroom, and occasionally she will stop, in the middle of conversation, and heed the words of some imaginary spectre, laughing at jokes and japes only she can hear or making protestations to accusation she is the sole witness to.
Finally, in the spring of 1858, ten years on since the blight none in the household dare name entered their lives, her father summons her to his office and informs her of a potential suitor. “I believe a match would do you some good,” he tells her, trying his best to break the news gently. “And a child even more so. You have the right to refuse, of course, but I would strongly insist that you at least consider the proposal.”
Biting back the uncharacteristic yet familiar fury that swelled in her breast, Laura nods sharply, to indicate her acknowledgement of her father’s words. “Who?” she asks simply, wincing alongside her father at the snap of the question – today, it seems, will be a bad one.
Her father hesitates upon her question, which Laura can only take as a bad sign. “A gentleman... well known to you.” he begins, but Laura cuts him off, having seen the open letter on his desk and recognising the handwriting – that same hand once wrote a different letter, informing them of a shocking death on a day that changed everything.
“The general?” she practically spat the words, staring at her father in disbelief, “General Spielsdorf?”
Her father winces again – good, at least he knows what he is suggesting is abominable. “Laura, he-”
“You wish to sell me off to a man old enough to be my father, a man I have known since I was a girl, a man who-” Laura begins to rant, but a harsh slap from her father upon his desk silences her.
“For God’s sake, Laura!” he blasphemes, his eyes hard as he takes her in. “You are nearing spinsterhood, and I am old and tired. Soon I shall be gone, and you shall need someone to protect you – do not,” he raises his voice as Laura opens her mouth to protest, “Do not. Whether you wish to admit it or not, you are in no state to look after yourself. The general understands this, and the source of this... malaise.”
What you mean to say, Laura thinks, is that I have gone mad, and all know it, and Spielsdorf is the only one willing to marry me regardless. But she says nothing, as her father makes to leave, saying he will give her time to consider.
Before he goes, however, he pauses, turning to her and saying: “I struggle to understand you, Laura. We have been to ball after ball, and you have received offers from suitor after suitor, and you have rejected them all. What is it about all these men that repulses you, so?”
With that, he turns and leaves, giving Laura the privacy she needs to collapse to the floor, tears running down her face as she whispers the truth, if only to herself:
“It is that they are all men.”
**
“Your father is English, is he not?” Danielle asked in the privacy of her rooms, offering Laura a glass of wine.
Laura took it gratefully, drinking greedily, to Danielle’s apparent amusement. “Yes, he moved to Styria when in the Austrian service, and shortly thereafter married my mother. You are English as well, is that not so?”
Danielle laughed, free and clear and ever-so-slightly drunk. “I believe where I come from, accusing someone of being English is a hanging offence. No, I hail from Ireland, although my family are originally from France – we fled when the Huguenots were massacred. But, still, another outsider like your father, trying to make it amongst these strange continentals.” She offered her glass to Laura, the two of them giggling as they chinked together.
Downstairs, a loud and drunken voice laughed, and Danielle’s nose twitched in disgust. “He will be insufferable tomorrow,” she muttered darkly, drinking deeper from her glass. “He always is when he drinks.”
Laura stared at her in unapologetic fascination. This was the first time in her life that she had seen a married couple – she barely remembered her mother, let alone how she behaved around her father, and neither Madame Perrodon or Mademoiselle De Lafontaine were married, nor were any of her father’s friends – bachelors all, or else widowers like General – but she would not say his name, nor even think it. “Is your husband good to you?” she blurted, flushing at the impropriety and the alcohol both.
Danielle laughed, pouring herself another glass and drinking it in one gulp. “Why do you wish to know? Eagerly awaiting your own nuptials?” she asked, voice barely slurred.
Laura flushed, drinking from her own goblet. “I am promised to no-one, yet. But I know that it is coming, and I...” She trailed off, unable to explain the mix of fear and dread that coursed through her at the thought of her wedding, and especially of her husband.
“Put it off for as long as you are able.” Danielle advised bluntly, her eyes fixed on Laura. “Oh, I will not say he is a bad man – he is never intentionally cruel, and that that is a source of praise is a cause for grief. But rarely does he pay me any heed or listen to my advice. He thinks me a silly girl, he thinks I do not know of his many lovers, but I do. He goes out carousing, and I? Well...” she drank again, then spoke, no, recited: “‘The Moon is down. The Pleiades. Midnight.’”
“‘The hours flow on. I lie, alone.’” Laura finished, her throat heavy with the memory of a sweet, bell-like voice, whispering those words in her ear.
Danielle’s eyes snapped open, and she stared at Laura in surprise, and recognition, and interest. “You know your Sappho.” she breathed, and it as much a question as a statement.
“Yes.” Laura said simply, and before they knew it, they were kissing, lips and teeth and tongue flashing, and the night was filled with passion...
**
The afternoon after her father informed her of the proposal, Laura goes to him in his office. “I will accept the general’s proposal.” she says simply, meeting his gaze calmly. “But I will insist on one thing: the service, the wedding night, all of it must be held here.”
Her father blinks at her business-like tone, but nods, smiling happily. “Thank you, my dear. I hope you will be very happy with him.”
Laura says nothing, simply nodding and leaving the room.
**
All the schloss is abuzz with the news of a wedding, and all wish Laura many happy memories ahead. Her father even grows hopeful that this marriage has finally brought the cure to her mind that no doctor has been able to, for Laura sleeps easily at night, and if she is more dreamlike during the day, well, that can be explained away as her daydreaming of her new married life.
Soon, the date for the wedding comes, and as its harbinger so comes the happy groom, General Spielsdorf. For the two weeks beforehand, he takes Laura on strolls around the gardens, the two of them awkwardly stepping around the events that bind them together most strongly – her as victim, he as hero, at least by his and her father’s reckoning.
“I believe you shall enjoy my schloss,” Spielsdorf tells her on one such stroll, smiling gently down at her. “Ever since Bertha... ever since the tragedy, it has tragically been without a feminine touch, but maybe this will change, yes?”
Laura smiles, and agrees, and offers nothing further.
**
The day of the wedding comes, and Laura remembers little of it. It is a bad day, the worst in her memory. She speaks when the priest requires her to, and thanks all the well-wishers who offer her congratulations, and registers nothing else. The only time she truly comes alive is when her father approaches, and she throws her arms around him.
“I am proud of you, my girl.” he whispers to her, holding her tight, and she thanks him.
Soon, though, the time comes, and a smiling General Spielsdorf – how funny, that even now they are married in the eyes of God she cannot remember his name – leads her to the room set aside from them, the one she had requested be on the east side of the house.
As the general closes and locks the door, he finds Laura staring out of the window, over the expanse of forest. “What are you looking at, my dear wife?” he asks, wrapping his arms around her waist.
Laura barely registers the touch, continuing to gaze out at the rising moon. “How far away is it, do you think?”
“What, my dear, the moon?” Spielsdorf jests, before following Laura’s gaze downwards, towards more terrestrial landmarks. “My schloss? Why, twenty miles, you know that, you’ve been there thousands of times!”
Laura nods, still gazing out of the window. “Twenty miles. And three miles between us and it...” she shivers, finally feeling the general’s arms as they tighten.
General Spielsdorf hesitates, then finally puts name to the spectre that haunts every conversation between him and Laura. “The ruins of Karnstein, yes. But, come, enough dwelling on past horrors. Let me take your pain away, my dear Laura...”
Laura breathes deeply, and nods, following Spielsdorf to the bed, shedding layers of her wedding dress as she goes. Finally, she stands in a white silken chemise and boldly she reaches out, pushing her husband to the bed.
“My,” he cries as she leans over him, straddling his lap, “aren’t you a forward one!”
Laura smiles sweetly at him. “Yes, I am.” She agrees, and brings her concealed dagger out and into General Spielsdorf’s heart.
For a moment, all is still, as if the world itself cannot believe what Laura has done. And then Spielsdorf chokes, blood spurting around the knife as his pierced heart tries to beat on. He looks up at her with fading eyes, begging for an explanation, a reason for her to have done this terrible deed.
Laura simply stays still, watching him die. He deserves no explanation from her.
**
“I am not the first, am I?” Danielle asked as they lay in bed together, tracing the scar on Laura’s breast, the one that has never healed.
Laura paused, swallowing the flood of grief that comes with the memory. “No,” She choked out, her grip tightening on Danielle’s shoulders. “There was... one before.”
Danielle nodded, not a trace of jealousy in her beautiful face as she asked: “What was her name?”
It is a question with no easy answer, for the thing that had awoken Laura to this shadowy world of forbidden loves and passions had had many names, but finally Laura forced out the name that she knew her by, the name that came unbidden to her mouth as she slept: “Carmilla. Her name was... Carmilla.”
“What happened to her?”
Laura laughed, a broken, despairing sound as she turned to face her bedmate, trying to convey the truth in her gaze: “You would not believe me, were I to tell you.”
Danielle leaned forward, placing a kiss on Laura’s nose. “Tell me all the same?”
And so, in halting, broken speech, Laura did. She told Danielle of a carriage accident that was no accident at all, of a creature that had haunted her dreams since she was six years old, of a monster that fed on blood – her blood, the blood of another girl who she may have been close to, had circumstances allowed it, and the blood of countless peasants on her father’s estate. She told her of General Spielsdorf, and Baron Vordenburg, and the party they and her father had formed to slay that which was already dead. And above all, she told her of Carmilla, Carmilla who had once been Mircalla, Countess Karnstein, Carmilla who never rose before noon and who tired on long walks but who never failed to attend Laura on them, Carmilla who had held her and kissed her and showered her in professions of love that Laura had been too young and sheltered to comprehend, Carmilla, Carmilla, Carmilla.
When she was done, she turned to Danielle and saw only understanding in her eyes. She did not think Danielle believed her, at least not about Carmilla’s true nature, but she clearly heard the grief and longing and heartache in Laura’s voice, and Laura believed that it was at this moment that Danielle truly understood that Laura was not some knight errant here to rescue her from her torment, that this was nothing more and nothing less than two lonely souls sharing their pain together, and they loved each other all the more for it.
Eventually, Danielle spoke again, hesitantly. “When she... when she died, what did you feel?”
Laura paused, trying to put words to the tempest of emotions that had flooded her when her father and General Spielsdorf and Baron Vordenburg had returned and proudly informed her of Carmilla’s passing. “I... loss, most strongly. Confusion at what of it had been real, horror at what Carm... of what she had been. But... also grief, and regret at never being able to speak with her, one final time.”
Danielle nodded, stroking at Laura’s cheek. “And now?”
Laura paused again, longer this time, but not for inability to put words to the emotions but rather fear of what the emotions would bring about, once spoken aloud. “Anger. Rage, at those who denied me that chance to confront her, to get a clear answer. And... vengeance, on those that took her from me.” She looked into Danielle’s eyes, looking for... absolution? Forgiveness?
Instead, Danielle smiled in understanding, and leaned up to kiss her lips. “Good.” She whispers.
**
She stabs him nine more times, even as the blood leaks out and his body goes cold. It seems poetic – ten stab wounds, for the ten years he robbed from her Carmilla. When she stands back, her arms and the front of her wedding dress are caked with blood. She looks like her Carmilla did, that night all those years ago, and there is poetry to that, too – the two of them, baptised in life-giving blood. She spits the blood that had gotten in her mouth upon the corpse, then sets to work, ripping apart the bedsheets and curtains to make a line, then throwing it out the open window. She scales down and begins her walk, unhurried – the party will continue long into the night, and she had said her goodnights to her father, so none would check the bedchamber of the happy couple until the early hours of the morning, by which time it would be too late.
She walks through the woods, caring not a bit for the howling wolves that draw ever-nearer, drawn by the scent of blood. They are fellow creatures of the night, now, and besides, her Carmilla might have found it romantic, to be torn apart by ravenous beasts while in a fit of lunacy – the only parts of the Bible she could stand to read had been the tales of the martyrs, after all.
Finally, she reaches her destination, stepping out from the trees and staring up in wonderment. Castle Karnstein looks more attractive in the moonlight than it ever had in the day, that day long ago when her late husband had taken her father and her there to hunt for a monster that was already at home. She shakes away such memories, making her way through the ruined walls and rooms to that sole remaining structure, battered by time as it was – the crypt of the Karnsteins.
Tears flow from Laura’s eyes as she reaches this sacred place – sacred not from some affiliation to a deity that would condemn her and her love to damnation, but sacred for this was the final resting place of she who Laura loved. The tears flow ever freer as she sees the scorch marks upon the floor – the place where those men, those damnable men, burned the body and head of her Carmilla, for the abhorrent crime of being what she was. On trembling legs, she staggers over to the site, kneeling on the ruined stone and tracing the soot with her free hand, fancying she could touch her Carmilla, one last time. Her other hand... her other hand clenches tighter on the knife.
Wiping away her tears, Laura straightens herself, assuming a kneeling posture on the floor. With trembling hands, she raises her knife, placing its wicked tip against her bosom. She breathes in deeply as she places both hands on the hilt, steadying herself. And then, with a whispered prayer, not to God or Satan, but to her beloved Carmilla, she...
“There is a shortage of perfect breasts in this world,” says an achingly sweet, achingly familiar voice from the entrance to the crypt, startling Laura and causing her to drop the knife. “It would be such a pity to damage yours, my Laura.”
Laura turns, staring in disbelief at the figure leaning against the broken door of the crypt, an achingly sweet smile on her pretty face – her Carmilla, as frail and delicate and perfect as she was on the last day she saw her, before General Spielsdorf caused her face to twist in fury.
Laura shakes her head, leaning away, unable to believe what stands before her – surely this is some trick, some derangement of her mind, desperately trying to convince her to not compound her mortal sin of murder with that of suicide? But within an instant, faster than Laura could blink, Carmilla kneels before her, grasping Laura’s hands in hers, and it was the same as Carmilla’s hand had always felt – tiny and frail and soft, and initially ice cold, only to warm in Laura’s touch.
“It’s me, darling.” Carmilla whispers softly, as Laura begins trembling. Laura herself cannot speak, words rushing up to clog her throat as she bursts into tears, throwing herself into Carmilla’s arms and sobbing as she holds her, soft and smooth and hers, all hers.
“H-h-how?” Laura cries, face scrunched up in an undignified display of pure grief and relief uncaged, tears and mucus staining Carmilla’s red dress. “You... you died... They killed you.”
Carmilla laughs, bell-like and beautiful, as she strokes Laura’s hair. “I am not so easily killed, my darling. There are powers far beyond a silly would-be vampire hunter and a few scorned fathers.”
“By which she means, I saved her from the consequences of her idiocy.” Another voice calls out, its unfamiliarity causing Laura to jump in Carmilla’s arms. Another figure emerges, this one seeming to melt out of the shadows in the crypt itself. Laura believes she recognises her from the description Mademoiselle De Lafontaine gave of the third figure in Carmilla’s carriage on the day they first met – the ‘hideous black woman’, as she described, although it may be just Laura’s attraction to the fairer sex, but she finds the description woefully offensive.
Rather, the woman stepping across shattered remnants of stone coffins towards them is shockingly handsome, with her black skin gleaming in the night and her unorthodox clothing – that of a gentleman’s outfit, a purple frock coat covering an elaborate silk vest with golden filigree and a white silk shirt with detached collar, the entire outfit capped off with matching purple trousers. The only part of the Mademoiselle’s description that seemed completely accurate was the brilliant white teeth, and the colourful turban – purple to match the rest of the outfit – that concealed all but a few loose strands of the woman’s brown hair.
Carmilla makes a sound of irritation, even as she holds Laura tight. “Laura, might I introduce you to my darling little sister, Matska, who is, I suppose, fairly accurate in her assessment of the events ten years ago.”
The woman, Matska, rolls her eyes, turning to Laura with a smirk. “Now there is gratitude, little one. I snatch her from the gates of Irkalla itself, earning the ire of the Queen of Blood and Ashes and resulting in us having to fight off Gallu for five years, and all I get is a ‘fairly accurate in her assessment’?”
Laura giggles wetly, barely understanding a word Matska is saying but barely caring at all because her Carmilla is here, here, right in front of her!
With an eyeroll that Laura can practically hear, Carmilla separates from their embrace, chuckling at Laura’s whimper of protest. Her eyes widen as she seems to finally notice the state of Laura’s chemise. “My darling, say you are not hurt!” She cries, desperately searching for a wound, pawing at Laura’s body in a way she will not say she finds displeasing.
Laura laughs, happier and brighter than she has since Carmilla was taken from her and shakes her head. “It is alright, my dear Carmilla, it is not mine!”
Carmilla pauses, looking up at Laura searchingly. “But, then...” Her eyes alight on the still-bloodied dagger, reaching out to pick it up and tentatively licking blood off it with her tongue – Laura attempts to hide her amorous feelings at the sight, an attempt she fails at, given Matska’s amused chuckle. Carmilla’s eyes grow wide, and she looks at Laura with delight. “Spielsdorf?” she asks simply, beaming beautifully.
Flushed, Laura nods, to Carmilla’s clear delight and Matska’s growl of approval. “Dead.” She says simply, only to laugh as Carmilla pulls her into another embrace, relishing in having her Carmilla so close to her.
They sit like that for a while, both enjoying the feeling of the other, in their arms as they should be. Finally, Carmilla breaks away again, a teasing glare on her elfin face. “Now, Laura,” she scolds mockingly “You ought to have known that I would wish to revenge myself upon him. Why, you have quite stolen my kill... Recompense must be taken.”
Laughing, Laura pouts coquettishly at Carmilla, still dizzy at the prospect of Carmilla not only being here, but being able to match the flirtatious nature that had so confused and distressed her, ten years ago. “Oh? What manner of recompense would suit, oh Countess mine?”
Growling, Carmilla takes Laura’s head between her hands, the blonde whimpering as she feels the supernatural strength in the grip, powered by the night. “Oh, I have some notions...” Carmilla purrs, and then she is leaning forward, Laura hurrying to match her, and they are both kissing.
What to say of kissing Carmilla? It is so very like, and so very unlike, kissing Danielle. It is passion, and desperation, and grief outpoured to joy, and relief as in the case of an oasis after years in the desert, and above all these and alongside them and within them there is hunger, an all-consuming hunger that only builds the longer the kiss continues until-
-Until Matska coughs politely, her voice radiating amusement. “As much as this is a... fascinating and moving exchange – Carmilla, we must hurry back to Mamma, remember?”
Laura’s heart stops, and she begins to tremble. No, no, she can’t go, she can’t lose her Carmilla again, not when she’s only just got her back, she can’t she can’t she-
And then Carmilla is holding her close, stroking her cheek with a thumb and smiling softly at her. “Dearest, don’t fret. This is why we’ve come – to take you away with us.”
Laura stares at her, her panic fading as she takes in Carmilla’s words. “Come... come with you? But... do you want me to come as...” She trails off, something in her still balking at saying the word.
Carmilla sighs, still stroking her cheek. “Yes, dear one. I did not get to have this conversation with you ten years ago – I would have, you must believe me on that, I would have explained it to you as I did to Bertha before her idiot uncle interfered...” and suddenly Laura wants to ask about that, about what the circumstances surrounding Bertha Rheinfeldt’s death actually were, and more than that if Carmilla had loved her, if there existed a world where Bertha had become undead and Laura had never met Carmilla, but she finds she cannot speak it...
“But yes, your instincts are correct – I would have you be like me, a vampire. It is not an easy life – indeed, it is no life at all, merely a living death. You have noticed that I feel cold to the touch initially, only to get warmer in time? That is a technique called the Blush of Life – a way for us to mimic life and force the vampiric blood to flow through our veins – all other times we are as corpses, reanimated by dark magic. Sunlight weakens us, though unlike others of our kindred we do not burn in it, and the presence of anything holy is anathema to us, save a few religions that accept our undead state. And then there is the blood.”
Here, Carmilla shivers, and Matska as well, the two of them staring at Laura’s neck the way one might look at a slice of bread when reminded of your hunger. But the moment passes, and Carmilla continues. “Blood is life, as some among us are keen to remind us. When you turn, a part of your soul is lost, irrevocably, and in its place is the thirst. It will control you, rule over you unless you fight it every day, and in most cases it will eventually win. It is a demon, my Laura, constantly whispering to you to indulge, to kill and take what you want, when you want, and against it your humanity is... nothing.”
Carmilla shudders again, as if merely talking about this fact of vampire life was driving her closer to that precipice she spoke of. Instinctively, Laura reaches out and squeezes her hand, and Carmilla looks up at her, squeezing back in affection. “That is the reality of our unlives, Laura – our Requiem, as we like to name it. And so, I ask – do you choose it? If not, we will concoct some story – an attack that left your husband dead and you forced to flee into the forest, or something of the sort. You can return to your life, safe in the knowledge that I live. You can grow old, even...” she swallowed, face twisting, “even fall in love again. Or... well, as I told you before: ‘You must come with me, loving me, to death; or else hate me and-’”
“‘-and still come with me. And hating me through death and after. There is no such word as indifference in my apathetic nature.’” Laura finishes, smiling softly. She remembers that night – she remembers every night she ever spent with Carmilla, and it is perhaps for that reason that she nods. “Yes, Carmilla. I want to come with you, to live by your side in whatever way I can – if it mean becoming a vampire, so be it. I would...” She pauses, a flash of inspiration entering her mind, another line of Carmilla’s in the idyllic time she lived with her, that time she is willing to risk eternal damnation to return to. “I would not live my life, and never shall, unless it should be with you.”
Carmilla looks at her, mouth slightly open – were it not for the lack of the Blush Carmilla had mentioned earlier, Laura was certain Carmilla would be flushed red. Then, she lets out a cry of delight, leaping on Laura and sending them both tumbling to the stone floor.
“Darling, darling, my dearest Laura!” she cries, peppering Laura’s face with kisses even as crimson streaks flow from her eyes – tears of blood, shed in delight and relief in equal measure. Laura cries with her, holding the frail yet strong body close, caring not a bit for the blood – she has seen enough blood tonight for it to lose its heavy weight, which she supposes is a blessing, considering what she is about to become.
Eventually, Carmilla breaks away, rearranging them so that they kneel, facing each other and with their arms wrapped together, across the scorch marks of the pyre that would have killed Carmilla. “Now then, my darling, let us begin!” she cries. Laura is aware of Matska taking her leave, stepping out of the crypt and into the cool night air, but she only has eyes for her Carmilla, watching as she moves the fabric of her dress aside to reveal her collarbone.
“This is the process of the Turn, my love,” and Laura can hear the capital, the simple word given added weight by the enormity of what they are about to do, “I must drain you of your human blood, and feed you my own. This is how my mother Turned me and my sister, and how my Aunt Morana Turned my mother, and on and on to the days of Innana and Lilit. So come, let us not delay any longer...” Carmilla reaches up to her collar, slicing a tiny cut open with a wickedly sharp nail, letting the immortal blood of a vampire trickle out. “Drink your fill, my darling.”
As if in a haze, Laura leans forward, burying her face in her Carmilla’s neck and sucking on the wound, letting her love’s sweet, dark blood fill her mouth. Tasting it fills her with a strange euphoria, a feeling of being one with Carmilla, and she suddenly understands exactly why Carmilla drank blood, why anyone would, if it felt like this...
So euphoric is she that she barely registers it when Carmilla bends to her neck, her sharp fangs piercing Laura’s skin and drinking greedily of her. They remain like that, two lovers embraced in death, each drinking the essence of the other. Soon, Laura collapses into Carmilla, feeling as frail and as weak as she had ten years ago, and just as in those halcyon days Carmilla holds her and soothes her, stroking her hair softly even as Laura’s eyes flutter, desperate for one last glimpse of her Carmilla even as her body shuts down around her...
And then darkness rushes up to meet her, and Laura knows no more of life...
**
She knows not what happens when she dies. All is blackness and silence, until she awakens, panic flooding her at a peculiar feeling of absence and of a strange weight pressing down on her. She tries to sit up, finding that she can’t, the weight forcing her to recline. She feels like she would suffocate, had she need for breath any longer.
That is a new, stranger sensation. She does not breathe, she cannot feel her heart beating in her chest, and though she somehow knows that the weight pressing down on her is cold and wet, she feels no difference in temperature – indeed, she is as cold as the grave itself.
...Oh, that is what the weight is, she suddenly realises. She has been buried.
For a moment more she simply lies there, mulling over her new circumstances. But then, faint and muffled through the crushing earth above, she hears an angelic voice, tinged with worry.
“-you’re sure? It’s been too long...”
Another voice responds, smoky and somewhat ethereal, but tinged with exasperation. “Can’t you tell? She’s your childe...”
The voices trail away, her sensitive ears moving to another inconsequential sound, some animal rutting in the woods, and she mourns their absence, reaching out to them. She finds the dirt above her gives way easily, and pushes upwards, striving to be near that angelic voice again, until finally...
She breaks through the soil to the surface, clambering out of the shallow grave she was buried in and gazing up at the two women who meet her eyes from across the grave – one a stunning black woman who looks at her cooly, and the other...
With a gasp, Laura recalls everything, the memories flooding back to her as she stares into her Carmilla’s loving eyes, looking so bright by the light of the moon. “C-Carmilla?” she asks weakly, feeling something else snap into place – an intimate understanding of where Carmilla is in relation to her, and a reflection of the joy she feels at seeing Laura.
Carmilla laughs, hurrying over to her side. “Oh, my darling, oh my Laura, are you well? Matska, would you gather the soil? Oh, Laura, my Laura, how are you feeling?”
Laura blinks at her, reaching into her embrace. Dimly she is aware of Matska procuring a large box from... somewhere, and shovelling the soil of her freshly dug and even more freshly turned grave into it. “I... I feel strange.” She finally manages, trying to reconcile her memories of her human senses with the new sensations she feels – the new clarity of vision the night grants her, the myriad of sounds she picks up in the forest, the strange scents... even her skin feels more sensitive, the cool breeze of the night tickling her bare arms in a way that makes her shiver, despite not feeling the cold.
She is still trying to come to terms with her new senses, when Carmilla speaks again. “Are you hungry, my Laura? You must be, surely... We have something for you.”
At the mention of hunger, Laura’s eyes snap to Carmilla’s, her throat suddenly dry. She is aware of the thing she has been ignoring up till now, the entity sitting at the seat of her stomach, of her soul, demanding tribute, wailing like a tantruming child at being ignored. She nods, desperately, and Carmilla laughs.
“Don’t fret, my love. We have just the thing to calm that beast down...” she says, stepping away from Laura to the carriage that Laura barely recognised was in the clearing with them, so absorbed in her new senses. With a flourish, Carmilla throws open the carriage door, and out tumbles...
...Out tumbles a young girl, barely seventeen years old if Laura were to guess, her hands bound and her eyes streaked with tears as she gazes up at the three of them. Laura stares at her, and suddenly she finds all her enhanced senses focused on this one, single target. She sees every tremble of the girl’s body, hears every whimper and choked sob, and smells... something sweet, and metallic, and warm, so very warm, pumping through her body by her frantically beating heart. Laura’s dead mouth waters, and she takes a step forward, eyes fixed on the peasant girl’s terrified face. She does not know her, does not recognise her, and that may be some comfort to her – though she knows that even if she did know her, it would make little difference to what she was about to do...
“P-p-please...” the peasant girl sobs, looking up at Laura with tearful eyes, hands pressed together as much in prayer as from her bindings. “I beg you...”
Laura doesn’t respond, doesn’t hear, instead stalking towards the girl slowly, the thing in her chest savouring the anticipation. “I’m so hungry...” she whispers, in explanation or apology she cannot tell, and then she is upon the girl, her fangs buried in the soft neck, life-giving blood flowing into her mouth.
It is a rapturous experience; better than any passion she ever experienced in her human life. Warmth fills her mouth, flooding her senses until all is blacked out, the forest, Matska, even her Carmilla, all that remains is her and the peasant girl and the blood. She drinks and drinks and drinks, all the while seeing things, vague flashes of a simple, meaningless life, a father and a mother and siblings and a sweetheart, all fading away beneath Laura’s dark kiss.
Finally, the peasant girl spasms, and lies still. Laura pulls away, blood dripping from her face, and feels Carmilla stepping up behind her, placing a hand on her shoulder. “How do you feel, my darling?”
Laura looks up at her love, feeling that pull again – the bond between creator and created, sire and childe, that transcended petty human terms like ‘parent’ or ‘lover’. She knew that Carmilla would be hers, and she Carmilla’s, for eons to come, until judgement day. But Carmilla had asked her a question, and the thing inside her could only have her respond one way: “More. I want... more.”
Carmilla laughs, bell-like and sweet, and pulls Laura to her feet, embracing her. “Then more you shall have, my dearest Laura. Come, Matska has finished making your bed...” and Laura saw that Matska had indeed finished and was strapping the box of grave-soil to the back of the carriage, “and now we must go visit Mamma, who is anxious to meet you, and who will surely have food enough to satiate even your fledgling appetite. Come, my dear sweet Laura, we have all of eternity to spend together, so we better make the most of it...”
And Laura follows Carmilla, leaving the peasant girl’s body lying in the forest, and climbs into the carriage, wrapping herself around her lost love as they ride into the night...
**
Danielle receives the news a few weeks later, from her husband. He says it casually, as if the death of Laura and her husband were a faint curiosity, of the kind you read about in the paper.
“The body they found was far too decomposed to tell, but all agree it was probably the girl,” he says conversationally as he butters bread. “Her father is quite beside himself and has refused to see anyone since it occurred. Isn’t it strange, to think we had a murderess in our house for more than a month? Just goes to show, you can never see the evil that dwells in the heart...”
Danielle smiles, and agrees, and later breaks down, far away from anyone else. Tears soak her sheet as she cries, long and hard, for lost loves and missed chances. She knows now how Laura felt, after losing her Carmilla.
Carmilla...
Danielle remembered every bit of Laura’s strange tale of Carmilla. She puts little stock in its veracity – the grief of a young girl, expressed as a fantastical tale of monsters and demons. But Laura’s heartbreak, that had been real, and ever would be, the last thing of Laura that remained. If Danielle could do nothing else, she could at least do this...
Slowly, she stands from her bed and goes to her writing desk. First, she writes a letter to her cousin Joseph, begging him to convey the tale she transcribed to as many people as possible, knowing his taste for the macabre and strange. And then, she sets forth to preserve Laura’s memory, starting with the only lie she would tell:
“Upon a paper attached to the Narrative which follows, Doctor Hesselius has written a rather elaborate note, which he accompanies with a reference to his Essay on the strange subject which the MS. illuminates.
This mysterious subject he treats, in that Essay, with his usual learning and acumen, and with remarkable directness and condensation. It will form but one volume of the series of that extraordinary man’s collected papers.
As I publish the case, in this volume, simply to interest the ‘laity,’ I shall forestall the intelligent lady, who relates it, in nothing; and after due consideration, I have determined, therefore, to abstain from presenting any précis of the learned Doctor’s reasoning, or extract from his statement on a subject which he describes as ‘involving, not improbably, some of the profoundest arcana of our dual existence, and its intermediates.’
I was anxious on discovering this paper, to reopen the correspondence commenced by Doctor Hesselius, so many years before, with a person so clever and careful as his informant seems to have been. Much to my regret, however, I found that she had died in the interval.
She, probably, could have added little to the Narrative which she communicates in the following pages, with, so far as I can pronounce, such conscientious particularity.”