Break Its Neck First

With a thin crescent partially obscured by an amorphous cloud idly floating over its face, the moon hung low in the night sky. Rosamund stepped down the worn stone stairs, her bare feet brushing against the cool, uneven surface, and the pale, silvery light streamed over them. Each step was strewn with dead leaves and pine needles, which crunched under her weight and gave off a subtle, earthy smell into the damp air. With a gentle authority, Count Ivar guided her on, his presence both mysterious and compelling. Rosamund's uneasiness was heightened when an owl's far-off hoot broke the silence and resounded through the night with a melancholy scream.

They went by a garden whose once-bright liveliness had long since been supplanted by deterioration due to neglect. The few surviving rose bushes, whose withered petals hung limply in defeat, were strangled by the thorny tendrils of thistles and briars that stretched across the ground. Silent relics, worn stone fountains stood with their basins dry and fractured, no longer resonating with the drip of water. Amid the dense undergrowth, statues of weeping angels and holy martyrs stood, their carved faces worn by the passage of time, staring at Rosamund with emotions of unending grief. Moss clung to their surfaces, softening their edges, yet she felt the pressure of their silent vigil.

A wrought-iron gate at the edge of the garden loomed over her, its elaborate design twisted with thorns that seemed to have a life of their own. The metal of the key glinted momentarily in the moonlight as Count Ivar pulled it from the folds of his cloak. The harsh click of the mechanism echoed through the silent night as he inserted it into the lock. The gate opened with a slow, moaning creak that made her nerves jangle. She was shivered as the cold iron touched her arm as she stepped through after he gestured for her to do so. He trailed following, shutting the gate behind them with a final thump that sealed her destiny outside the castle walls.

She glanced back at the palace just once. As though it had grown out of the ground itself, its sinister shape rose against the ragged horizon, its pointed battlements and stone towers fitting in well with the surrounding rocky terrain. It was a magnificent sight, yet it brought no comfort. She was not at all comforted by leaving this ominous area, nor was she made to feel any less dreadful by the prospect of going back.

Count Ivar nudged her forward, gently, to the small of her back. She recoiled at his touch, a spark of resistance ignited by the fleeting contact, but she kept up with him, her bare feet silent on the mossy path. Above the gate, the black, withered branches of the forest formed a tunnel, engulfing them. Despite her thin white nightgown, Rosamund shook from a deep, visceral dread rather than cold as the air grew thick with the smell of pine and rot. Nevertheless, she was astounded by how clearly she could see despite the near darkness. A tiny bit of moonlight peeked through the thick canopy, creating subtle patterns on the forest floor, but every feature was remarkably clear. What kind of vampire would I be without night vision, she wondered bitterly.

Her lungs were filled with the crisp, energizing night air, which made her feel oddly alert. Her senses throbbed with an unnatural vigor, even though by all rights she should have been exhausted, her mortal habits urging her to slumber. As he went on, Count Ivar's black cape billowed behind him, the fabric catching the slight breeze. Every now and then, his dark, impenetrable eyes darted toward her, their depths hiding his meaning. Her throat tightened with fear; she dared not inquire as to their destination. Horrible images flashed through her mind—maybe they were headed for the village, where a hideous feast of innocent lives awaited them.

A fork in their route was shortly presented by the path's divide. One path led down toward the valley, where the settlement was tucked away, its lights glimmering dimly like fallen stars. The other turned into a wilder, thicker area of forest, where the underbrush developed into an impenetrable wall and the trees became thick. As she pondered which fate lay ahead, her heart pounded hard.

The silence was finally broken by him, speaking in a clipped and abrupt tone. "In this manner." Once again, his fingers tightened around her wrist, his hold firm and unyielding, drawing her away from the hamlet and toward the darker path. She was astonished, but she suppressed her curiosity, her heart pounding under his icy fingertips.

The woodland seemed to go on forever as they traveled in silence for what seemed like miles. She pushed her lips together and bore the dull pain that pulsed in time with her steps while her wrist ached under his vise-like grip. He stopped suddenly, his body stiffening like a predator spotting its prey.

Even though she had not made a sound, he raised a hand to stop her and said, "Shh."

Tightening her lips, she leaned carefully around his arm to look into the darkness. A faint rustling shook the trees in front of her, and she felt a knot in her gut. For what purpose were they hunting? Stumbling through the bushes, a lost traveler? She conjured up horrific scenes in her mind.

He drew in closer, his breath chilly across her skin as his lips touched her ear. He whispered, "Break its neck first, so the poor creature doesn't feel anything."

She shrank away from him in horror, covering her lips with her palm to stop a gasp. How could he refer to someone as "it" and "creature" with such disinterest? Her head reeled at his callousness, and she felt sick to her stomach.

Although she believed she saw a brief roll of his eyes, a sign of frustration, his face remained expressionless. He turned her firmly into the thicket, his hands gripping her shoulders with an almost painful force.

A stag appeared through the bushes and stepped elegantly into the moonlight. Its rich brown coat sparkled softly, and its antlers lifted magnificently, capturing the faint glow. Unaffected by the threat she had dreaded, its dark eyes possessed a silent knowing.

Incredulous, Rosamund blinked. Not a human, but a stag. She felt a wave of relief wash away the fear, but bewilderment came soon after. Instead, had he sent her here to hunt something?

He softened his tone as he saw the relief and surprise on her face and said, "Go on, you are thirsty."

His words caused a gnawing ache that turned into a devouring hunger, reawakening the thirst she had repressed. Even though human blood was far superior to animal blood, the stag's warm, throbbing life force drew her in and offered a little reprieve.

The ease with which she gave up appalled her. When she finally gave in, it seemed as though her body was acting against her will and watching her do it. She lunged, her hands tightening around the stag's neck with a strength and speed she hadn't realized she had. She snapped its spine, causing a horrible crunch that shattered the silence and echoed across the trees. She sank her teeth deep into the animal's flesh as it crumpled, dead. Her lips filled with hot, dark blood, and she let out a sigh of relief as she drank, the fire in her throat subsiding with each swallow. Lost in the primal deed, she ate it all until the stag was completely depleted.

She gasped as she knelt over the carcass and gazed at its motionless shape, its glassy eyes, its once-glorious physique now a bleeding ruin. Her hands, lips, and nightgown were all marred by blood. Her mouth dropped open in revulsion as the weight of what she had done settled upon her. How did she have such animalistic appetite and such cruelty? She stared at her blood-stained, quivering hands, which felt like they belonged to someone else—a damned thing.

With a linen handkerchief in hand, Count Ivar came closer. His touch, which contrasted sharply with his previous severity, was unexpectedly kind as he took her hands and started cleaning them. She allowed him for a second, stunned, then withdrew, biting her lip to hold back a sob.

Silently, he stood up and extended his hand, saying, "Come, let me take you home."

"Won't you discover something?" Her voice was shaking as she asked.

Uncomfortably, his dark gaze moved away from hers. He hesitated before responding, "No, I'm... satisfied at the moment."

She grimaced as she understood, "With my blood." The recollection of his teeth in her flesh came back to him with a shudder, yet he was still full from eating her the day before.

His lips tightened into a narrow line as a shadow moved across his face. He held out his hand once again. I'll take you home, so come on. Dawn will arrive in a few hours.

Without his help, she stood stubbornly, rubbing at her soiled nightgown, but the stains were still there.

Now that her thirst had been satisfied, the drive back to the castle was more peaceful and the forest didn't seem so overwhelming. She still had a lot of questions and mixed feelings racing through her head. She looked at Count Ivar, but he had no responses and his face was still reserved.

Her emotions were a jumbled mess by the time they arrived at the castle gate. She was seized with horror and agony—she was a blood-drinking monster. She was relieved and felt a peculiar sense of thankfulness, nevertheless, because Count Ivar's decision had saved a human life. Most of all, there was bewilderment. Was this his habit, or had he meant to reassure her? She remembered the stories the peasants told about dead animals but never humans. Maybe they were spared because of his conscience rather than their barriers.

She didn't think he had a conscience, though. She scowled at his ruthless face, his reckless gaze, and his icy hands as he took her by the wrist and pulled her back into the gloomy castle—his unwilling wife. "He's a monster," she adamantly assured herself. He has to be. I must despise him. He was tricking her, lulling her into thinking he was being kind.

She clung to her hatred, thinking that even if he avoided murder, he was still a monster for taking her life and bringing her into this world.

As they made their way into the main bedroom, he slowly released her wrist, whether or not he could sense her turmoil. The chamber was dark and protected from the impending dawn by thick curtains.

The silence was broken as he cleared his throat. He whispered, pointing to an elaborate wooden wardrobe in the corner, "There are dresses in the wardrobe for you."

Perplexed, she looked down at her nightgown, which was now smeared with brownish bloodstains, and saw how unkempt she was.

They fell into an uneasy quiet that was full of unsaid words. He didn't say anything more, but she could feel his eyes linger.

"All right... He unexpectedly exclaimed, "I'll leave you now," and quickly fluttered his coat in a bow.