Blood Juniper A Vampire Tale - Volume 1 Chapter 70 A Woman Scorned Part 1

I suck at my teeth as two hands clasp my shoulders, fingers creak against the leather sleeves. A flock of color appears in my face and comes colliding with my mouth. The instantaneous attack has me gaping in shock.

I clutch onto the slender shoulders and push at them. Their hands are quick, seizing each forearm and thrusting back like a mousetrap. My struggle weakens as a thick cloud of confusion scrambles my reactionary sense to fight back. It all becomes inconsequential as warmth rolls between my lips, pouring in.

A rush of heat roils behind my eyes. I strain to regain control.

Blood

I attempt to blow it out but the other mouth is relentless, sealing it in.

The damage is done. It’s maddening, the scent is dancing around my head. A blast of sweetness and power.

The flavor is swimming and blossoming along my taste buds. It’s as if the honeyed liquid could transform into a potent bump of cocaine, sparking my system on a molecular level.

It straps itself to the erratic heart in the nearby corner, a fear so raw it makes my knees falter with need. The line is taunt with riotous tugging. It melds with the aggressive physical touch, laced with sensuality. The line blurs, desire is overwhelming and inescapable.

I stumble backwards into the blemished cement wall. The pressure is still on my lips, pushing at my arms, pressing into my chest.

A lascivious tongue lashes against mine, taking possession of my mouth. A violent kiss mixing with the zest of fear infused blood. My head is spinning. The awareness for my surroundings diminishes further, I’m getting lost in this soupy meyhem.

The aggressing hands relents, easing to cup my face and peel my jacket aside as the bold lips become more passionate, devouring my rational thoughts. I’m hungry for it, I feel my eyes rolling back into my head.

S.e.x, violence, fear and blood. It’s all within my reach. My free arm floats aimlessly to accept the hand cradling my jaw.

‘No! This isn’t right.’

I snatch the wrist holding my face and rip myself loose. I thrust, shoving my forearm against their chest. They stumble back.

I slump against the wall, exhaling hard, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. I’m agitated and beyond stupefied. The ravenous yearning to fill my depraved needs hits harder than a succession of punches to the gut. I need to override this hunger but anger is not cutting it.

There’s only one that would galvanize with such a method. Damn this woman!

I hear the female sniveling of a girl cowering in the corner, the owner of the pulse.

It matches blood is still stinging my tongue, warming my throat. Her terror scorches, going up in flames like a dry tree doused in gasoline. She’s bleeding from an open wound; crying, panicking and I want it badly.

I hear Ash shout. Her typically kind voice now coarse with outrage, “What the hell is wrong with you? Stay away from him, you psycho!”

The woman drunkenly cackles in response.

I feel drugged yet acutely aware. That heady fragrance and steady pounding yank at every fiber. A heartbeat in time with my placebo pulse which simply doesn’t exist.

I swallow, it makes the sensation worse. I can taste the living pulse on her neck, feel that creamy, hot human skin.

A hop and a skip and I’m on her. She’s a sweltering furnace after wandering barefoot and in rags through snow. How can I not?

My hand shields my face, covering my eyes and crushing into my temples in attempts to tame this urge. The compulsion to go to the victim, drown in her sobs, the fire spreading in her veins.

My feet are disobedient, walking toward her. That heart is flapping like a dozen pigeon wings.

“Sam! Snap out of it,” fingers curl around my arms and give me a firm shake, “Look at me.”

I bat my lids and slide the hand down the bridge of my nose to peer between my fingers. I see Ashlen’s wolfish irises cocooning mine, brilliant in the dusky alleyway. She looks bewildered, a hint of fury boiling behind her black pupils.

Her mouth goes slack as she oogles the excess of gore wetting my chin. She jerks her head to shake the spell, focusing on me again, “Talk to me. What did she do to you?”

“It was only a kiss,” drawls a husky voice. My gaze darts to the other shape in the backstreet.

Betsy is lazily stretched utop a supply crate, she laps languidly along the crimson painting her bottom lip. Those violet eyes gleam and rabid teeth flash as she chuckles, “With something a little extra.”

A searing aura snakes through the air, enragement twists Ashlen’s mouth. Hatred ignites the two burning suns behind her eyes and pours in a frightening wave.

She arches her neck to give Betsy a glimpse of savagery. Her lips are pulled back, snarling low.

“Aww, did I upset you?” Betsy baits with insincerity. A wash of pleasure crosses her features from the display of hostility. She milks the rising anger for what it’s worth, “Jealous? Do you also yearn for a *taste*?”

The subtle vulgarity isn’t missed by Ashlen and Betsy obtains her undivided attention. Ash rolls her shoulder, hunching with primal ferocity. Her talons press into my arm as they mold into a dangerous shape. She’s ready to stalk over and plant claws and fangs in that femine marrow.

Betsy can be a catty bitch, but this is a step beyond. She’s purposely digging at the emotional volatIlities of our kind. Provoking me is one thing, but doing it to someone new like Ashlen?

She’s actively tempting discord. And the tension is fueling my hankering for violence or intimacy.

That line is blurring again. Not good, I’m not anywhere near a stable frame of mind. This is getting too far out of hand. Where’s my head at? I can’t be checking out like this, damn her!

The feel of Ashlen’s fingers sliding away brings me back to earth. I catch both of her wrists, attacking Betsy will not go over well. Her eyes snap to mine with a threatening look.

“Don’t give her what she wants,” I caution, my voice comes through more collected than I feel.

She adheres, the flame in her irises dim. I ease my hands down the length of her arms to maintain a sense of composure. I don’t know if I’m doing it for her or myself.

I notice Betsy’s faint disappointment, failing to get the desired reaction. Though, not discouraging enough, I’m afraid.

Betsy glides over like a phantom shadow to the mistreated girl, balled up and bound in the unwashed corner. The woman cries out as she’s forced to stand. She begins to sob loudly, it’s muffled by a loosely tied gag.

A suppressed shriek sounds again as Betsy bares her neck, yanking the hair at the scruff of it like a small dog.

“Shh, Shh. Not so loud or I’ll have to cut out your tongue,” she coos in the ear of the girl.

The victim’s eyes bobble side to side like dark quaking pebbles in rippling water. She’s on the cusp of a panic attack.

Her open shirt is hanging off one shoulder, the seamed edge is lined with frayed scraggly strings rather than the buttons that recently popped, missing and scattered about. The mouthwatering toffee of her arm and neck is exposed, only a black spaghetti strap working to obscure the alluring neckline.

The woman’s chest heaves from rapid breaths, sparkling tears gush from the ducts, leaving flaky charcoal makeup in trails, lining the bags of her eyes.

I notice her neck trickling from a clean gash and clench my jaw. It’s beckoning with its swirl of red and steady flow, pooling into the dip of her cleavage. Ashlen shifts uncomfortably, rocked by Betsy’s teasing.

Betsy unites the gag and the girl’s teeth chatter behind twitching plump lips as if suffering from hypothermia. She runs her nails up and down the victim’s neck and shoulder in purposeful strokes. That radiant color is warm and enticing, I covet the heat of it.

Betsy’s fingers glide to her wrist and wrap in an artful twist. She watches us as her lips press to the golden flesh, riding along a vein in the healthy arm.

“Help,” the woman mouths in a faint whisper, “Please help.”

Ash’s fingers return to my arms and cling to me, digging in. My hands are still cupped to her’s, the illusion of a life line.

Betsy knows what buttons to push and does it too well. She bites down, slowly and seductively. The woman spasms from fright rather than pain. A small squeak slips out before quieting into pittful mewling. That display of panic stirs my gut, it aches for another taste.

I exhale slowly, careful about the intake. My fingers curl into Ashlen’s flesh as I command, “That’s enough.”

Betsy lifts her head, staring up at me. She licks her lips with a quick tongue like a cat. She then drags her tongue across the wound, keeping eye contact.

“Your girlfriend is as ravenous as you,” she remarks against the woman’s skin. Her eyes flick to Ash, “I can see it in your eyes, kiddo. I’m feeling generous so I’ll share. Even give you the honor of the kill.”

“No,” Ashlen’s voice is hoarse yet firm. She steps closer into me. I feel the tension ease as her scent washes over me, a merciful consolation of oranges.

“Whatever,” she shrugs, “it looks like Sam’s too attached anyway. Greedy as always,” her lips stretch into a smile against the trembling girl, “Show her how to play, Sam. Kill her for us. I *know* what the real you craves.”

My teeth scr.a.p.e together as they lengthen. The faint sample in my mouth goads for a real taste.

I gaze at the woman, her widened eyeballs are like mirrors to the past as the omen of deathly emerald bounces back. Betsy may be many things but she doesn’t lie to herself. She knows what she is, what I am. Monsters.

Not so long ago I would have toyed with a girl like this, no hesitation. I recollect the many faces of those Betsy and I tormented. All types, we didn’t discriminate. Each experience unique though the end results were often the same.

It took so little coaxing to bring this forward, I hoped I was past this. Suppose not, I have no self control.

As awful as it is, I’m unable to deny that I *do* still long for the tastethat irreplicable feeling of the kill. I’m constantly haunted by it. It’s a reminder that corruption never fully leaves once invited, no matter how brief the intended visit.

I would have felt nothing but the bliss of fulfillment for sating my twisted desires and questionable needs. Will it be as enjoyable as it once was?

Does ecstasy override guilt? My guilt is tainted anyway, it doesn’t spawn from empathy. It’s all a cheap manufacturing, not naturally there.

Why do I struggle against my own nature? She’s right, I am not human and will never know humanity again. It’s a fool’s errand to believe my resistance is anything but futile.

My inclinations are vile, I no longer have the capacity for benevolence.

It’s pointless to fight what I am.

My gaze lingers on the bite mark beading on the girl’s left arm, it’s knitting itself back together a bit faster than normal from Betsy’s saliva. The neck wound is perfect as if brushed by an artist, wet and dripping to entice around the dips and curves.

She’s scared but hasn’t even scratched the surface of real fear, I can fix that.

‘Give in. Let it all go.’

‘Steal her last breath.’

My foot shifts in the chipping cement to answer the call of the woman’s blood.

You win, Betsy. I *want* to hear her scream.

I stare into those eyes and halt. Not only green but bumblebee yellow reflects off the girl’s polished scleras like traffic lights in the rain. Ashlen’s eyes.

Ash is here with me, I forgot about everything for a moment. I’m not the only one fighting myself. She isn’t evil, corrupt or monstrous. There’s no redemption for myself, but I can keep her from falling into this garbage. I can protect her.

I don’t have to be this.

I look up, holding Betsy’s gaze with coldness, letting citrus and flowers cleanse my mind.

Betsy’s eyes narrow, “You can only pretend for so long.”

I disregard the blood trailing down the girl’s lovely skin. I push aside the scent of rising terror and don’t let it excite me.

I do something I don’t think I could’ve done a few years ago. I ignore it, all of it.

She may know my compulsions but I’m not this way anymore.

I pull Ash closer and whisper, “We’re leaving.”

A spark of predatory rage kindles in those purple loops. It stretches over Betsy’s features, warping them into something foreign and lethal.

I meet her gaze with a mutual threat, I let it fill my chest, “We’re finished. I better not see you again.”

Her chilling countenance doesn’t budge, it’s not easy to rattle someone who’s lived as long as she has.

Her eyes are unblinking. The girl’s pulse struggles in her chest like a rat in a cage, she whimpers in Betsy’s clutch, “Please, I want to go home.”

Ashlen fidgets, I glance down to catch empathy and self dissension well up inside her. Our hands are tied, we can’t do anything for her.

I shift my attention back, noticing Betsy’s startling pose. Her energy flays out, writhing around her like rattlesnake tails. She leers at Ashlen. I’ve never seen a more vicious and heinous filled face.

I growl low in my chest, “It’s over, Done!”

Those irises are a blaze of orchids as they flick back to me.

I return a warning glare burning behind my own sockets. I prompt Ash to go ahead of me and step away when I get the sense Betsy won’t rush me as I do. I cautiously pad the floor as if it will crumble with the wrong step.

I don’t like having my back to Betsy, she’s been so erratic. I just want to get the hell out of this alley, but running would be a bad decision and send the wrong message. None of our options are certain.

I keep the image of her in my mind and place a mental target if I sense a shift. This alley seems like it’s getting longer with each step.

A slash and choked gurgling has Ashlen and I whirling around. The girl collapses to her knees, clutching at a slice dividing her throat like a splitting hinge.

Red spurts forward, an uncontrollable mess like puncturing an oil drum. The gargling and rasping makes my own throat feel tight. The bouquet of her is thick in the alleyway.

Her face drains of color, eyes like two golf balls reeling skyward, still pleading, terrorized. Her mouth is a goldfish bobbing on bubbles as she chokes, fingers convulse against the fatal wound.

Ashlen’s hands are cupping her mouth and nose. Her breath is shaky beneath. Those glowing eyes are filled with horror, sheer disgust for the abominable show and possibly an urge to bathe in it.

It’s a traumatizing sight, and that’s why it’s so easy to hate myself, because I’m more tantalized by it. I want to latch on to the fountain raining from her neck, drink in that dread and destruction.

It’s a shimmering river, swelling with life and honey sweet. A waste, it seems more sinful to watch her die than escort her to the grave.

And as always, I’m standing here useless.