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Virgins
by T. Lucien Wright
Twins they were, so Margo was told. One a fair-haired girl, the other dark as coal. Their ages, about ten. But their ages mattered little.
Seeing them on the floor, legs crossed, playing with a cat, she felt a stab of pity and a burst of longing. She wanted to ask them, do you know why you were brought here? Do you know what fate awaits you before the next hour arrives? Yet she remained silent, allowing them the bliss of ignorance till the very end.
Wellsly, however, showed more of his true nature. Squatting beside them, which sent the cat scurrying, he said to the dark-haired one, "Tell me, has life been kind to you?"
The poor girl looked at her sister then back at Wellsly. She said nothing, except to nod slowly. Her fear had begun to ripen. Her eyes searched the room, finding Margo’s for only a moment as if somehow she sensed her reticence, then finding her sister's once more. "And have your parents ever talked to you of the hereafter?" Wellsly continued.
At this, the girl's mouth began to quiver and tears gathered in the corners of her oddly bewitching eyes. "Then tell me, little one, what did they tell you? Did they sing the praises of a compassionate and regardful caretaker of heaven itself, of a beneficent savior who would welcome any and all sinners with open arms?"
How strange it was that the fair-haired girl, as if only a captive audience of one, responded ever so differently than her sister. On her face Margo saw only rapt interest, only a desire to respond to what probably seemed to her to be very provocative questioning, an intelligence that was, at first, remarkable and appealing.
But it soon became far less so, for as she began to understand that Wellsly's questions were only a prelude to slaughter, she, too, allowed a great and wrenching fear into her heart. A look into her eyes allowed Margo a view of a young woman--herself--ten years hence, children about her, a handsome husband; a life.
In her mind, Margo heard herself say, "Let them go. Open the door and let them run home." In her heart, where the blood had slowed, she heard something far different. While Wellsly prattled on, she had a quick and conclusive discussion with herself. God will take them in, rest assured. They are but children. And who's to say that on the way home, they won't be set upon and destroyed by other vampires, or by some human taken by their beauty and overwhelmed by his own carnal demands. What a hideous and vile death that would be. And what of disease and the occasional misadventure?
But that other voice, that damnable other voice, would not allow these excursions into rationalization. God, it said, is a fairy tale, a bridge over the dark abyss. Hide if you must in the philosophy of the common man, but don't expect me to keep still about it.
For how long must I question my own methods of survival? she wondered. Is this my own living hell? Wellsly, it appears, left his conscience on the bed of his conception. Then why . . .
By the time Wellsly turned to her, the dark-haired one had already adopted the posture of death, her face no different from the wax that surrounds the base of a candle. "The blood of the young, like this beauty," he said, "runs through our veins at a merry pace. Take her, Margo, take her now and experience her life inside of you."
Looking at her, Margo’s blood seemed to boil. She had yet to drink, not once, and her thirst, as she looked into the girl’s eyes, rose like a hooded snake.
She envisioned herself at her neck, alternately sucking and whispering, telling the girl of her sorrow and offering empty reassurances.
And then it happened. Wellsly burst into a fit of laughter and within moments the twins did the same. "Did you really think I would offer you such a prize?" he said. "After what you have done to me, after how you have treated me, your savior. No, you'll have to earn prizes such as these two."
She could see the nubs of their fangs when the twins stopped laughing, as they slanted their collective gaze at her. It had been a joke. All a joke. And looking at Wellsly, her hatred for him made her suddenly ill. She felt the nausea she had experienced as a mortal and she perceived a fever on her face and a stinging in her eyes.
Wellsly stood then and through a dark scowl, said, "The control here is all mine, Margo. You would do well to remember that."
He took her by the arm but she wrenched away.
"Your thirst will overpower you soon,” he said, “and when it does, you will become a danger to us all. Now come. Drink."
She yielded, really having no choice. He took her to a barn and her real prize, lying naked in a stall.
"Their grandfather," he said.
The man, about eighty, lay with his back against the barn wall, hay strewn about him, partially covering his nakedness, his mouth slightly open, the smell of alcohol strong enough to actually compete with the odor of animal waste.
So emaciated he was, like a boy of twelve, save for the gray stubble on his gaunt face and the glazed look in his eyes. He turned to her, and the beginnings of a smile worked onto his mouth.
"He will suffice," Wellsly said.
And she thought, what does it matter the container in which the wine is served? For the life of her, that is what she thought. And believed. For at that moment, enervated as she was, she could think of nothing else.
He reached up to her as she knelt to him, and in his smile, she detected a trace of arousal.
She bent to him, not at all concerned with how he looked and smelled, interested only in the slight pulse at his neck.
At first, she wondered if this wasn't just another trick, for the blood refused to flow. But as she pulled away, she tasted its beguiling sweetness and her world became a kaleidoscope of pleasures, pulling her in as an ocean current pulls in a child.
Again, Wellsly had to wrest her away, for she had become lost in pleasure, insane with the need to have every ounce of the old man's blood.
She looked down at him for a moment, watching his convulsions, drawn into his collapsing world much as a person atop a mountain is drawn to the valley below.
But she turned away as death drew near, deciding with reluctance, to allow him whatever dignity a foul smelling stall and his own vile nakedness would allow.
He had been her first, but dear God, he most assuredly would not be her last…
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Short Story © T.Lucien Wright, 2005
Illustration © Paul Campbell, 2005
T. Lucien Wright (Tim) is the author of five novels, numerous short stories and nonfiction. He has been teaching writing in all its forms for fifteen years and was the Director of Adult Education at Writers & Books for three years. At present, he has a novel under review at TOR Publishing, and a short story in the Halloween issue of Cemetery Dance Magazine. He teaches writing at various locations, including The Write Book & Gift Shop in Honeoye Falls, and Continuing Education through the Rush Henrietta School District.