The Vampire's Edenian Inamorata

His Captive

Ÿ Sövkú çî sælękzïf` etq ję dëzįrrż ÿ säøzi ü mórtwåž. Wœl çî ōuln vår`ñ jâ cęf åkkd å læskä?

(The Devil is selective, for he desires the souls of mortals. What is one more if he can add a leash?)

Shaking the memories of old, Sövœk hovered over Tôpęshnå. He relished her nakedness. Her attempt to cover her breasts drove him mad, so he gripped her wrists and pinned them above her.

She yelped, kicking about to escape.

His nails dug into her flesh, piercing it. Her essence hugged his nose, and the urge to feed returned. He was, however, impressed with how instantaneous her recovery was. He laughed, releasing her.

“You were blessed by him,” he stated, more to himself than her. “This won’t do.” He flew to the ceiling and lay across the slab above her. He studied her as she drew the pelts over herself.

Customarily, a female mortal cowered and fled from his presence. Tôpęshnå was designed to withstand him, Sövœk realized.

It was said that Ęrêmø sought Jäcûlę’s guidance to protect his precious beings. Just as submissive as the darkness she brought with her at dusk, she reluctantly obliged his aspirations.

For centuries, they failed to thwart Sövœk’s creatures of night. His grew in number, while Ęrêmø’s expeditiously dwindled. Because of Jäcûlę’s light lasting longer than day, Sövœk was able to pillage and reap small tribes—that which meant little to their God of Sun. This, however, made him crave their blood more and more. And as time went on, he had lost himself.

He blinked, discerning the fiery gaze of violet and silver. He mocks me, Sövœk thought to himself as a sinister smile crept on his face. “How is that you came to be?” he asked.

Tôpęshnå looked away, kneading the fur strands. “I…” Her ears tinted bright pink, and her button nose creased. “Your cunning tongue will never break me.” She stared back up at him.

“Mÿęnū,” he groaned, “My tongue would send your flesh into agonizing bliss.” Dropping from the ceiling, Sövœk landed above her ankles.

She shrieked, crawling back from him.

“My tongue,” he continued, writhing her way, “would create a divine river of nectar from your pulsating flower.” He grasped her ankles and dragged her toward him. He leaned forward, his body blanketing her heated skin as his lips pressed against her ear. “But my tongue savors only what my teeth prey for… What my body so desperately craves…”

“Only evil craves flesh,” she muttered, her fists clenching.

He snickered and lifted his head to gaze upon her vapid eyes. “Evil was once good. Molded with pure intentions and a benevolent spirit. But its love for the weak made it bitter and wild like that of a lion in an unrelenting desert. Starving. Distraught. Lonely.”

A gasp escaped her quivering, puckered lips. Faint and delicious. And her n*****s hardened, grazing his chiseled but smooth chest.

His tongue clicked on the roof of his mouth. “It appears you are, too.” He nibbled on her earlobe, satisfied with her whimpers and hushed moans.

“Cease this, demon!” she belted, digging her nails into his chest.

He stopped and muttered, “You are in no position to refuse a god his right to eat.”

“You are no god,” she stammered, pushing against him. “This is known.”

“To mortals with a maniac lord? I suppose it is so. But I am much more than fickle light, Little Dove,” Sövœk chuckled before grasping a chunk of her locks and crushing his lips against the crook of her neck. To him, she was soft petals that graced his aching lips. Even the salty beads that rolled down her skin caught in the crevices between his flesh and teeth, reminding him of the crisp scent of apple water from the golden river. Both intoxicating and calm.

Sövœk could not fathom her belonging to any one man, nor his detested half, Ęrêmø. But her existence—his bane in the aftermath of Genesis—corrupted his visions. Purging notions of the menial, physical delights he often perceived from his many days of sleep. Again, he was pulled once more to the spacious retreat. Her sweet mewls filled his ears, and a tingling sensation resonated in his chest. A low growl escaped him, and her moans fled through the cracks of the marble wall beside them.

Stampedes of soles were ushered up the steps outside the door. As he did in the river, Sövœk morphed into specks of dust and melded with the pelts beneath her.

Before her unexpected visitors entered, Tôpęshnå covered herself in the robe that hung from a thick sting beside a wooden cupboard, then sat at the edge of the bed.

Eleven men entered, with a frail woman trailing behind them. The first to breach the door was a corpulent gibber with a snarling lip. He stared at the dainty mortal goddess and fell to his knees. “Mÿęnū… Mÿęnū!” he wailed. “Bless you. For you are safe within the walls of His light. We heard your cries. Now, we are here. May you bless us with your knowledge and grace!”

Tôpęshnå bowed her head, with gratification filling in her angelic smile. “Êyį vøl,” she replied. “It is through Light, alone, that we are graced with His presence. The air we breathe is his gift. A gift that fills our vessels with life. Think naught of me but of his merciful spirit.”

As she spoke to the man, the others kneeled. Their lips trembled in her presence. She looked upon them, and they pressed their noses into the floor, kissing the ground.

These disciples, as Ęrêmø discerned many moons ago, were devoted to his teachings. But they were pernicious asses draped in tsahob yellow robes and scarlet sashes.

Observing them from the pelts, Sövœk chuckled to himself. He regarded them as sickly men; disgusting swine who hungered for Tôpęshnå’s spiritual tongue and forbidden fruit. For he struggled to contain his scattered spirit within the furs, too.

The last of the disciples—the frail woman, Įyúlö—stumbled across the floor toward the bath. She glanced about the waters and spotted a robe—one that Sövœk had discarded earlier. Silently, the woman retrieved the garment and hid it amongst a pile of wood that was ready to burn. The woman, aged and spotted with specks of red clay, was aware of a dark presence. But she knew naught of where it hid. So, for safe measure, she spread dried rue and rosemary along the borders where the walls collided with the floor.

How unfortunate for Sövœk’s inhabitants at night. Apart from sunlight, rue and rosemary induced convulsions and catalepsy, forcing their bodies to compose a rigid, stonelike form. Most never survived this fate, as they often faced the rising sun.

Įyúlö tapped her foot against a tabret that lay next to the fire pit. The jingling of the instrument’s zills signaled the men to depart the temple. After the large man, now the last to leave, trudged down the stairs, Įyúlö shut herself in the room with Tôpęshnå. She turned and said, “A demon is among us, Tôpęshnå. We must cleanse you with the sacred water of Aüstøsæ.” Then, she paced toward a covered bucket and sea sponge.

Shaking her head, Tôpęshnå replied, “I have already bathed in the river. Purifying myself a second time will have no effect.” She shivered from the sudden movement of tiny grains collecting under her thighs. “I fear that my time at the river exhausted my spirit. Collect me at dawn, Įyúlö. You may tend to the ritual then.”

Reluctant, Įyúlö approached Tôpęshnå with the sponge and bucket in hand. “Evil is here, Tôpęshnå. Ęrêmø granted me as your protector. I will not fail Him.”

“Please, Węlnœ. I beg of you. It is better that I am alone. Ęrêmø bestowed many gifts, but mine are necessary to face these beasts. How am I to be like Him if I cannot contend with cunning, vengeful spirits?”

Įyúlö froze, contemplating what to do. Nodding, she plodded toward the door, setting the sponge and bucket down, then exited without another word.

Sighing, Tôpęshnå lay on her side and rested her eyes. She wriggled, however, as the dust shifted in the pelts and surrounded her form.

Amused by the sensitivities of her concealed flesh, Sövœk absorbed himself into the fabric of her robe, inhaling her scent and delighting in her warmth. And he whispered to her, “Purification rituals epitomize the savagery and fear in weak mortals; none of which are consequential to me. For I am the first and last of the demons they will encounter. And so it will be that you turn to me when He casts you aside when his disciples learn of our arrangement.”

“You can not tempt me, Demon!” she proclaimed. “I am of His flesh and blood. My faith, alone, will never falter—”

Gulping, Tôpęshnå stiffened. She struggled to breathe as her airways caved from the invisible force of Sövœk’s hand, but her facial composure remained neutral.

“So be it, Little Dove,” Sövœk continued. “However, it is not you who faces temptation. You…” He groaned from inviting wafts of apple water permeating from her locks to mingle in his nostrils. “Indulge my hunger until my belly is filled. Though, I am glutenous by nature. Expect less from my promise of ceasing my feeding. May your disciples never know of me, lest you wish them death.” He released her and returned to his physical form, then fled the room from an opened window, avoiding the scattered herbs.

Frozen with glossy eyes, Tôpęshnå exhaled, weeping as a coughing fit ensued. Then, she covered herself in furs and succumbed to darkness. And the crescendo of crickets at the temple’s base soothed her trembling body.