Chapter Text
Styria (Austria) 1860
The coarse bristles of the brush dragged against Chuuya’s scalp and her face twisted in a grimace. If she was not seated before the looking glass, her expression might have gone unnoticed.
Nakahara Chuuya was a young woman on the cusp of emerging in society; she was ripe for correction. It was a task that her governess Kouyou tirelessly rose to each day. With a sharp tsk of her tongue and a perfectly manicured hand, Kouyou twisted Chuuya's face toward her own and modeled in perfect alacrity what a young woman’s expression should look like.
Kouyou’s fingers lightly angled Chuuya’s face toward her own and the orbital bounce of candlelight caught in her rosy hued hair. It was a wordless request: mirror me.
Chuuya stifled a sigh and relaxed her face until Kouyou was appeased. The older woman returned to her task of raking the brush through Chuuya's long hair again once she was satisfied enough with the performance.
A grim malediction for whoever dictated the nature of women in polite society rested on the tip of Chuuya’s tongue.
It had always been difficult for her to sit still for long periods of time. She would grow restless, kicking her feet and stretching out in an unladylike fashion that earned her endless scoldings from Kouyou and her father. She was expected to make her entrance in society by her twenty-third birthday; an event that had been delayed because her father did not wish to be parted from her so soon.
It was expected for Chuuya to be able to exhibit propriety at all times and that each turn of her face should usher a shower of compliments for how beautiful she moved through the world- for how accomplished she was.
And yet, her list of accomplishments so far was woefully short.
Her attempts at needlework caused Kouyou to sprout graying hairs. Chuuya was hopeless at piano and never sat still when she should be reading. Chuuya sought excitement, action.
It was with envy that she watched men ride out for the hunt from the village, longing to join them and feel the rush of riding horseback through the shadowy woods.
But she was never permitted as she was of the ‘female constitution’ and believed to be too fragile to prove an asset to their manly endeavors.
Chuuya could, however, ride her horse to the edge of the thicket in the woods and look out to where the mouth of the river met the pond. The body of water was fringed by bright green leaves fanning out like swans’s wings all along its bank. She could strip her clothes from her body and sink into the cool water but it did not diminish her desire for more.
Kouyou was adept at dissuading her very vocal lamentations.
“It is not a sin to long for heaven,” Kouyou counseled her while smoothing Chuuya’s dress on a particularly bright morning. The fabric was crinkled and damp from wading in the pond in front of the schloss. “It is a sin to want though.”
“How can that be?” Chuuya shielded her eyes with the back of her hand. It was a balmy day and she felt hot in the many layers of clothing. Soon she would likely develop a headache. “If God made us, why give us hearts to want at all?”
There was so much that Chuuya desired. If their home were not so isolated by the copse of Styrian wood, rolling valleys, and verdant hills, she might have the entire world at her fingertips. Vienna was not so far from their schloss, or so she had been told.
A swan settled on the center of the pond, drawing its wings inward while a ripple of water trailed from behind its light body.
Was it truly wrong to desire to visit the city, learn how its people moved through the world, how they loved one another and made conversation? Surely, life outside of their isolated home would be exciting, hearts would beat differently, perhaps faster with anticipation at the wideness of the world.
Chuuya’s lips had only just parted to make another inquiry when Kouyou silenced her with a pat upon her head.
“You must learn to quiet your desires, dear one,” Kouyou cautioned. “Or they will rule you.”
But the echoes of Chuuya’s heart seemed to only harbor the lament of her wanting, despite the knowledge that such things were unladylike and should be smothered.
With the frost of winter melted, the marrow of spring bloomed across the land. A breeze light as a caress carried the scent of daffodils into Chuuya’s candlelit bedroom.
The spring equinox festival was tonight and the thin grasp that Chuuya had on her yearning felt worn to a singular thread. Kouyou would chaperone her to the village that was around a mile from their schloss and then she would be expected to behave while amongst the villagers, exemplifying the grace and beauty that accompanied her rank.
The festival called for the dramatic, the grab of mythology, and the ostentatious. It would likely evolve into a night of over indulgence by many. Chuuya was outfitted in the gown of Persophone, the Greek Goddess of spring. The skirts of her dress were tiered in a blush colored tulle with sleeves that billowed about her wrists like silk. A pretty gold brocade fabric emphasized the ridge of her collarbones and trailed down with small winks of embroidered gems between her breasts.
“Just a bit longer,” Kouyou promised as she fussed at the hair at the back of Chuuya’s head. She was to look the part of a pre-raphaelite heroine with her long hair worn loose down the back, adorned with a crown of small flowers.
“I do loathe sitting still for this long, Kouyou,” she murmured. “Surely, I must look presentable enough now?”
Kouyou hummed in thought and worked for another five unbearable minutes. When she was done Chuuya looked like she had been born from the paintbrush of Rosetti or Waterhouse and belonged in one of the great artworks that she had heard men and women rave about. The luminous white of her skin and rich depth of her hair seemed to glow in the glass.
When she twisted in front of the mirror, small white blooms winked at her every time she turned her head. Kouyou squeezed her shoulder encouragingly. “You’ve always been beautiful, but tonight there is something otherworldly about you, dear. As if you’re a faerie who has crossed to the mortal side for a few hours.”
“That’s a bit ridiculous, even for you,” Chuuya replied and shook her head. The fabric of her dress made quiet susurrations with every movement. “Can we leave? I so want for something exciting to occur tonight- anything to hold us over until someone interesting comes to visit.”
“You must be satisfied with what you are given, Chuuya.”
The list of things she must do as a lady seemed to increase in volume each day. It was necessary for her posture to mirror the magazines of French women poised in the restrictive forests
“I cannot help desiring it anyway,” she argued. “I hardly care if it’s bad at this point so long as it interrupts how dull everyday has felt lately.”
Kouyou shook her head in disapproval. “Nothing good will come of that attitude. Now, you must listen to your father’s wishes and not indulge in drink tonight,” Kouyou leveled a pointed finger at Chuuya. “It will only amplify your impulses.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Chuuya grumbled.
“Drink results in headaches and mountains of regret,” Kouyou trapped a strand of hair between her fingers to fix it. “Such things only sound inconvenient because you have not experienced them yet.”
Chuuya’s brow furrowed. How could anything ever be quite as severe as Kouyou let on? “Do you speak from experience?”
She watched red bloom on Kouyou’s cheeks and the woman turned back to collect scattered flowers into her woven basket. “I read novels, as you know.”
“I’m certain that authors often exaggerate in order to improve their story,” Chuuya observed. She rose from her cushioned seat and wandered to the pointed arch window. The latch was open allowing a sigh from night to seep in.
Chuuya felt as if she were a kettle containing boiling water. The feelings she had concealed for so long, so patiently in order to spare her father pain- the loneliness that came with their isolation in the countryside, bubbled to the surface with resounding intensity.
It had been half a year since anyone her age came to visit them. Though their land was idyllic she was a social creature and it was difficult to bear existing on the edge of the world as they did.
Kouyou counseled that once Chuuya met a kind young man of means and good family name that her loneliness would lessen. She would be entertained and not desire city life because her world would tip. Chuuya would inherit the mantle passed to all daughters and with it the fulfillment that came with marriage.
But such things had never held much appeal to Chuuya.
She was lonely, bored even, but she did not want to meet a man and simply live the same life while trapped in his house. The thought was intolerable.
It would be much better, and far more exciting, to meet a woman. Women were not tied to expectations. Women were fun.
Chuuya longed to be pulled into the orbit of the female form, to share conversation behind the crinkle of her fan and fall into each other’s confidence as their heels clacked on the cobblestone streets in Vienna. She supposed that even her home could become easier to bear with a companion.
And if there was a deeper pull in Chuuya, the quickening of her heartbeat at the thought of soft skin against hers, the warmth exchanged in an embrace, witty words serving as their own form of sustenance, she did not voice them aloud. Some people simply preferred to be surrounded by women. Kouyou was that way. It was only natural for Chuuya to adopt the nature of the woman who practically raised her.
It was what Chuuya had assured herself for years; her own inclinations were the result of an inherited preference for companionship. It was what she told herself when the thought of a woman pressed into the sheets beneath her made her lower abdomen heat with a desire she had to use her fingers in the secrecy of night in order to ward off.
With time, she told herself, she would learn to feel that way for men. She could desire them, pleasure them, succumb to the fate of all women and reduce herself to little more than a creature to service their needs.
The inevitability of it felt suffocating.
“I will try to be content, Kouyou,” Chuuya summoned every ounce of vehemence she had in the assurance. “Though I cannot promise I won’t feel otherwise.”
She received a pat on her head as though she were still a child. “You must bear it as best you can. Your father has long retired for the night, so we can head out directly.”
The dregs of winter lingered in the air as the black carriage drove into town, making Chuuya tug her sleeves over her cold hands. The road was old and worn from daily travel, shipments of grain and other imports making their way into the village for trade. Chuuya kept her face pressed against the fogged over window the entire ride, anticipation brimming inside her.
Rolling fields and hills fringed the majority of the ride, then came the dark forest which stopped abruptly at the town’s edge as if a hand hand plucked all of the fell trees out of the earth just to make room for the homes that ornamented it.
The majority of the newer homes were constructed from pale wood and stone, making them sturdy enough to weather the winters. The homes in the inner ring of the town center were stone and bore the striking gothic style architecture, arched windows and ribbed ceilings that marked the era. It was a dramatic sight to witness, especially with the green leaves and shrubberies from the forest framing the entirety of the scene.
Superstition drew the majority of the townsfolk to the church that lay just outside the town. It was nestled in an attractive clearing and crimson roses licked up the sides of the stone edifice winking against the stone.
Chuuya had been informed that over the past decades investigations consisting of military units and detectives and religious affiliates (with a personal stake in the business) had taken to the region to confirm the validity of rumors about a “vampire epidemic.”
Official records listed a total of thirty bodies dug up, staked, and then burned in an attempt to purge the earth of the evil of vampirism. Each wave of suspicion drew people to the church in droves, eager to fortify their souls and consequently save themselves from becoming prey to a vampire or worse- becoming one.
Such notions lost their charm when Chuuya entered her twenties. Each time an illness struck the area, wasting diseases or respiratory hardship, the people were quick to stab the finger of blame at the supernatural. There would be a public inquisition, people accused, and corpses dug up to be burned.
Then, when the fever lifted and the public was satisfied, they safeguarded their homes with holy water and crucifixes to ward off evil.
It was a morbid cycle that the town passed through but one that framed the twenty-two years of Chuuya’s life in Styria. She had heard whispers of inquisitions and investigations being worse in other neighboring regions- namely Romania.
The wheels of the carriage came to a stop on the stone paved street and the door was opened for their descent. Nakajima Atsushi, who was the ward of one of the wealthier single women in town, bounded toward the carriage just as the driver was helping Chuuya down.
The girl was a year younger than Chuuya and had only arrived in town that year. Their friendship was encouraged by Chuuya’s father and Atsushi’s guardian, Akkiko Yosano.
Atsushi might have jumped up and down in excitement if Yosano’s hand did not rest on her shoulder to correct her. Chuuya watched a blush bloom on her cheeks at her mistake.
“You are both much too hyperactive,” Kouyou shook her head in displeasure from the carriage. Kouyou was the only woman Chuuya knew who derived true pleasure from correcting bad behavior.
“Surely we are permitted this one night,” Chuuya argued.
A soft sigh escaped Kouyou in response. “If you remain in one another’s company for the evening, I will overlook mild lapses in your comportment.”
Chuuya beamed in response.
Atsushi was clad in a white gauzy gown that complimented her slim figure and pale hair that was braided over her shoulder. Normally, their costuming would garner scandal, but the equinox festival was a unique exception.
“I’m Theia!” She announced in excitement. Her hands clapped together and then she passed an eye over Chuuya’s dress. “And you’re obviously Persophone, how fitting!”
“That’s right,” Chuuya smiled. “You look great too.”
Kouyou descended from the carriage and extended her hand to the modiste, Yosano rather than the driver, who took her white gloved hand in her own and then linked their arms together closely. She whispered something to the governess and pulled her closer when she giggled.
Yosano was Hecate with her unusually short dark hair worn half-up, a fashion she assured everyone was prevalent in Paris, and Kouyou was Aphrodite beside her.
Chuuya would be lying if she said she did not envy their intimacy.
Noticing her wistful stare, Atsushi took Chuuya’s arm in her own cheerfully. She had a habit of wanting to manage the emotions of everyone around her, to keep spirits lifted and was generally very apt to notice even the smallest changes in anyone’s emotional exterior.
“Yosano says that this bonfire will be even larger than any year before. I’m sure people have come from all around to see it and join the village. Maybe even from as far as Vienna or the surrounding countries.”
Chuuya offered her a smile. “One can only hope.”
Atsushi came from a neighboring farm. Her family fell ill with a respiratory illness that claimed them all when she was very young. The girl inherited the farm but was reduced to the role of servant by debt collectors and then later evicted from the property when the only copy of her family’s will was destroyed.
Atsushi was very transparent about her past and it seemed to make her gratitude for her situation and residence with Yosano even greater. Normally, it would be an odd friendship or seem even as if Chuuya were doing charity by associating herself with Atsushi because the gap in their stations was so large. But Chuuya was genuinely glad of their friendship and it never felt like work to be in Atsushi’s presence.
On Sundays they would venture into the town in the early morning for mass and then spend the day at Yosano’s completing dress fittings and trying on the latest fashions until evening vespers. It was a welcome change to the mundane nature of Chuuya’s usual schedule and Atsushi, though riddled with anxiety, was generally quite adept at conversation.
The mouth of the road led into the town square where the annual maypole dance was occurring. Torches lit the streets in a warm light illuminating young girls cavorting around the pole twisting bright and pastel colored ribbons around it in a pretty pattern.
“Come on,” Atsushi tugged Chuuya forward and they joined the fray, making to weave the ribbons in a dance older than memory with the other young women and girls.
Chuuya eagerly fell into step with the other girls, joining laughter that floated over the din of music that stirred the night. Her feet kept the tempo with musicians coaxing a whimsical tune from their stringed instruments.
As Chuuya spun she caught glimpses of Kouyou and Yosano watching on with contented expressions. Satisfying Kouyou was nearly impossible but at this moment, Chuuya had obtained her favor and she threw her head back while singing along with the other girls.
Spring will come again, people say.
Yet I am heartsick.
Nothing will happen when spring comes;
That child will not come again.
The song was an old one, the lamentation of a father who lost his child and the depth of a heartache that leeched into the warmth of cyclical seasons. An agony time could not dispel, revived on the tongues of children whose lives were untouched by sorrow.
When the ribbons were all twined around the pole, Chuuya severed herself from the fray, rested her hands on her hips breathlessly, and leaned against one of the stone walls on the outer edge of the square to catch her breath.
The crowd had increased in volume exponentially. She had lost sight of Atsushi, Kouyou, and Yosano and craned her neck to search for them in the faces milling about.
“Chuuya,” a voice called and her head turned.
It was Shirase, the son of the village blacksmith. He was leaning against a bent tree, one foot crossed over his ankle with his lip tugging upward. Shirase’s face was one that was always stained with mischief, no matter how hard he tried to scrub himself clean of it.
Chuuya approached his spot at the treeline eagerly, forgetting the others in her excitement and Shirase caught her in an embrace. It was a greeting that carried on from childhood and was likely too informal now to be allowed to continue. But no one would see them in the shadowy edge of the wood.
Shirase’s hand lingered in her hair a breath too long before Chuuya pulled away. “I didn’t realize you were back in town.”
“I wanted to surprise you,” he grinned and passed an indulgent look over her body. “I was hoping to catch you here or would have gone to the schloss to see you. Chuuya, I have to say, you look-”
“How is Vienna?” Chuuya interrupted, hardly able to stop herself from the inquiry. It was unladylike, she knew, but impulse won over her better sense.
A winkle formed in his brow but it smoothed just as quickly. “Ah, the city. Same old, worn out place as it’s always been I suppose.”
“It can hardly be old or worn out in comparison to here,” Chuuya half argued at his dismissal. “Tell me about it.”
Shirase ruffled her hair making some of the petals from her flower crown tumble loose. He did not seem to notice. “Come on, let’s have some real fun.”
Chuuya cast a backward glance at the square. “I’m with Atsushi. I can’t just leave her and Kouyou.”
“It will be just for a moment,” he promised. Shirase always found fun things to do. Nevermind if they were likely ill advised for a young man studying to become a lawyer in the city who was only able to do so through the financial strain of his father. Nevermind the fact that he should know better now that he was considered a gentleman.
Shirase had years to learn the nature of Chuuya’s heart. He knew that she wanted to hear all about his time in Vienna since his departure and that he could come up with exciting things for them to do. The prospect of breaking the fever that seemed to settle upon her that evening, the opportunity for fun, coaxed Chuuya to follow Shirase into the trees.
Their walk through the wood was not far and he held her hand firmly the entire time. Their path was lit by torches placed along the path and opened in a small clearing where Shirase’s younger sister, Yuan, was seated on a log. Her feet swung idly beneath her and her head was tipped back so she could admire the expanse of dark sky.
Chuuya often preferred the poetry of night rather than the stark light of day too. She enjoyed the way shadows became playful and candlelight dictated which areas of black would be illuminated. Her one accomplishment was painting. And light, or lack thereof, was a fascinating subject for her to study.
Chuuya withdrew her hand from Shirase’s at the sight of Yuan and took a seat beside her soundlessly. She bumped the other’s shoulder affectionately.
“Chuuya!” Yuan exclaimed in a slur and threw her arms around the other girl. “I don’t know which of us missed you more! Have you come to join our little party? There are others- oh they are somewhere that direction, I don’t know.” Yuan broke off in a giggle and gestured to her brother. “Serve the lady, brother.”
Shirase made a theatrical scoff and busied himself with a long necked bottle and goblet. He extended it to Chuuya and their hands brushed when she accepted it. “Damn, Chuuya,” he covered her hand with his. “Your hands are cold again already.”
“I’ll manage,” she rose to the challenge. “I can always put them in my pockets.”
“I could warm them for you,” he grinned. “But if you drink that, it will help.”
Chuuya looked down into the goblet with a raised brow. “What is it?”
“Ecstasy,” Yuan supplied dramatically.
Shirase had that same mischievous grin playing at his mouth. “Don’t worry, it doesn’t taste foul or anything.” His hand covered hers.
But Chuuya wasn’t worried. Not about the drink anyway.
Shirase’s hands were larger than her own. They were not the same hands from childhood that carried callouses from working in the blacksmith’s forge. Now they were smooth from pursuing education.
Chuuya promised Kouyou she would try to be content with the events of the night but it seemed that her fortune was such that she was to be entertained. If she or her father learned of Chuuya sneaking into the woods with a man and drinking, they would likely both have a conniption. But she could always conceal the truth. It would be rude to reject hospitality.
The energy that had been brimming in her all evening swelled like a tidal wave claiming rocky shore and she lifted the goblet to her lips in a maneuver that shook Shirase’s hands clean off her own.
Chuuya drank deeply. After all, how would anyone even know that she consumed drink at all?
Heavy velvet curtains were drawn over the windows to prevent light from sneaking in. It did little to improve the headache lingering in the space between Dazai’s eyebrows. The pain spread behind her eyes, blooming in a burning sensation that left her seeking solitude.
Her chambers were not fully furnished yet, Hirotsu still milled about in the annex above the church- the priest and curate’s quarters- unpacking both her and her father’s luggage. Every time he moved across the floor, the wooden boards would creak in a symphony of labor.
He was diligent in his profession as her servant and possessed an attention to detail he claimed to be essential to his craft. Dazai had been lounging on her bed with The Castle of Otranto. When she reached the fourth time trying to read a paragraph, she deposited the title back onto the stack on her nightstand and descended the spiral staircase into the quiet of the church below.
It was a drafty, gothic space with arched, stained glass windows that were more ornamental than functional and let in every gasp and shudder of wind. Dazai ghosted down the aisle, soundlessly passing the pad of her fingers over the smooth oak pews. She settled in a shadowy corner with a particularly large window and pinched the bridge of her nose between two fingers.
When she opened her eyes again, a fallen butterfly upon the windowsill caught her attention. Its wings, long dead, twitched as a particularly strong gust of wind struck the church.
She tucked a leg beneath her body and propped her chin on her palm. Dazai traced the swell of the butterfly’s wing, mapping its curves and studying the inky black and red spots that adorned the once mighty creature.
Like a flower picked in its prime, she observed almost mournfully. Dazai almost envied the pitiful creature. Soon, decay would claim its small corpse and the ephemeral wings would roll away into dust on the earth.
“Dazai?” Her father’s voice interrupted her musings. When the congregation was not in attendance, sounds would echo ever so slightly throughout the space. It was
“I’ve memorized them by now,” came her riposte. She already knew what he would be inquiring about.
“All of the psalms?”
“Yes, father,” she answered dutifully. There had been nothing else for her to do anyway than memorize scripture or read her gothic novel since they arrived. Mori Ogai’s remedy for his daughter’s sullen moods was for her to keep her mind busy. It was his belief that she fell into herself and therefore despair when she sat too long in one attitude.
The village was steeped in superstition and it would serve them well to know the prayers to ward off what frightened the people in the night. After all, there was a verity in what people reached for first when they were truly afraid.
Quitting the city and retiring to the quietude of the countryside felt akin to collecting Dazai being collected in a ream of fabric. Folding it over to smother her protests until the only sound that was produced was the soft susurration of fabric on fabric.
She had not wanted to part from Munich and the sprawling city. It was a cruel exile that they had all been condemned to. She had only herself to blame.
There was a loud creak in the floor above them signaling Hirotsu hard at work. Dazai could hear her suitcase being dragged over the floorboards, leather that had worn with time and bore evidence of hard travel meeting the hard surface. There was mud that refused to fully sever itself from the bottom of her suitcase, hairline tears scattered here and there.
Hirotsu had already attempted to deliver an ardent effort at persuasion but it was hardly effective when she had already predicted what he would say. Hirotsu took into account the genuine nature of country folk, the simplicity of life away from the city, and the peace that could be found among the rolling hills and shadowed forests.
The argument was the same as were their tireless attempts at changing her attitude. Usually, her father wilted first. Hirotsu, though, seemed to possess some innate well of understanding when it came to Dazai. He was always more patient, stayed later at night to try to coax conversation from her and offered her help she clearly did not need because she was no longer a child.
“What if the people in Styria are very dull?” Dazai inquired and tilted her head knowingly toward Hirotsu. “Country folk often are.”
“Humor me, Osamu,” her father insisted. “Find one of its people to befriend. A young woman around your age would make an excellent companion.”
Mori was adjusting the white collar around his throat before her looking glass. They would leave soon and would need to appear every bit the dutiful surgeon’s family departing Munich for a religious pilgrimage into the country.
“You think a companion is what I need?”
“It could be,” he mused. “It would likely help appearances.”
Dazai rose lethargically and paced toward Mori. Her footsteps were a soundless glide across the cold wooden floor. Practiced fingers caught the edge of his white collar and laid it down neatly. He was dressed in the garb of a priest but it looked more like a costume than a revered garment of status.
She shook her head in bemusement. “You should have chosen to masquerade as a Methodist priest on pilgrimage. I believe they are increasing in popularity these days. Their doctrine is less strict as well.”
“Hirotsu did hazard me the same thing,” his mouth twitched. “Catholicism requires a degree of sacrifice that other denominations can only grasp at. There is beauty in servitude to a higher cause though.”
Dazai’s eyes flicked up to the second floor. She could dimly sense every thud of Hirotsu’s heart. If he were among them, she knew that the stuttering beats of his heart where her father was involved would betray his regard.
The bond that Hirotsu developed with her father had only strengthened over time. It was one that they kept to themselves, as if Dazai were not old or wise enough to know that they were entangled each night, Mori delivering what was no doubt his best rhetoric of honeyed words to persuade Hirotsu to join them- to become like them.
But Hirotsu had a unique ability to see the beauty in the ephemeral and would not be persuaded. It was a rare kind of conviction that made Dazai admire him even more.
“With that attitude, I imagine you will play the part successfully. Willing to prostrate yourself to the altar of God and whatnot. I suppose I should follow your example. Perhaps we will both be spared the inferno from pious servitude.”
Mori chuckled. “The psalms are an excellent start.”
Their trip south to Styria dragged on for nearly two weeks of travel before they reached the isolated town in the Austrian countryside. With enough distance from Munich and the event that drove them from its bustling center, Mori explained that the attitudes of small towns could prove fickle and that they would need to acclimate as quickly as possible. Appearances were everything.
But they were creatures cut from the cloth of the preternatural- they would soon acclimate in order to survive.
Despite the beauty of their surroundings, the lethargy and grayness of Dazai’s mood lingered. She lacked any true desire to do much of anything at all. She read to keep her mind elsewhere but it was difficult for any one thing to hold her attention for any extended period of time.
As a studied doctor, Dazai was an interesting case for Mori to study. There was no visible culprit that explained why Dazai’s lethargy toward all things, particularly the consumption of blood, would be so pronounced. If her body rejected the change then she would have succumbed to her injuries the night Mori bit her and would be another headstone darkening a cemetery.
It was rare to meet others like them and Dazai only had the tales from her father to supply her knowledge of vampires; their nature and limitations. They were overall, impulsive, passionate, calculating creatures driven by a heightened predator instinct.
Mori claimed that his control was the product of decades of practice. He could not have been a surgeon, physician, and now, she supposed a priest without attracting suspicion if he were not careful.
Dazai, however, should have been floundering in her second chance at life. She should be ruled by passion and an inability to stop herself from taking blood where her hunger dictated.
Where there should be hunger, there was only emptiness. It was as if she were a bird with hollow bones and no amount of blood, which she found only disinterest and distraction in, could remedy the void inside her.
It was Mori’s belief that her apathy stemmed from Dazai’s inability to recall the events of her past life, or much of anything really, before she awoke in the new life Mori had bestowed upon her.
There was a heaviness to her existence that hinged upon consuming life in order to remain in their unchanging state or she would eventually succumb to her nature and die. The fog in her head, the headaches, were the result of Dazai’s lack of blood. But she did not particularly feel compelled to drink any from the bags her father stored or in the most extreme case, from Hirotsu.
Trial and error proved that blood could be kept in bags with ice or drained into a goblet for Dazai to consume when the worst case scenario was at hand. Mori even attempted to persuade Dazai to consume blood because a byproduct was compulsion of humans; a tool Mori resorted to in severe cases of need. The ability did not prove worthwhile or interesting enough to hold much value to her though.
Dazai should be hungry. She should not exist as a creature kept between life and death, a frozen anomaly that could not even function as her nature required. There was a quote from Frankenstein, which Dazai read in the weeks following her change, that surmised the entirety of her sentiment toward her body’s stubbornness to succumb to death:
“Life is obstinate and clings closest where it is most hated.”
Mary Shelley knew something of suffering it seemed.
“Dazai,” Mori’s voice called again. His gloved hand rested on her head when he reached her. “You should attend the celebration tonight. The entirety of the town will be in attendance. It could be your chance to make a friend and mingle with the locals.”
She half pouted when she looked up at him. “So I should dress as a pagan despite us posing as good Christian folk? And to think I just memorized all those psalms to partake in a sacrilegious ceremony.”
“Such contradictory conventions are more popular in smaller villages. This one is no exception.”
“How stupid they must be then.”
Her comment was ignored. “Hirotsu delivered your clothing. I’m certain that you can pull something satisfactory together. Hecate would suit you, Osamu. Or Nyx.”
“What about Hades to spirit away the beautiful?”
He chuckled. “I have never known you to possess that level of melodrama. But if you are seized by the urge, attempt to quell it in a way that will prove advantageous to us. We only just arrived after all.”
He was right, she knew. Dazai lacked the passion to feel compelled to act in that way- in any way really. Waking felt akin to sleeping and not once had anything in her new life caught her attention or chipped the mold of the mundane which fogged the lenses of her vision like steam off of tea.
“I will play the part of a respectable Christian woman,” Dazai promised with a ladylike incline of her head. “I do not wish to make things more difficult for either of you.”
It earned her a smile in response and then, satisfied, Mori returned to the altar to busy acquainting himself with the gospel of Mark for the sermon he was due to deliver the following morning.
Dazai’s headache persisted.
A chill clung to the deeper parts of the woods and had Dazai tugging on her sleeves as she made her way along the path toward the heart of town.
It had been work to maneuver the gown over her bandages but by the time she was done, she painted quite the pretty sight. The dress she donned looked woven from the curtain of night and exposed one of her shoulders- though wrapped in bandages- and draped around her slim frame prettily. Silver beading ornamented her arms and waist and she painted her lips a deep crimson.
Dazai’s long hair was gathered in a loose updo that left dark curls spilling down the white of her back. Heads had always turned in her direction, even when she had been alive. Tonight would likely be no exception.
Social conventions had not altered so greatly from four years ago, nor had the styles. Tonight, obviously was an exception but in general a classically beautiful face transcended time.
Sounds from the village spilled into the trees before she saw anyone. Singing and string instruments sliced through the night, beckoning passerbys into the fray like the ensorcelling of a faerie.
It would likely prove to be excessively dull with boring conversation that she would have to endure. Dazai sighed and really considered turning back.
Mori would not be angry with her, only disappointed that she had not tried to interact with the others. It was essential that she made connections in the town, it solidified their legitimacy as a Christian family and kept people from drawing the right conclusions.
But her head felt again like it was underwater. Her body was heavy, wading through invisible depths, legs weighed down by gallons of a force she couldn’t ward off.
Her father did ever speak it but it lingered on the fringes of their every conversation. A wrongness she couldn’t quite shake about herself. Because she was wrong. She was a body revived to be a predator that only felt indifference.
A dim thudding sound caught her attention. It was warm somehow, like the stirring of water before a wave crashed and Dazai turned her head.
There was a slash of red ascending a hill, a bright lilt in the depth of the forest that throbbed with every beat of a heart. Dazai frowned in its direction and saw a woman who would at any moment crest the hill toward the village and be gone.
Her focus narrowed to the figure and the bitter cold crumbled away to nothing more than dust in the wind. Because what else could matter when life, the vehemence of it, beat wildly, beautifully, tantalizingly before her?
It was with bewilderment that Dazai realized she was abruptly awake.
Chuuya could not have anticipated quite how quickly the alcohol would affect her. It was cloying sweet on her tongue and rather than handing the goblet back to Shirase, she drained its contents, drinking deeply. Apparently, this was a shocking thing to do and Shirase’s gaping mouth when she handed the empty goblet back to him was amusing enough to make her laugh.
She even forgot to hide her laughter behind her hand. Some of the others from the group wandered from the forest, some men arm in arm chattering loudly. She recognized them as Shirase’s group of friends from the village. Some were the sons of farmers and others worked in trade but all were men she would not normally be allowed to converse with. Yuan flew into one of their warms and kissed one of them on the mouth. Chuuya’s face flushed at the sight and she looked away.
Shirase chuckled. “What’d you expect? She’s Aphrodite.”
Chuuya tried to summon an answer. Her head felt a bit floaty. “And you are?”
“I’m Adonis,” he grinned. “Thought you would have realized sooner.”
He nudged her shoulder. “You feeling okay? You drank that pretty fast.”
“I’m fine,” she assured him and straightened. “Tell me about Vienna.”
“Dance with me first,” he extended his hand to her.
“Fine.”
They fell into step easily. Having taken lessons together as children made movements predictable. Shirase had grown from the lanky boy tripping over her feet in dance lessons and was now a man moving fluidly in the brisk night. She giggled when his hands found her waist and lifted her. Encouraged by the sound, he did it again and she threw her arms around his neck while they laughed together.
Chuuya hardly felt cold now but a glance around proved that they had separated quite a bit from the others, wandering into a darker part of the forest that wasn’t well lit.
She untethered herself, breathing hard. “Did you learn that in the city?”
Shirase chuckled and adjusted a flower in her hair. The roughness of the sound was far too intimate for her liking.
“I learned a lot of things in the city. I could show them to you.”
“Go on then.” Chuuya demanded. This was what she had been waiting for all along. She wanted to hear all about what it was like to live elsewhere. And really, she might have tapped her foot but still had some sense left to restrain herself. “I’ve only been waiting t-“
“Chuuya,” his hands on her waist tightened their grip. She was tugged impossibly closer to the hardness of his chest. His breath carried the scent of the drink she had from the goblet, cloying and thick. “Chuuya, I’ve wanted…”
Hunger eclipsed words and Shirase’s lips pressed against hers.
Chuuya was initially shocked at his boldness. If Shirase was interested in her, he should court her. That was the natural way of things. He should not be ruled by passion especially with regard to a woman of her social standing.
Unless… he wanted her as a means to another end.
Chuuya did not even realize that her mouth was unmoving against his until his lips slid with persuasive vehemence, and his hands cupping her face angled her head so that he could deepen the kiss. It was a language she didn’t know how to communicate in and her face was trapped to his. Unsure what else to do, she softened her mouth and then inhaled his breath, allowing his tongue to push into her surprised mouth.
She let out a small shocked sound which seemed to encourage him and the hands on her waist drew her even closer.
Chuuya had known Shirase since they were both children. They shared secrets and mischief and swam in the lake in the hills in the summer. She knew he detested working in the forge and his entire ambition to become a lawyer was to put enough distance between himself and a dying profession that left his father’s hands withered with rheumatism and mountains of payments to make.
But she did not realize that Shirase was capable of such enthusiastic affection. He tipped her head back and his wet tongue met hers with a need that she could taste. He wanted more than this. The meeting of their mouths was a balm for now but that was all.
Next it would be expected that she should offer more of herself. She would be expected to lay with him, to be touched by him, and then for her body to betray her apathy by a lack of arousal.
Kouyou had already spoken with Chuuya about the act of intimacy with a man. It was something that ushered in more questions than answers. By the time they finished the conversation, Kouyou retired early for the evening with a headache.
But it was no longer a hypothetical act or something that existed in Chuuya’s incessant questions. Shirase was kissing her in a manner that was anything but chaste and though his hands remained on her waist, the grip suggested he was fighting a futile battle. He desired more than kissing, even if that was all they would do tonight. He desired Chuuya in her entirety.
Her regard for her childhood friend, the boy she knew, was eclipsed by the horror of the realization. Shirase was a man whose sexual desires had narrowed to her.
Shirase broke off with a ragged pant, letting his forehead rest against hers. The air was clouded with the shared taste of drink and one-sided lust. “Chuuya, I-”
Chuuya's head was spinning. If she stayed, she would be expected to react and allow this intimacy to flourish between them. Certainly, she could claim that it was not becoming for them to behave in such a manner but confronted with the inevitability that the one man she should feel for inspired nothing within her, despite what was likely his best efforts left her with little choice.
She shoved a hand between their bodies, severing herself from Shirase and then Chuuya was running.
She could hear Shirase’s voice behind calling her name but it soon became less than an echo and he clearly had not been anticipating for her to react in such a way at all. Had she led him to believe that such an act would be tolerated? The thought made her stomach turn anxiously. She should have been given more time to consider such eventualities. Certainly, she would have to marry but faced with such animalistic physical intimacy from a man inspired only a great sense of panic within her.
The alcohol prompted her legs to move faster, though inelegantly, and if her adrenaline were not racing she likely would have fallen half a dozen times tearing through the woods and untamed underbrush.
Chuuya never expected that she could judge a kiss so harshly. Intimacy, affection, were acts that should usher in a mutual response in both parties; that was what storybooks stated. Princesses on the page submitted to the will of their princes and there the story ended.
What if she were the wrong kind of heroine? One whose preferences did not warrant even being whispered aloud? Why was it that the only spark of desire she felt in her life was attached to the female form rather than the male one? Why were women the sole recipient of her ability to feel the depth of affection for, to accept and crave their touch?
Such people were never included between the pages of tales told to children about an idyllic future. Such people, Chuuya knew, were imprisoned for their deviant predilections.
She squeezed her eyes shut and halted, breathing hard. When she opened them again, she was entirely alone and doubled over in the darkened wood.
The expanse of forest crawled against her skin with the otherness of the spectral. She glanced around at her surroundings and a large hill rose just to her left. Chuuya was certain if she crested it, moonlight would give her enough light or at the least a vantage point to decide where she should go next.
Regret, hot and insistent was beginning to burn in her chest. Maybe she could have derived satisfaction from the fact that Shirase enjoyed what they were doing if she had stayed longer. Perhaps it was not inherently wrong for her to be disinterested in the act of physical touch with a man. The bible dictated that such things should exist only within the covenant of marriage. If they did join together in matrimony then her desire for him might grow… Divinity willing.
But even entertaining the thought felt ridiculous. She began to ascend the steep earth, shaking her head and feeling sense returning.
Chuuya should be grateful that Shirase desired her. If there could be no man that Chuuya ever felt that way for, wouldn’t it be better to stand the trials of life beside her friend, someone she trusted?
She could turn back and offer excuses, try again and see if maybe she felt something. If not, she could learn how to pretend more aptly. Certainly, her father would approve of the match, Shirase was currently was beneath her in society but as soon as he became a lawyer-
Chuuya’s slipper stuck fast in the underbrush of the hill and she tried to tug it loose. In the act, she lost her footing and might have tumbled backward were there not already arms there to steady her.
Dazai staggered forward as if her body was tugged by a string.
Proserpine- Persephone, daughter of Demeter wreathed in flowers and red hair worn loose down to her waist, meandered through the mortal world and the equinox celebration aimlessly. Dazai’s attention was arrested at the very glimpse of her. She moved through the night like ephemeral spring, light as gossamer.
A goddess, surely here to deliver Dazai from the cruel unending night that she was tethered to.
And beneath that, a desire that flooded her body like an instinct. It had been four years since Dazai last truly felt something move her soul and watching the woman grace through the forest, something inside of her began to sing.
It had to be hunger.
Hunger was the force that drove two people together. Hunger was the cosmic collision of warmth and need for sustenance.
Heat bloomed in her chest at the prospect of having the woman beneath her fingertips; to claim the slice of divinity beneath her fingernails. That had to be the hunger that Mori spoke of.
And it was gilded in white flowers with a cascade of red hair spilling down her back.
Dazai was moving her toward the woman before she could think better of it. She gathered her skirts and began the ascent toward the treeline.
The woman appeared to be in some turmoil where she paced around the forest floor. She wrapped her arms around herself and then, seeming to make up her mind, began to ascend the hill.
The attempt proved unsuccessful. Her foot became stuck in the underbrush and Dazai was there with very little effort on her own part to catch the sylph before she could collide with the ground.
The woman’s response was wholly unexpected. She swung her arms out wildly. “Get off me!”
A first connected with Dazai’s chest quite hard and knocked her off balance, sending her backward. She fell in a heap, twisting her ankle a bit painfully where she landed.
Dazai blinked in surprise. Not once in the last four years had she ever been delivered such a blow.
“The hell were you thinking?!” The woman’s head whipped in Dazai’s direction and she passed a long glance over her fallen victim. Seeing it was just another woman, she uttered a soft apology. “Sorry, I thought you were…”
She shook her head and offered Dazai a hand. Dazai peered up at her through her dark lashes intending to make the woman regret her hasty act of violence.
Though she did not outwardly show it, the woman had to be affected. Especially when Dazai slid her immaculate palm into her open hand.
“Did you fear that I was Hades?” Dazai inquired.
The woman’s lips parted and Dazai’s eyes dipped down to the swell of her lower lip. The shape of it- a silent litany woven from divinity for worship. She was wreathed in light from over the hill making her look like a wayward sylph.
“You are not here to spirit me away, are you?” Her eyes passed over Dazai critically as if appraising her social class. She let out a small scoff. “No, you look quite incapable of such a feat.”
Dazai rose with a smile playing at the corner of her mouth. “If you mean that I’m quite-”
“Rail thin? Weak?” The woman supplied with a raised brow. She let her hand fall away without ceremony.
On almost level ground, Dazai could now observe that the woman was a good deal shorter than she initially appeared, making the display of strength that much more impressive.
“I have been told by many that there is an elegance to my silhouette,” Dazai admitted with a pointed hand on her hip. “But I suppose I cannot fault you for your country upbringing and I would like to avoid being struck down again. Tell me your name, unless you would prefer to be called Persephone.”
“My name?” The woman assessed Dazai with mild distrust. “It’s Chuuya.”
Chuuya- a name that echoed through Dazai’s chest with an ache. A craving Dazai could not name spread through her body like the warmth of sunlight falling on a shoulderblade.
Dazai bowed her head and shifted her weight to her uninjured ankle. “I pledge myself to thee for the duration of the night, Chuuya.”
“That is hardly necessary as I am leaving to rejoin my party.” Chuuya explained. Light from the canopy of trees betrayed the color on Chuuya’s cheeks.
“Are you really satisfied leaving without my name?”
“What’s in a name anyway?” Chuuya echoed the sentiment of bewitched Juliet. Though her tone was woefully more disenchanted and she really seemed like she didn’t care whether Dazai remained in the forest or not. The thought was at odds with Dazai’s understanding of humans. Chuuya should be groveling at her feet for her attention.
“If you learn someone’s name, you have power over them,” Dazai persisted. “Didn’t you learn that in your village fairytales?”
“No.”
“I see you are unfamiliar with the folk of the air then,” Dazai observed. Chuuya was gathering her skirts about her ankles to ascend the steep hill, clearly immune to Dazai’s rhetoric.
“You are quite ridiculous,” Chuuya cast a backward glance. “And who is it you’ve come dressed as anyway?” Chuuya’s eyes roved over the bodice of Dazai’s dress. “Hades? Nyx? Hecate?”
“I could be Hades,” Dazai said. “If you could be persuaded to join me in the underworld, dearest Persophone.”
“I told you,” Chuuya rested a hand on her hip. “That you must call me Chuuya. Or are you deaf as well as irritating?”
“If it is your tongue that is harsh with me, I cannot mind it.”
Chuuya’s mouth worked for words. “You sound like a rake!”
“I could be rakish for you,” Dazai concluded. “If you prefer your women that way.”
Chuuya’s eyes- blue Dazai now realized- widened impossibly and Dazai laughed at finally coaxing a reaction from her. “You are unaccustomed to being admired. And clearly unused to handling drink. You reek of merlot, little sylph.”
“I… Do not refer to me as such. I handled it proficiently,” Chuuya argued. She sounded like a petulant child. Anger on her was entertaining.
“Is that so?”
“It is,” she lifted her chin defiantly. “Don’t tell me you’re one of the superstitious woodsmen daughters delivering gifts to the faeries at night.”
“What if I was?”
“Then I would call you a fool.”
“You don’t know then, that if you share a kiss beneath the moonlight, the folk of the air will grant a wish in your heart.”
Chuuya looked up at the full moon, it was heavy in the sky, brimming with a burnt orange color. “A kiss?”
“That’s right. But only those brave enough ever try it.”
Chuuya swallowed. Her pulse was racing, a cacophony of language Dazai could not decipher. “I’m no coward if that is what you are implying.”
“Certainly not,” Dazai held her hands up innocently. “Would you like to attempt it then?”
“Kiss… You?”
Dazai shrugged. “Unless you have a lover around here somewhere or you're scared.”
Alarm flew across Chuuya’s face and Dazai laughed. “I see.”
“You’re wrong,” Chuuya stabbed a finger at her and then almost hesitantly curled her fingers around Dazai’s arm. There was an urgency to the way she pulled her closer. “I’m no coward and I don’t have a lover. That would be incredibly improper.”
Dazai drew her closer. The proximity was a tantalizing balm to the need thrumming inside her. “Forests are a godless place. Any number of improper things can transpire beneath the trees. Didn’t you know that?”
Chuuya’s eyes studied Dazai’s face. At the proximity Dazai could see the sprinkle of freckles across her nose.
“I would like my wish granted,” Dazai said. “If you’d be so kind as to permit me.”
“Wish? You-” Chuuya cast a glance around. “Fine. Do what you want.”
She became very still, unmoving and shut her eyes. Dazai cocked her head to the side studying her. “And what of what you want? You’re really just going to stand there with your eyes shut?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it is a kiss. If I am the only one deriving pleasure from it, it doesn’t seem fair. Don’t you agree?”
“Pleasure? It’s just a kiss. Women remain still when-”
“A kiss should be pleasurable for both parties,” Dazai corrected. “Unless you enjoy remaining unmoving while being appreciated.”
“I… Haven’t really thought of it.”
“No, I can see that.”
Chuuya groaned in irritation and moved closer. “Just get it over with then.”
She was an impatient little thing and the realization made Dazai's mouth tip up. Chuuya, greedy and unwilling to wait, chased her curving mouth and Dazai pressed her index finger against that pair of plush lips. “I did not specify where I would kiss you.”
“Where…” Chuuya’s breath came out in a gasp. “Where?”
“Yes, little sylph. Direct me,” Dazai’s hands closed on the woman's wrists and guided them toward her body. Anger and indecision colored Chuuya’s face, there was something else too, something heady in her blood and dilated pupils while she deliberated. “This is… Indecent and you cannot refer to me as such.”
In truth, it looked as if Chuuya were losing an invisible battle. The sight was amusing enough that it left Dazai with a sadistic desire to push her further.
“Is it so?” Dazai heard the smile in her own voice.
Chuuya’s eyes flicked up to Dazai’s at her permission. “But someone could see.”
“You really place propriety above pleasure?”
“You know well what people would think if we were seen,” Chuuya argued sharply.
Yet, the argument was maligned by the way that Chuuya led Dazai's hands toward her throat. It was the most dangerous place that she could have offered and Dazai almost threw her head back in laughter at how easily Chuuya pushed her hair away from her throat to expose the long column of her neck.
Dazai regarded the sight with heat pooling in her lower stomach. God, she knew with certainty at the sight, was benevolent. Surely, this boon was proof that he was real.
Chuuya let her hands fall away as Dazai's made contact with her throat.
“This is a risk I feel comfortable with,” Dazai’s lips ghosted along the column of Chuuya’s neck and she had to smother a low moan from erupting in her throat. For so long, drinking blood from goblets or offered in bags kept in bins of ice to preserve its efficacy, four years of insipid sustenance peeled away at the advent of this woman.
Every instinct in Dazai demanded to gorge herself on the blood hammering within the throbbing artery in Chuuya’s neck- but she wanted to savor it, let the flavor fill her mouth like the decadence of chocolate.
“I wonder you did not inspire the muses,” her fingers stroked the column of Chuuya’s throat. Her skin was warm and blood was rushing to her head, the sound of it singing just below the thin layer of unblemished skin. “You were born from the tales of their divinity.”
“Just get on with it.” Chuuya protested but her bosom was heaving like a magnet pulled to Dazai’s opposing end.
“Is that what you want?” Dazai’s warm breath clouded her neck. “This is not exciting enough for you?”
“Certainly not-” her breath caught.
Dazai sunk her fingers into Chuuya’s hair and let her nails scrape lightly along her scalp. The most miniscule groan slipped from between her lips. She was succumbing to Dazai’s will. Oh, it was beautiful.
Was this what Mori felt every time he fed from someone? The anticipation made even the hairs on Dazai’s arms stand on end. How had he managed to master it? How would Dazai survive this?
“Salvation,” Dazai’s sighed and let her mouth press gently against Chuuya’s neck in a soft act of adoration. She had to stop her tongue from licking against the heated skin there. Her teeth grazed the sensitive skin, not yet breaking it and Chuuya hissed.
“Stop playing with me.” Chuuya gritted.
“So demanding,” Dazai murmured, voice raspy with hunger. “Worry not, you’ll soon-”
Chuuya shoved Dazai backward with the same alarming force she had displayed earlier. She really was stronger than Dazai anticipated for someone so small. The realization sharpened her grin.
Dazai was weak compared to most of her kind. The affliction could be remedied by consumption of blood; she would be stronger, heal faster, in theory fall into lethargy less often…
Such things did not matter though as she became trapped beneath the weight of Chuuya’s body. Chuuya was fully straddling Dazai on the roll of land, plush thighs keeping Dazai still between them. A warmth poured off her and Dazai suppressed a shiver.
“I would like a wish granted too. It is only fair.”
So, so greedy. Dazai could humor her.
“Fine. Wherever on my body shall you choose?” Dazai lay beneath Chuuya patiently, cocking her head to the side. The artful gathering of hair had come loose and strands of black curls twined along Dazai’s body like dark ripples. She knew she must look a bewitching picture and found pleasure in it, in watching Chuuya’s gaze pass over her like something to claim.
It was a heady feeling, one that left her with a lightheaded notion similar to a headache but without any pain.
Until Chuuya’s fingers skimmed the white cloth concealing the hollow of her throat.
Chuuya frowned. “Bandages?”
Dazai’s smile wilted.
But Chuuya didn’t seem disinterested, rather…
Her finger traced the edge of the bandages then lower, beneath her collarbone. There was a sliver of skin peeking out from beneath the white cloth, an error Dazai had made in her haste to dress for the evening, and Chuuya’s finger paused just above it.
“You’re injured?”
“Not there.”
“That’s good,” Chuuya determined, then lowered her head until her warm breath fogged Dazai’s skin. She let her tongue lave against the gap of skin, obscenely warm and wet against the area that had become so sensitive to the slightest touch.
It was almost ironic that where Dazai exercised restraint in her desire to lick at Chuuya's skin, the human openly indulged.
“That was more than a wish,” Dazai breathed in surprise. That mingling of warmth and hunger was pooling incessantly in her lower abdomen. “The faeries will think you greedy.”
“I care not for superstition,” Chuuya murmured and then pressed a kiss against the heated skin.
She should. Chuuya was about to become the most indulgent flesh to ornament Dazai’s tongue in four years. Dazai could scarcely resist any longer. Her hands sunk into Chuuya’s hair and she felt her caenines elongate, just enough for her to draw blood. All she needed to do was prick into her skin and-
“Chuuya!” A voice sliced through the forest like a blade drawn from a sheath.
Stunted breath clouded the space between them. Chuuya pulled back and her eyes widened. No longer in arousal but in alarm. Her hand closed on Dazai’s throat like it might prevent her from moving, from becoming prey. It was so ridiculous that Dazai hardly stifled her laughter.
“What the hell are you?!”
Dazai chuckled. “Whatever can you mean by that?”
Humans were not supposed to know of their existence. Vampires were meant to live in the confines of superstition and warded off by diligent prayer and crucifixes, stakes and sunlight. It was comforting to think of them as an enemy that could be easily conquered.
That could not be farther from the truth.
It was a rule that she had learned to live by, a vow she promised Mori and the entire reason they had ended up in another country in a small village of inconsequential value in the first place.
Killing her would be easy, Dazai could snap her neck before she so much as let out another one of her pretty gasps, but Chuuya’s was upper class, which would complicate things excessively.
Disappearances, deaths, mysterious illnesses made waves in smaller villages and suspicion would undoubtedly fall upon the mysterious newcomers as the harbingers of great evil.
Humans were unintelligent and predictable and it would be too easy to convince Chuuya that she had imagined the entire thing.
Dazai let her head cock to the side. “Are you feeling quite well, Chuuya? I think you’ve had a bit too much to drink.”
“I’m fine,” she argued and rather than shrinking in fear she set her jaw and stepped forward. “It’s you that is-”
“Chuuya!” The voice echoed. It belonged to a young woman who sounded quite frantic, the sound of her slippers on the ground was light from moving so quickly.
Chuuya’s head turned toward it and Dazai frowned.
“I’m here,” Chuuya called toward the voice.
But Dazai was not ready for their encounter to end. Surely, Chuuya would not leave. Not when she was the first thing in four years that made Dazai feel alive.
She could not understand why it was that this mere human made her feel this way. A woman born on the outskirts of civilization and raised on superstition and propriety and clad in the colors of spring had awoken something inside her that Dazai began to believe died with her body those four years ago.
And she could not help but wonder, if she stayed in close proximity to Chuuya, if she drew out their interactions and drank from her, kept her as her own, what might the outcome be? Would she then discover why she was so affected by this ethereal being?
Dazai’s hand closed on Chuuya’s wrist desperately. “Accept me as your guest.”
Chuuya slapped her hand away and squeezed harder on her throat. “You’ve lost your mind.”
Dazai let out a strangled chuckle. “I’m quite sober. Now do as I say or I’ll tell your little friend about your predilections.”
Chuuya’s eyes went wide and her hand loosened a degree. “You wouldn’t.”
Dazai’s smile sharpened. “Wouldn’t I?”
The air between them was charged with something alive. The die had been cast and all Chuuya had to do was answer it.
“Atsushi,” Chuuya called and let her hand fall away from Dazai’s neck. “I’m alright. I… Got lost in the woods and Dazai helped me back to the path.”
A white haired girl appeared atop the hill, little more than a blot of light in the dark. “Dazai?”
Dazai waved her hand innocently. “Hello, I apologize if I’ve caused any trouble. I’m afraid that I’ve injured my ankle and require a place to recover.”
“The hell?” Chuuya snapped in a half whisper. “That wasn’t-”
Dazai interjected with a bright smile. “Chuuya here has been kind enough to offer it to me and I am eternally grateful.”
“You aren’t injured,” Chuuya argued in a low tone as Atsushi attempted to scale down the hill.
“I am,” Dazai guided Chuuya’s hand to her ankle, letting her feel the heated swelling of her skin. “You knocked me over when I tried to help you.”
If Dazai drank more blood her ankle would have likely healed by now. But the wilted extremity was something that she could use to her advantage, even if it would take a few hours to rectify itself.
Chuuya’s eyes were narrowed in a glare. But her pulse was hammering beneath Dazai’s thumb beautifully and she absently roved a digit over the throbbing vein, reveling in how it sang for her.
Dazai watched her blue eyes drop at the movement. Chuuya was calculating her next move, face flushed in anger.
“Dazai will remain my guest until she recovers,” Chuuya deliberated between her gritted teeth in the direction of her friend. “I would not abandon her.”
Dazai’s mouth twitched. “I look forward to our time together, Chuuya.”