Sunlight bore down mercilessly as Adamastor Tagus trudged up the gravel path leading to Morningstar Estate. He gripped his suitcase handle like a lifeline, feeling the sting of sweat tracing its way down his neck and spine. Each step seemed to add weight to his fear that he'd walk through those grand gates as a human puddle, disheveling his carefully chosen suit.
He halted at the open wrought-iron gate. She was there, leaning elegantly against a counter just past the entrance. Golden hair meticulously rolled up, her red lips wrapped around a long cigar, and she exhaled as if summoning him into her realm.
"Hi, good morning, I'm Adamastor Tagus. I'm--" He fumbled his words while extending a hand toward her, stepping into the shadow of the estate.
"You're the butler boy I hired," she interrupted, locking her eyes on his. "Pretty boy, I see. How old are you, cutie pie?"
"Twenty-one, ma'am," Adamastor pulled his hand back, unsure of what protocol had been broken.
She arched an eyebrow. "And do you have any inkling about estate management? Inn-keeping, pantry inventory, asset allocation, and so on, and so on?"
"Are you the owner, if I may ask?"
Her eyes performed a swift assessment of him, head to toe and back again. "Rosemary Morningstar, owner and operator. Did anyone fill you in on the nature of the Morningstar business here?"
"Not exactly, no."
Rosemary circled around the counter, her heels clicking on the polished floor. "Morningstar is a magical trade centre. People offer their magic. I offer my services. Simple. But I can't manage both the estate and the magic business alone. I need dedication, loyalty, and someone who's... open-minded."
Adamastor felt like he was standing at the edge of a torrential river, each of Rosemary’s words a rush of water threatening to sweep him away. She had a rapid-fire way of talking, no buffer or filter, and he struggled to keep up.
Adamastor opened his mouth to speak but was cut short.
"You listen, you don't think. We welcome all sorts here. I couldn't care less if they've got tails, hooves, horns, or fangs. Just follow the rules, don't break anything, and don't kill anyone. Simple, right?"
He blinked, trying to keep up with the torrent of words. "Yes, I--"
"Good grief, can you complete a sentence? We have a few guests at the moment—off-season, mind you. Room 32 has a particularly special guest with a unique diet. Don't even think about snooping or passing judgment. Cross me, and I'll kick your pretty boy ass straight back to wherever you crawled out from."
Summoning his courage, Adamastor rattled off, "I will do my utmost to be of service and adhere to your guidelines."
She took a long drag from her cigar and exhaled a stream of smoke that seemed to mingle with her words. "You learn fast; I like that."
He watched as she tapped the ash off her cigar, her eyes never leaving his. "You're still here, so I'm assuming you're up for the job. The work starts now. The cleaning crew arrives at six tomorrow, the kitchen gets deliveries every Thursday, and room 28 needs their bill by eight sharp."
He scrambled to memorize it all. "Got it, cleaning crew, kitchen deliveries, and 28 bill."
Rosemary grinned as if she were pleased that he wasn't sinking in the current of her words. "Good. There are files in the office—inventory lists, account books, and guest information. Familiarize yourself with them tonight."
"I will, Miss Morningstar," he replied, appreciating the sense of urgency she infused in him.
"Rosemary," she corrected, snuffing out her cigar. "We're working together; you might as well use my first name."
Adamastor nodded, "Understood, Rosemary."
"And welcome to the Morningstar, pretty boy!"
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Under the cover of night, the mysteries of Morningstar Estate deepened, and none seemed more enigmatic than Room 32. Two months into his tenure, Adamastor had learned the idiosyncrasies of most guests. But, the occupant of Room 32, remained a cypher—a name with no face, framed by particular needs. The ledger listed her as "Marcella," with no surname. And Rosemary had made it abundantly clear: Marcella's privacy was non-negotiable.
The instructions were as peculiar as they were precise. Every night, as darkness cloaked the estate, Adamastor would fill a jug with chicken blood from the kitchen's cold storage, place it on a tray with a glass, and perform three unhurried knocks on the door of room 32. The guest, Marcella, was ever a shadow on the other side—never seen, occasionally heard.
Rosemary had made her policy crystal clear. "Privacy is not just golden here; it's diamond. Not a word, not a hint, not a guess about our guests. Understand?" Her words were still a rapid current, but Adamastor was learning to navigate them.
Still, as autumn deepened and nights grew longer, his curiosity escalated. He found himself lingering a split second longer at the door, listening for any signs of life. One night, his knuckles had barely left the door after the third knock when a red glow emanated from the narrow gap underneath. He was sure he had seen a shiny, glowing red eye peering out.
Another time, he had barely set down the tray when he heard a soft rustle from within, followed by a faint whisper of "Thank you." His heart leapt. The voice was delicate, almost ethereal, and it stoked his imagination.
Tonight, Adamastor decided to be bolder. Perhaps it was the longer nights infusing a sense of daring into him. He knocked, paused, and then waited. His reward came soon enough. The door creaked ajar, revealing nothing but darkness. Then, a porcelain-white hand, as delicate as the whisper he had heard, slipped through the gap. It pulled the tray inside with a grace that made his pulse quicken.
The realization settled into Adamastor like a stone sinking into a deep pond. The nocturnal delivery of blood, her secluded lifestyle, and those haunting red eyes—he understood now why. Marcella was a vampire.
No ordinary guest would need jugs of chicken blood at the fall of night or be restricted to the gloom of a single room.
Yet, instead of fear or disgust, he felt a sense of melancholy. The thought of her secluded existence seemed like an invisible shackle. He had often wondered if she ever wished to roam the grounds of the Morningstar Estate, especially on nights when even the two moons and stars chose to hide, leaving the world in pitch black. But he never dared to ask.
Rosemary's dictum on guest privacy echoed in his mind each time he approached Room 32. So, he had settled for unspoken exchanges. A red rose left on her tray every night had gradually led to a dance of notes: simple, soulful messages that spoke of unutterable longings and a shared solitude.
Subtle shifts marked their unspoken relationship—the little tokens he'd add to the tray grew more frequent. Notes saying goodnight, autumn leaves he'd carefully selected, or stirring quotes from his favourite books, each object a message in itself. He wanted to let her know there was a world outside her room, one that she was a part of, whether she stepped out or not.
It wasn't until that one night, however, that the invisible line was crossed.
"Is it safe?" Marcella's voice, even in its whisper, was lyrical—a melody that gave sound to the night itself.
Adamastor glanced down the dimly lit hallway to the window framing only darkness. "Pitch black," he said. "No moon, no stars."
He placed the tray gingerly on the floor and retreated a step. Her porcelain hand swept out to claim it, its movement graceful and fluid. "Please wait," she said, pulling the tray into the abyss of her room and shutting the door.
Minutes that felt like lifetimes passed before the door creaked open again. This time, Marcella stood before him. Her red eyes shone like rubies, and her white hair cascaded down her shoulders in ethereal waves. Draped in a flowing gown of black and red, with a crocheted scarf wrapped elegantly around her arms, she was a vision too enthralling to be real.
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"I would like... to have some company," she whispered, her lips a vivid shade of red. "Would you like to come with me? For a walk?"
It felt as though the floor had shifted beneath him. Adamastor was caught in a surreal moment, unable to believe his ears.
"I would, yes," he managed to utter, mesmerized.
"I'm Marcella."
"Adamastor."
Her lips curved into a smile as if they were old friends meeting after years of separation. "Nice to finally meet you."
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Night by night, their footsteps traced the labyrinthine corridors and secluded gardens of the Morningstar Estate, weaving a tapestry of shared confidences and lingering silences. Adamastor came to know Marcella as if reading a novel—one chapter at a time, each revealing yet another nuance, a fresh layer to her personality.
"So, you're from Onxyburg?" Adamastor's voice broke the stillness as they wandered through a rose garden veiled in the moonlight.
"Yes," Marcella said, her voice tinged with nostalgia. "I was part of a different world then, a mortal one. My master, Restelo, is an ancient Vampyr. The one who turned me. He used to say I was a raw diamond turned into a jewel. Or something like that."
"Turned you at nineteen?"
She nodded, the light of the half-moon illuminating her face. "I had dreams, like any other girl. I wanted to be a nurse. But life had different plans for me. If it wasn't for him, I would be dead by now."
Adamastor sensed the undercurrent of regret but didn't press her. Instead, they talked of lighter matters. Marcella's fondness for the piano, how she savoured cheesy poems that would make most cringe, her yearning for the taste of fresh strawberries—a simple joy that her current existence denied her.
"My hair used to be black like ravens," she revealed one evening, a note of wistfulness clouding her words. "And my eyes were green."
Adamastor smiled, trying to picture her yet failing. She was beautiful now, ethereal in a way that the girl from Onxyburg could never be. But he knew that beauty came at a cost.
"I can't taste strawberries anymore, but I've found that I can still enjoy them through the classics," she said one night, reciting a few lines from a poem that celebrated the fruit.
He listened, enthralled. Each revelation about Marcella felt like a stolen treasure, and each night, the distance between them seemed to shorten. The electric current of unspoken feelings hummed in the air around them, and Adamastor found himself irreversibly entangled in its pull. He was falling for her.
Then, one night, their customary goodbye—their lingering moment at the edge of her door—took an unexpected turn. Marcella looked up at him, her red eyes brimming with an indefinable emotion.
"I've enjoyed our walks," she said softly.
"So have I," Adamastor replied, the air thickening around them.
She leaned in then, her lips meeting his, and the world seemed to fold in on itself. It was a kiss that lingered, a kiss that spoke more than any combination of words ever could. And when she pulled away, she left him yearning, his heart saturated with an ache for more.
"Come inside."
Her invitation was a whisper, tinged with vulnerability, and it hung in the air like an ethereal melody. The door to her room stood ajar, a realm of secrets and intimacy that had always been a boundary.
Adamastor hesitated, his gaze meeting hers. There was an unmistakable gravity in her red eyes, pulling him inward. "Are you sure?"
Marcella nodded, her face a canvas of emotions that he'd come to treasure, each one telling him more about the woman who stood before him. "I've never been more certain," she said, her voice barely rising above the night's stillness.
Taking a deep breath as if to capture the essence of the moment, he stepped over the threshold. The door closed behind him with a soft click, sealing them in a cocoon away from the rest of the world.
Her room was an extension of her—a blend of old-world charm and elusive elegance. Dark draperies framed the windows, cascading to the floor like waterfalls of shadow. Antique furniture occupied the corners: a bookshelf filled with leather-bound volumes and a chaise lounge. The air was heavy with the scent of iron and old books.
"Would you like to sit?" she gestured toward the chaise.
He accepted her offer, taking a seat while she moved toward a small table where a crystal decanter sat alongside two goblets. "Blood wine," she explained as she poured the dark liquid. "Would you care for some?"
"Ah, maybe another time," he said, still adapting to the idiosyncrasies of her life—or rather, her afterlife.
She nodded, gracefully accepting his choice. Sipping her drink, she sat down beside him, their proximity more intimate now, filled with a new kind of electricity.
"You know," she began, placing her goblet on the table, "I've enjoyed sharing these fragments of my past with you. I like you."
Adamastor turned to face her, captivated. "The feeling is mutual, Marcella. I…like you too, very much so."
For a moment, their eyes locked, and in that instance, the weight of their shared experiences and newfound closeness filled the room.
Marcella leaned in, and once again, their lips met. But this time, the kiss felt different—deeper, a confession wrapped in a touch. They pulled away, their eyes opening at the same time as if emerging from a dream.
"Stay," Marcella whispered, her eyes searching his.
Adamastor felt his heart quicken. This was uncharted territory, but some voyages, he understood, one must simply embark upon without a map.
"I will," he murmured, realizing in that perfect, fragile moment that they had crossed an invisible line, and there was no turning back.
"Stay forever," she whispered while she pulled gently his collar away from his neck.
Is this what you want?" he questioned, his voice tinged with a vulnerability that belied his stoic exterior. His heart thumped wildly, echoing in his ears like a war drum in the still night.
Suddenly, Marcella's lips met the tender skin of his neck, and the world paused for a moment as if holding its breath. He winced at the initial puncture, an electric jolt that was paradoxically both sharp and sweet. It was as if a swarm of bees had descended upon his veins, each sting simultaneously piercing and addicting.
"Ah," he gasped, feeling an internal blaze that surged from his neck and radiated outward, setting his nerves aflame. His limbs felt increasingly alien to him, heavy and unresponsive, as though they were dissolving into a soupy mist. Even breathing seemed a laborious task, the air slipping through his lips but offering no respite.
Yet amidst the sensory turmoil, the defining sensation was the magnetic pull of Marcella's lips against his neck. This soft, wet touch seemed to say, 'You are mine.' His veins sang with each drop of blood she sipped. Her moans and slurps turned into a bitter symphony that was strangely comforting.
Finally, she lifted her head, eyes glowing in the darkness, and whispered with an intimacy that sliced through the thickening air between them. "I need you."
The weight of her body settled against his, warm and substantial as if anchoring him back to the earth. The sensations, intense and bewildering, somehow wove together into a single thread of experience, pulled taut between desire and vulnerability. And in that moment, pinned beneath her, the maelstrom within him settled into a newfound clarity.
This was what he wanted, feared, and needed—all entwined in the complexity of her touch, her kiss, her very presence.
Reality seemed to stretch and blur around Adamastor, like a painting smeared by a careless hand. His senses were dulling, overtaken by the intoxicating mix of pain and pleasure emanating from the bite on his neck. When her lips finally detached from his skin, a sense of emptiness filled him as if a part of his very essence had been drained away.
Marcella's words dripped into his ears like molten gold, warm and hypnotic. "I need you to find the key. Will you? For me?"
His vision swayed, focusing and unfocusing as he looked into her eyes—crimson windows into an enigmatic world. "Yes," he said, a small revelation, as though the word had materialized from the air between them rather than his own volition.
Marcella leaned in closer, her lips nearly grazing his as she spoke. "You'll do it because you love me."
A palpable silence hung in the air, charged and expectant. He breathed her in—roses and iron —and sighed. "Yes."
She pulled back slightly, studying him. Her eyes flickered with a complex ballet of emotions he couldn't entirely decipher. "Because I make you happy."
This time, his "yes" was not just a word but a surrender. It wasn't merely an agreement; it was an admission that she had redefined his concept of happiness.
"Yes," he whispered, and in that singular word was woven the fragile tapestry of his devotion, unfurled and laid bare for her to see.
"They call it the Hollow. Find it, and then bring it to me in Onxyburg. You may only leave...with the key. The Hollow, bring it to me! Kill the Morningstar if you must. Do whatever you need to do. Make me love you."
"I promise," he whispered, tasting the mingling flavours of their lips, the coppery tang of his own blood mixing with the sweet mystery that was Marcella.
Her face was close now, her eyes peering into his as if searching for something—trust, perhaps, or maybe just the faint flicker of his soul.
"And if you do as I say, I'll turn you fully, and I will love you forever. Until then, you're mine. Just mine."
As the words sank into his consciousness, Adamastor felt as though he were plummeting through a bottomless abyss, tethered only by Marcella's hold on him. What did it mean to be "fully turned?" Was he now in some liminal space, neither entirely human nor wholly creature of the night?
Reality reasserted itself gradually, the fog in his mind lifting. Marcella retreated a step, her gaze lingering on him as though memorizing his features. She leaned down and tenderly kissed the puncture marks on his neck, her lips soft and cold as death.
"Sleep with me," she murmured, guiding him to a plush chair beside the bed. "I want to give you a taste of forever."
The room around him seemed to fade, its contours turning into formless shadows as his eyelids grew heavy. With her final words ringing in his ears, Adamastor surrendered to the gathering darkness, sinking against the weight of her body.
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The room was still bathed in darkness when Adamastor lay there. Sheets crumpled at the foot of the bed, a stark contrast to the warmth of the previous night. As though a sculptor had chiselled his form from a block of marble, he was completely nude.
He rubbed his eyes, feeling a new weight to them, a heaviness he hadn't felt before. Bringing a hand to his neck, he touched the spot where Marcella had sunk her teeth as if trying to assure himself it hadn't been a dream. But it was real. Her request echoed in his mind like a mantra: Find the Hollow, the key. Bring it to Onxyburg.
Pushing aside the sheets, he swung his legs off the bed. His feet touched the cold wooden floor as if he were stepping into a world forever altered. He stood before the full-length mirror, and for a moment, he couldn't recognize himself. His eyes, once a vivid blue, were now a burning red. Not just the eyes of a man changed, but those of a predator—in agonizing hunger, driven by an inescapable need: Blood and the Hollow.