Duvessa 🥀
The drive back to Blackwood Manor was a symphony of sensation. The low snarl of the Jaguar's engine was a pale imitation of the triumphant hum in my chest. The scent of rain-soaked pine and wet asphalt was a dull backdrop to the fragrance that truly occupied my senses—a phantom scent of charcoal, old paper, and a unique, intoxicating sweetness that was purely *her*. Maeve Sable.
The name itself was a poem. A fragile, mortal sound that belied the fierce, ancient soul I had seen looking out from behind her wide, human eyes.
I had felt her gaze in the parking lot, a tentative touch that quickly became a fixed point of adoration. It was a feeling I had not experienced in centuries. Not this raw, unfiltered fascination. Humans saw us, yes. They were drawn to the glamour, the beauty, the danger. But their attraction was shallow, a moth's suicidal flight towards a flame.
This was different. Maeve had not seen a pretty face. She had seen a monster, and she had leaned in.
The manor rose from the dense forest like a stone titan, a gothic tangle of turrets, gables, and dark windows that stared out into the woods like hollow eyes. Blackwood was not a house; it was a fortress, a sanctuary built to keep the world out and our secrets in. I guided the Jaguar up the winding gravel drive, the tires crunching a rhythm that sounded like a predator stalking through the undergrowth.
I left the car and moved towards the heavy oak doors, the silence of the forest wrapping around me. Inside, the air was cool and still, smelling of beeswax, old stone, and the faint, metallic tang of our kind. The grand foyer was a cavern of shadows, the only light coming from the tall, arched windows that looked out onto the perpetually twilight woods.
I followed the sound of quiet activity to the kitchen, a vast room with a stone hearth large enough to roast an ox and countertops of polished black marble. Carine was standing at the central island, her back to me. She was arranging a bouquet of white lilies in a crystal vase, her movements precise and graceful. With her honey-blonde hair swept into an elegant chignon and her simple, cream-colored sweater, she was the very picture of domestic tranquility—a beautiful, dangerous lie.
"You're quiet today," she said, not turning around. Her voice was like wind chimes, soft and melodic. "Edward was… agitated when he called."
"Edward is always agitated," I replied, my voice a low murmur. I leaned against the doorframe, content to observe. Carine was my sire's mate, the calming influence to Diedre's storm. She was the diplomat, the keeper of our fragile peace.
"More so than usual," she corrected, finally turning. Her golden eyes, the color of warm whiskey, scanned my face. Carine missed nothing. A faint, knowing smile touched her lips. "You, on the other hand, seem… pleased. It's been a long time since I've seen that look on your face."
"I had a productive day at school," I said, the understatement tasting sweet on my tongue.
Carine's smile widened. "I see." She snipped the stem of a lily, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet room. "And does this 'productive day' have a name?"
Before I could answer, a new presence entered the room. The air grew colder, heavier.
Diedre.
My sire. My "mother".
She moved with a silence that was absolute, a shadow detaching itself from the darker shadows of the hallway. Where Carine was all soft lines and gentle light, Diedre was sharp angles and pure, unapologetic darkness. Her hair was the color of a raven's wing, her eyes the same black as my own on account of our lack of hunting for a few days. She wore a severe, high-collared dress of dark velvet that seemed to absorb the very light around her.
She stopped beside Carine, but her gaze was fixed on me. It was an intense, possessive stare that stripped away all pretense. It was the gaze of a creator examining her creation.
"What have you done?" Diedre's voice was a low, resonant hum, like a cello string plucked in a crypt.
She could smell it on me. The lingering ghost of Maeve's scent. The electric charge of my newfound obsession.
"I've found something," I said, my voice dropping to a near whisper, a confession and a declaration all in one.
Diedre's black eyes narrowed, a flicker of ancient, predatory interest igniting in their depths. She took a slow, deliberate step towards me. "Something… or someone?"
I didn't need to answer. A slow smile spread across my face, mirroring the one I had given Maeve in the parking lot. It was sharp, possessive, and full of dark, terrible promises.
My sire's answering smile was a thing of terrifying beauty. "Well," she purred, her voice dripping with anticipation. "Don't be selfish, darling. Tell us everything."
A slow, deliberate smile was my only answer. I savored the moment, the shared, silent understanding between myself and my sire. Carine watched us both, her golden eyes moving from my face to Diedre's, a spectator to a conversation happening in a language older than words.
"Her name is Maeve Sable," I said, the syllables feeling perfect and solid on my tongue. I walked further into the kitchen, my boots making no sound on the flagstone floor. I picked up a discarded lily stem from the marble island, twirling it between my fingers. "Her father is the town's lawyer. Arthur Sable. A man of moderate intelligence and predictable habits." The mundane details were a necessary anchor, a 'before' to the 'after' I intended to create.
"Sable," Dierdre mused, tasting the name herself. "How quaint."
"The vessel is," I agreed. "The contents are even more so." I met my mother's gaze, letting the full, triumphant truth of it surface. "She is my La Tua Cantante."
The air in the room shifted. The quiet hum of the house seemed to fall silent. Carine's hands, which had been methodically cleaning the countertop, stilled completely. The term was an ancient one, a relic of our time in Italy, and its meaning was absolute. The Singer. The one whose blood sings a song so perfect, so irresistible, that it can drive a vampire to madness. It is a curse and a miracle, a fatal obsession gifted by fate.
Carine was the first to speak, her voice losing its melodic calm. "Duvessa, no. The last time our family encountered a singer..." She didn't need to finish. We all knew the stories. The chaos, the destruction, the covens torn apart over a single, fragile human.
"This is not the same," I said, my voice sharp, cutting through her concern.
Diedre held up a hand, silencing her mate. Her black eyes, ancient and endlessly deep, never left mine. "A singer is a simple thing, my love," she said, her voice a silken purr. "A beautiful, tragic meal. You look as if you've discovered a new star, not a bottle of vintage wine."
She saw it. Of course, she saw it. I had inherited her perception, her ability to see the shadows behind the veil of the world.
"Because she is more," I breathed, the confession thrilling. "The song of her blood... it is deafening. It pulled me to her the moment I stepped into that school. But when I got close, I felt something else. Underneath the song, there is a... resonance. A harmony."
I paused, trying to find the words for a sensation I had never before encountered. "There is a shadow in her, Mother. Something dormant, ancient. A power that sleeps in her marrow. She doesn't know it's there, but it calls to the part of me that is older than the vampire."
I thought of her sketchbook, the images she created. "She draws monsters," I whispered, a true, genuine smile touching my lips. "She fills pages with creatures of nightmare and shadow. She reads dark tragedies." I looked from Carine's worried face to Diedre's fascinated one and smirked. "Works like 'Interview With the Vampire' and 'Wuthering Heights'."
Carine let out a soft, troubled breath. "This is a complication."
"It is a revelation," Diedre corrected, her eyes gleaming with an unholy light. She began to pace, a caged panther in velvet. "A singer with a secret of her own... How delicious." Diedre's smile was a blade in the dim light. "A prize worthy of my daughter."
She pushed away from the island, her velvet dress whispering against the stone floor. "This news has stirred my appetite. The day was long, and this… restraint… grows tedious." Her black eyes met mine, and an unspoken understanding passed between us. The thirst, a constant, low hum beneath the surface of our existence, had sharpened at the thought of Maeve's singing blood. To deny it completely was to invite madness.
Carine sighed, turning to wipe down the already immaculate marble. "Must you both be so dramatic? There are reserves."
"Blood in a bag is sustenance, my love," Diedre said, her voice laced with a predatory amusement as she walked towards me. "It is not *dining*." She placed a cool hand on my shoulder, her touch both a comfort and a command. "The forest calls, Duvessa. Let us answer."
I nodded, the prospect of the hunt a welcome release. The manor, for all its grandeur, could feel like a cage. "I'll meet you at the treeline."
Carine didn't look up from her work, but her voice followed us as we moved towards the back of the house. "Do try not to start a war with the neighbors. Their self-control is so… fragile."
Diedre merely laughed, a low, musical sound that held no real humor.
We exited through the conservatory at the back of the manor, stepping not onto a manicured lawn but directly into the untamed wilderness that was our true backyard. The air was cold and sharp, thick with the scent of pine and damp earth. The moon, a perfect silver disc, hung in the sky, casting the forest in a stark palette of black and white.
We stood together for a moment, two silent figures at the edge of the abyss of trees. Then, with a shared, predatory grin, we were gone.
There is no word in the human language to describe the way we move through the forest. It is not running. It is a flight with no wings, a seamless, silent flow over rock and root and fallen log. The world becomes a blur of silver and grey, the only sounds the whisper of the wind and the frantic, terrified beating of a distant heart.
We split apart without a word, our hunting instincts guiding us to our preferred prey. Diedre veered west, towards the rockier crags where the mountain lions made their dens. Her taste always ran towards her fellow predators, a contest of wills she invariably won.
My path took me deeper into the ancient woods, towards the meadows where the black-tailed deer grazed. The scent of them was thick in the air, a warm, musky perfume that did little to stir my true appetite but would serve to quiet the beast. I moved through the undergrowth, a ghost in the moonlight, my senses stretching out, tasting the air.
I found him in a small clearing, a magnificent buck with a rack of antlers like a thorny crown. He was drinking from a stream, his head bowed, utterly unaware of the doom that approached. In another life, a human life, I might have admired his beauty. Maeve would have drawn him, captured his wild grace with a stick of charcoal. The thought sent a sharp, possessive pang through me.
The hunt was an exercise in control. I could have been on him in a heartbeat, a blur of violence. But tonight, I wanted the grace of it, the deadly ballet. I stalked him, letting him feel my presence just for a moment, a prickle of unease on the back of his neck. He lifted his head, his large, dark eyes wide with sudden fear, his nostrils flaring as he caught my alien scent.
He bolted.
The chase was short, a silent, fluid dance under the silver moon. I moved with him, a shadow at his flank, enjoying the power in my limbs, the effortless speed. As he leaped over a fallen cedar, I was there. My arms wrapped around his neck, and we went down together in a tangle of limbs and a spray of damp leaves. The kill was swift, a single, sharp bite that was both an end and a release.
The blood was hot and wild, tasting of grass and fear. It did its job, quieting the fire in my throat, dulling the sharp edge of the thirst. But it was a hollow satisfaction. It was like drinking water when you craved wine. It quenched the thirst but did nothing for the soul. It did not sing.
I was finishing when Diedre appeared, melting out of the shadows as silently as she had vanished. There was a fresh splash of darker blood on the velvet of her dress. Her eyes, no longer the stark, bottomless black of hunger, now gleamed with the warm, predatory gold of a recent kill. Her smile was sharp with satisfaction.
"The cougar put up a respectable fight," she said, dabbing the corner of her mouth with a lace-trimmed handkerchief she produced from a pocket. "For a moment." She looked down at the deer, then at me. Her gaze lingered for a second, and her smile widened. "Ah, much better. The gold suits you far more than the black, my daughter."
I glanced at my reflection in a pool of water collected on a broad leaf. She was right. The desperate, hungry black had receded, replaced by the familiar, burnished amber of a sated vampire. The world looked softer, warmer through these eyes. Less like a meal and more like a kingdom.
"The thirst is quieter," I corrected, releasing the buck and rising to my feet.
"Good." We began to walk, our pace leisurely now, two queens surveying their domain. "Now, with the beast placated, we must be strategic about your singer. The Cullens will sense your… preoccupation. Edward already has. He will be watching you, and by extension, her."
"Let him watch," I said, the words a low growl. "His concern is irrelevant."
"His interference is not," she countered sharply. "Their ridiculous treaty is with the local shapeshifters, but their sentimentality extends to all the humans in this town. It's a nauseatingly self-righteous philosophy, and they enforce it with a zealotry that is frankly exhausting. If they believe your singer is in danger—from anyone, but especially from us—they will act."
"She is in no danger from me."
Diedre stopped, turning to face me fully. The moonlight caught in her golden eyes, making them shine like molten honey. "My sweet, darling daughter," she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial purr. "You are a creature of immense power and singular will. But you have never had an obsession like this. You have never had a singer. Do not lie to yourself, or to me. The danger to her is immense, and it comes entirely from you. The desire to drain her, to possess her utterly, will become a storm inside you. You must master it."
"I will," I said, my voice tight with resolve.
"You will," she agreed, her confidence in me absolute. "But in the meantime, we must be clever. You must woo her. Uncover this 'shadow' you spoke of. Make her yours so completely, so willingly, that if the Cullens do try to intervene, she will choose you over them. Make her a willing accomplice to her own beautiful doom."
Her words hung in the cold night air, a perfect, terrible plan. It was not just about possession anymore. It was about seduction. It was about turning Maeve's fascination into devotion, her curiosity into complicity.
"They will see her as a victim to be saved," Diedre continued, her lips curling into a sneer. "We must ensure that by the time they try, she has no desire to be saved at all."