Belle Morte Bites (Belle Morte 4.3)

Dulce et Decorum est

Hayling Island, England, 1913

The sun was just coming up as Ysanne Moreau walked barefoot down the shingle beach. No one else was around yet. Leaving a towel on the dry stones, she continued down to where rocky ground became damp sand, squishing beneath her toes, and then further to the shallow waves running lazily in and out.

She waded in up to her knees and then dove, plunging into the cold water. Since vampires didn't need to breathe, she could stay under as long as she liked.

She swam out a mile and then floated on the surface of the water, sculling her hands. The sky was so pink it looked like it was blushing, and in the distance, morning fog was clearing away, revealing the shape of the Isle of Wight. She could easily swim there. Maybe she would one day.

Ysanne closed her eyes, feeling the warm light on her face, contrasting with the cold sea.

It had taken her a long time to get here, but she finally felt at peace.

The world had changed so much so fast, technology evolving at such a rapid pace that Ysanne hadn't even tried to keep up. Caoimhe had once wondered if vampires would get left behind by this new way of life, and she'd been right. Ysanne had stopped trying and had retreated as much as possible from the world, pretending that none of this change was happening.

Hayling Island was the perfect place for her. There was only one bridge on and off, the thatched cottage where she lived was remote enough that no one bothered her, and every morning she came down to the beach to swim or watch the sun come up.

It wouldn't last forever, but she'd love it while she could.

A familiar figure was waiting for her when she got back to her cottage, sitting on the little wooden bench in between bright flowerbeds. John stood up, beaming, and as Ysanne drew close to him, he swept her into his arms and kissed her.

"You've been swimming again," he said, nuzzling her wet hair. "My little mermaid."

It had taken a long time for Ysanne's heart to heal enough to let her take lovers again, and longer still until she felt ready for any kind of meaningful relationship.

John was one of the first people she'd met when she moved to the island, and his bright-eyed enthusiasm had warmed her newly healed heart. He knew that she wasn't quite like other people, and he knew that she brazenly defied societal norms and expectations, but rather than being scandalised by it, he was endlessly intrigued.

Ysanne pulled out of his arms and opened the front door. "Are you coming in?"

They didn't even make it to the bedroom.

John loved it when Ysanne had been swimming. He couldn't swim himself, and apparently the idea of her in the water, the smell of the salt on her skin and in her hair, never failed to excite him. Ysanne suspected it was more to do with the fact that proper young women didn't sneak down to the beach in the morning and go for a swim. Sometimes he told her she was wild, and then he kissed her like he needed her to breathe.

John kicked the front door shut, propelling Ysanne into the kitchen, where he lifted her onto the table and started pulling at her clothes. She wasn't wearing much so it didn't take long, and then he was eagerly pushing inside, his hands tight on her hips to hold her in place, her own hands gripping the edges of the table.

She was pretty sure that John had been a virgin when he met her – their first time together had not lasted long.

He'd come a long way since in the months that followed.