The Marionette

Chapter Eleven - Follow the Trail

Chapter Eleven - Follow the Trail

Milky-white — almost translucent — flesh glowed a bluish tint under the blacklight. Her eyes were sunken in, almost hollowed out sockets in their place, and her deathly blue lips were too thin. It was almost like a portrait; her eyes were still, stricken with fear of the unknown. What would happen to her when he takes her back to his hotel? What happens when the Puppets are off stage and not in a scene? How would I release them?

Vladimir chuckled low and throatily as he crouched down and placed a wooden Cara into the trunk. As he straightened his rigid form, he began to approach me, clasping his hands in one another behind his back. His top hat was slightly tilted to the left, partially leaving his face shrouded in shadows. His eyes bore into mine with such intensity that it caused a domino-type effect; goosebumps pricked across my chilly skin, my hands and knees began to tremor, and my insides quivered with unadulterated fear. As he stood in front of me, he tipped my chin up and forced me to stare into his glacier blue spheres. Leaning down, he softly whispered, "You are mine. I am your present, your future, your destiny. I am fate, I am death, and I have come to take you with me. More will continue to die, Cassandra. Did you think I didn't know about the ward you put up in your home?" He shook his head and straightened his posture but never released my chin, "I know everything you do, everything you think, everything you will do. There is no escaping. This would be less painless if you stopped fighting your destiny. Don't you want to be with me forever, Cassandra? To feel my hands all over your body? To feel my lips pressing soft kisses over every inch of skin?"

I could feel it. That familiar heat pooling low in my abdomen, little sparks of electricity skittering across my body. He was using magic to influence my attraction toward him. He was so sure of my appeal toward him that he brushed his thumb over my pulse, feeling the rhythmic drumming beneath the skin, and looked down at me with seductive eyes, his irises illuminating, glistening with want — need. I was powerless to stop him. The pull was too strong.

"I want to be with you. I want you to kiss me. Take me."

His mouth slanted over mine and kissed me, his chilly lips pressing fully against mine and then he began the siphon. I moaned as an explosion of blinding pain began to grow inside my skull. My skin ached, my bones were brittle, barely strong enough to hold my own weight up. I felt icy cold, so very cold. And just before I passed out, my eyelids flew open causing me to wince as ribbons of sunlight poured through my bedroom window. I felt like death. I felt like I had thirty tons of weight dropped on my head and chest.

I couldn't physically move. I was so weak I could barely think. What happened last night? I couldn't remember anything. The last thing I remember doing is warding my bedroom and then falling asleep. He couldn't get in, so what is this? An after effect from the feedings? I laid there for hours unable to call out for help, unable to do anything. I had to wait for my Mother to come into my room to check on me, but she didn't. As the day turned into night, the moon rose, casting slivers of pale light through my bedroom window. By this time, I was able to move and just barely speak. My voice was a mere cracked whisper as if I had laryngitis.

I tried lifting my hand to rub my eyes — the first time I failed — the second time I made it halfway to my abdomen before my arm (as if lifeless) fell back onto the bed. And finally, the third try I succeeded. Moving my arm felt like lifting lead. My eyes were sore, and felt dry like I had bits of sand trapped in there. My vision pulsated and drummed along with my pulse. My throat was like sandpaper; I was so thirsty I felt as if I could drink two gallons of water and still need more.

Sliding cautiously and carefully off of my bed, I stood on quivering legs before I collapsed to the floor. I cried out in frustration, "Damn it!" But as Laryngitis cracked my voice, it came out as "D - - it!" Again, I stood, this time using my bed as a crutch. As I gingerly lifted myself up all I could seem to do was wheeze out harsh, shallow breaths. The muscles in my arms and legs felt as if they were spasming — trembling beneath the skin as I gripped onto the seam of the mattress and righted myself. Sluggishly, I dragged myself halfheartedly to the door.