Camille Loren Series, Book 1: Queen Nymphet

Don't Call The Cops

How does somebody know if they have the power to kill? Is it written in your blood? Does one start by killing squirrels and maiming cats, before making there way up to a nice, fleshy, victim? How much of a preface is there to the final, sinful, deed? Or perhaps there is no preface at all. No process, just a sudden psychological break. Maybe you could spend your whole life an outstanding citizen: never daring to jaywalk, a routine recycler, speed limit abider. And then one day, something within you snaps, and you become thirsty for the blood of a human being. A best friend.

Camille stared at her hands intensely. Could these be killing hands, she pondered. She turned them over and wondered what she would have used. The police said it was blood loss. Perhaps she took a wine bottle to Paloma's head, or maybe she cut her into pieces with the glass. Had she pushed her off the roof? She shuddered at the thought. It would be almost ironic wouldn't it? If the very girl who asked Camille to jump to her death would, herself, be pushed off a roof? But there would hardly be any blood, or satisfaction, from that. Camille envied Paloma, and Paloma envied Camille, but the tension was never anything to kill over.

All of this murder talk had Camille on edge. She would yelp at the sound of a floorboard and her stomach would lurch at the unexpected arrival of a parent into her room. One night, she nearly toppled over a vanity stool upon hearing a scratch at her window. For a moment she consoled herself, recognizing the sound to be a tree branch. But did a tree reach her bedroom window? She clenched her jaw tightly and slowly turned around to the window, blackened with the foggy evening sky. All of her senses were heightened. She could feel each tendril from her blond ponytail tickling the back of her neck as she walked toward the window. Slowly. And then, as if confirming some childhood nightmare, a hand banged on the glass. Camille let out a frightened gasp until she saw that the hand belonged to Elio, who sported a cutely apologetic expression. She frantically opened the window, worried he might fall to his two-story death.

"What are you doing here? And how did you even climb up?" She sputtered, still recovering from the fear.

"Each window has a ledge above it. I clung to those," he chuckled. His hair was swept back with the summer wind. Camille had almost forgotten how handsome he was. His white shirt was properly tucked into his black Levi's, and he wore the same shoes Mr. Coûteaux liked to wear. She silently approved.

"Back to question one: what are you doing here? Whatever happened to ignoring me?"

"I'm sorry about that, Camille. It hurts me too you know. Especially seeing you this way." He talked as he entered through the window frame.

"What way? I'm grand." Camille exhaled, turning away from the window.

"I see you go to the rose bush. I've seen you cry. And, look, I'm sorry I never came for you. I still haven't forgiven myself of that." Elio reached out his hand and outlined the skin under her eye with his thumb. Not because she had been crying, she wasn't, but because he missed the touch of her soft, snowflake, skin. Camille felt the butterflies instantly.

"I feel responsible. For Paloma," she confided. "I shouldn't have let her stay in that house alone." She looked at the ground, wondering whether to tell Elio that she had been with her that night. That she could have killed her. Elio gave her a speech about how she should never blame herself for what happened. Camille smiled through guilt and sat down on her bed. She hoped he would follow suit. He did.

Now. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury:

The promise of these next few moments was what had kept Elio alive for all that time without Camille. And the fantasies about what she was about to experience were what kept Camille dreaming of Prince Elio, who had finally rescued her from her adolescent dungeon. Prince Elio lay the young Princess Camille on the bed, one strand of hair falling onto his forehead. The princess' skin was glowing with moonlight, as if to further tempt Elio of this virgin prize. He kissed her, and the kingdom rejoiced. Fanfare played in the heart of young Camille, who wanted nothing more than the attention of this ancient crush. There was a warmth in her chest that crept to her stomach. The electric crackle of his lips on hers was enough to fuel all the world's ships, and rockets, and planes, and cars, and boats, and trains. That was, until the door opened. King and Queen Loren gasped in horror. The prince that Camille saw before her was an ugly beast in the eyes of the king and queen. A monster bent on stealing the innocence from their precious princess.

"You, fowl boy! Get off my daughter!" The king roared, as his wife gasped for a second time. Camille jumped to a sitting position and Elio flew off the bed into a corner near the open window. The king lunged at the boy, but to no avail, as the queen held her ferocious husband back, crying, "NO!" The father was panting with rage and the mother was wide eyed, trying to devise a way to get the monster out of the house without violence. She locked eyes with the criminal, taking a regal step forward.

"If you do not leave at once," she declared, "I will have no choice but to alert the authorities." All the king's horses, all the king's men, all the clichés in young Camille's head. "Go straight to the guest apartment and collect your things. If I do not see your car leaving the driveway in fifteen minutes, so help me, I will remove you myself." Camille had never seen her mother speak so sternly. She almost sounded like a lawyer. "I assume 'sex offender' isn't the phrase a thirty year old litigator would want stamped on his permanent record, now is it?" Mrs. Loren questioned. Elio muttered something in the corner. "What was that?"

"I'm twenty-eight." He repeated.

"Get out of my house!" Mr. Loren thundered. Before Elio could even move, Camille became unfrozen.

"But I love him!" She quickly cried.

"Love? Love? You're sixteen you don't know love! This man is manipulating you. He's taken every advantage of you Camille. Someday you will understand that," one of the parents replied, emphasizing almost every other word.

"I know love and this is it. He loves me too. Don't you, Elio?"

Silence. Elio slowly moved to the door.

"Please don't call the cops," he croaked before slithering back to the guest apartment lair.