The cell was dark and stagnant: it had all the intolerable trademarks of a medieval dungeon, which made up for the fact that it was actually a tower. There was supposed to be a window on the far side of the room, but from the light cement portion deviating from the ancient and gritty brickwork, it was obvious that it was newly-paved. The only light in the room was a tiny flickering candle on its bleeding wick with a pinprick light that seemed to grope around in the darkness like a limb desperately seeking aid. In the dense blackness of the cell, Marseille could track the seconds only by the whispering breaths uttered from her lips as she watched the flame extend, shrink and flare wildly.
The flame shuddered.
Marseille did not know that he was there with her, not for certain, until the flame spluttered and shrank in on itself. The darkness suddenly seemed tangible, rippling and silken like a gossamer screen shimmering just out of reach.
With a barely-steadied breath, Marseille muttered, "I know you're there."
The darkness did not answer. Instead, as she trained her gaze on the farthest corner where the shadows seemed to coalesce into inky limbs, the barest semblance of a figure started to materialise. He was a shadow-man: his entire being seemed to be only of haze, as if he was crafted from the first fog. The light caught on the ridge of a strong jaw, highlighted a sliver of a pale, high-placed cheekbone that hung in the darkness like a halfmoon, and deepened the contrast of blackness in the room.
The woman was not sure if she had gasped, or if she had even dared to breathe, in the seconds that the vampire appeared, yet she was agonisingly aware of the shrill, shuddering heartbeats that pounded in her chest. Dracula. The figure cocked its head at her, as if her wildest fears had summoned him, analysing her as a feline would a mouse, and she willed her heart to stop being so erratic and pumping so generously. The faster her pulse, the more alluring the scent for a vampire. The pounding of the useless organ became more pithy. Less erratic.
Vladislaus Dracula smiled, "Very good. You have astonishing self-control."
"Thank you for the compliment," Marseille was glad that she had the will to be sarcastic, "I will be sure to cherish it while I rot away in this cold, miserable tower," She glared at him sharply, "If you're willing to let me live that long to rot, that is."
The vampire chuckled, a hair-raising sound of depth and resonance, and seemed to pout. Though it was clearly meant to be a petulant gesture, the cat pawing at the mouse trapped between his claws, the motion paralysed her. It reminded her of what he was - a monster - more starkly than his bloodless skin, needlike fangs bared in the charmed smile of Death, or the locks curled over his head that seemed like a cast of the midnight sky. It aroused her morbid curiosity and filled her mind with the shadows of dark thoughts. Just how many times have you made that fatal gesture? How many empty corpses have you cradled in your sickeningly artistic hands after giving them that final, death-summoning kiss? Marseille glowered at him.
The vampire threw back his head and laughed.
"You so readily assume that I've come to kill you?" Vladislaus mused, voice intricately woven with wickedness and humour, as he shook his head, "Without even having a chance to play with you first? There is no intimacy in a five-second slaughter. None of the finer, seductive emotions that a person gives in their last living moments. Besides," He purred, "the main purpose of your presence here is for interrogation, which would prove difficult if you are limp in my arms."
Marseille retorted scaldingly, "I won't tell you anything."
The vampire pouted again, this time letting one incisor curl over his lip. She grimaced. The sight stimulated her body with chills, a free-reign terror that made the hair on the back of her neck stand erect and goosebumps slide down her back like the Serpent of Eden.
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Virgin Sacrifice - Van Helsing Fanfiction
Fanfiction"He was a shadow-man: his entire being seemed to be only of haze as if he was crafted from the first fog. The light caught on the ridge of a strong jaw, highlighted a sliver of a pale, high-placed cheekbone that hung in the darkness like a half-moon...
