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The vampiress savoured freedom in a way her male counterparts seemed to take for granted.
Bianca was at liberty to change. She swapped out pearls for golden rings and cuffs, and spent early twilight braiding her hair in complicated styles most nights. She'd lived as a man for at least one lifetime, even. As much as she'd resented her education at times, she found herself living by it. Still, she was nobody's son, and especially nobody's daughter.
Thousands of years of anonymity had been shattered by the books; these strange creatures writing about her beloved companions in adventures concurring with her period of exploration. In her two and a half centuries of wandering, she'd laid claim to cities, immersing herself in society. Just as well she'd had periods of seclusion: at a certain point the farce of playing human always became unbearable. And still, she'd never taken another blood drinker for a companion after leaving her maker. She wasn't sure what that would look like, though she now grew curious of the ones that remained. Perhaps, she would be shown a new way to live.
A few weeks ago, she'd been in a bar in a night market in Chiang Mai when she heard a song so haunting it was downright preternatural. A mix of excitement and fear clutched her chest when the singer — Lestat de Lioncourt, she knew immediately — alluded to Those Who Must Be Kept. She wrote her mortal lover-not-lover a note and left for the new world.
It was her first time in the new world, what the old vampires of this land called Turtle Island, and she made her way east over many nights, avoiding the other blood drinkers of the American south. She slept in the dirt each day and spent the nights travelling, listening. She no longer needed to hunt every night, though she did little else to appear human in those days. As she got closer to her destination, the voices quieted; these southern cities were home to the elders of her kind, skilled with the ability to close off their thoughts.
She finally arrived in Miami just before daybreak and the narcoleptic pull of the sun constrained her to once again make a bed in the quickly cooling sand, quite a ways away from the shore, from the island. She wondered absently if the vampire called Gabriella was near.
She dug her way out of the sand come twilight, and was frightened to find a figure standing over her. Wiping the sleep out of her eyes, she took in this stranger, and upon realizing who it was, willed herself to remain still and non-threatening. Though what threat she'd pose to a child of the millennia, she did not know.
Pandora stared at her with blank eyes. She was tall and stately and beautiful, skin beginning to smoothen and appear hard has her maker's had. Their maker. Yes, Pandora, her sister-wife. And yet this was their first meeting, and Bianca fought the urge to remain on her knees at the feet of the living goddess. When she'd promised her maker not to be jealous, it was only to appease his ego. He'd proposed it to manipulate her emotions, keeping that boot on her neck as the mortals would say. What could she ever be jealous of Pandora of other than her freedom?
Bianca felt she had so much to say to the other woman but could not seem to make her voice box work, and she was stupidly afraid of what opening her mind to Pandora would entail.
"Come, child. Marius is not here, but I will take you to Night Island," said Pandora an unexpectedly soft, tender voice. Bianca subtly flinched at his name.
"I'm not here for him," Bianca said quickly, surprising herself though it was true. If she didn't see her maker for another hundred years, that would be okay. Pandora continued to gaze at her, imploring eyes searching in a face otherwise still.
"You are here for the boy."
Bianca didn't answer, queasy at the thought of all of her maker's fledglings gathered here. Instead, in a burst of confidence, she said, "Have you eaten? Let's hunt."
Pandora appraised Bianca, then nodded her assent.
Pandora let Bianca take the lead. The pair stalked the beach, then moved inland, hunting in the alleys between the white stucco buildings awash in purple light. Bianca set her sights on the perfect victim: a young man seemingly at the peak of health by the back door of a vacation rental, smoking a cigarette and scrolling on his phone. The collar of his salmon-coloured polo was popped, the shine of a golden chain resting on his slight collarbones. He didn't seem to be high on anything but nicotine. Good. Bianca didn't want to be out of her mind for this reunion.
Pandora approached him first. Bianca was awed at her ability to use the spell gift, practically glamouring him into her muscular arms. She looked up at the younger predator, eyes communicating an invitation. Bianca sidled up to the meat, a thrill of trepidation at being so close to Pandora. She gazed up at Pandora before lowering her eyes to the man's throbbing jugular. Fangs dropping, she pierced his supple flesh easily, his blood fresh and sweet on her tongue. Bianca drank deeply, one hand clutching his chest and the other cradling the nape of his neck. Her fingers brushed against his curly black hair. Familiar.
The ancient vampiress craned her neck down and delicately put her bloodless lips to the meat's rich, quickly cooling skin. She drank slowly, deliberately — she did not seem to need much. The man sputtered a bit, still charmed by Pandora, his large eyes widened in equal parts fear and pleasure. Bianca was laden with visions of life from his point of view: the intense peaks and valleys of his short existence, and a central, maternal figure the burning heart at the centre of it all. The vision was a bright, momentary flash, and then their victim fell into the women's arms, lifeless. Amadeo, she said with her mind gift.
Bianca hastily disappeared the body before the nightlife crowd began their own mortal version of stalking and hunting. She returned to Pandora's side, and realized with a mix of shame and pleasure that she wanted to be told what to do next. It had been centuries since she had been around another of her kind, let alone near the magnetic pull of a child of the millennia. She convinced herself these complicated feelings had nothing to do with her maker, though deep down she knew it had everything to do with him; it's what the name implied — made in his image, made to serve.
She was struck when the elder vampire neared her, but it was only to press blood-warm kisses to her face.
They made their way to the water's edge once again. Bianca peered across the greenish-black waters toward the blinking multi-building mass that was Night Island. The pair was about a kilometre away from the ferry port where mortals boarded to indulge in the luxuries of this modern age.
They swam to the island. The blood and her excitement energized Bianca's every movement and she had to make a concerted effort to appear human once they came ashore. Pandora lead her to the gated mansion a ways away from the shopping centre and hotels.
Bianca couldn't ignore the whispering of the mortals. She caught that apparently the pair drew attention for being able to enter the grand gates. The mansion itself seemed nearly deserted. At the top of the long driveway, Pandora said, again in a voice soft as velvet, "I am going."
Bianca heard the barest tinge of an invitation in those words, and hoped it wasn't presumptive when she said, "Won't you stay?"
Pandora smiled gently. "I will not."
Bianca's heart sank in disappointment. She thought it significant that her maker's children were gathered for the first time, and she'd recognized maybe she would like to join this so-called "coven of the articulate". Perhaps some stories could be shared. She needed something to keep going, a reason to endure.
Pandora's eyes flashed with cold fire. "I have nothing in common with that child, save the blood." She spat that last word with venom, lips curling. "I will leave you now, angel, with this: you must not look to the past to make sense of the future. The future in itself is senseless." Her eyes softened in something like sympathy. "Our shared maker is an enigma. Regardless, you are like me. You will endure. When you are done, come to me, if you wish."
Bianca, though confused, couldn't help but glow in the knowledge that Pandora saw some value in her. She could not deny that if felt good to be liked by an ancient, powerful being, notoriously reticent, and not for any utility. Just because she was her.
With that, they entered the mansion, Pandora leaving her for the west wing to presumably pack her things.
Bianca wandered the labyrinthine halls of the mansion. The tinny sound of a voice recorded led her to a pair of doors laden with gold handles. She took a deep breath — unnecessary, entirely for comfort — and entered the room.
It was a small theatre, with three rows of red velvet seats and a large screen at the top of the room, rippling black drapery on either side. And in the centre of the room was her Amadeo, long limbs languishing on a velvet seat, watching a black-and-white film.
He turned his head when she closed the door softly behind her and rose with care to stand before her, appraising and unreadable, before reaching out a hand to her. She took it and he lowered his head. She could see blood tears forming in his eyes. He pulled her to him and wrapped his arms around her, arms concealing immense strength to the point she was nearly crushed. She returned the embrace, and he breathed her name into her hair. Her knees gave out and she was sinking, taking him with her, until they were tangled up on the floor, holding each other.
She broke away and wiped the blood from his face, taking in his appearance. He remained unchanged, cherubic black ringlets falling into his face, eyes aflame, though they held a much more haunted, pained quality than how she remembered.
"I should have gone to you in Paris," she said, voice gravelly with emotion.
"I'd thought you were a ghost," he said, and she was struck by his voice. Everything had changed; a softness to his vowels that indicated he hadn't spoken Venetian in centuries.
"He refused to get you and forbade me from doing so." She said these harsh words with a sense of incredulity, half in disbelief that their lives diverged in such a way.
Amadeo paused, and the silence was pregnant with desperate pain. "I thought as much."
Bianca could never understand why he insisted so, what the reason was for their master's — maker's — cruelty in the aftermath of the horror that changed their lives forever. There were times she thought Marius must have hated Amadeo to do what he did to him, and paradoxically, hated her because she wasn't him. She said, "I will not pretend to understand his reasons for secrecy. But neither can I excuse my cowardice."
He put his delicate fingers on her chest and looked up at her through his lashes, and she was immediately transported to her bedroom in Venice. His usual boldness was dampened by the shyness of centuries apart, but his gaze was the same. Seeking comfort and the respite that was her body. He looked at her as if asking permission, which was new — he'd always just taken it back then. Bianca took it upon herself to be the aggressor this time, pushing up to press her lips to his.
He opened his mouth easily. Amadeo bit her bottom lip and sucked gently before pulling away. "Armand," he said. She'd been aware that he'd changed his name in some far recess of her mind; she'd read the books after all, but it would be a struggle to apply this new facet to him. Armand?
Bianca brought her finger to her lip, tongue laving over the strange taste of herself. He craned his neck, offering an expanse of smooth, dark skin. His blood was sweet and syrupy and she was in disbelief that this was the first time she was tasting it. Her brother in blood, her Amadeo — Armand.
She was flooded with images — fire, the shedding of skin like a snake. In her need to know more, she grasped at his shoulders, pushing him down on the carpeted floor. He closed his eyes, lost in the sensation of being drunken from. She only pulled away when his grip on her thigh loosened, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, always a neat eater. He opened his eyes again, brilliant amber, and pulled her into another bloody kiss.
They grappled for a while, Armand's kitten fangs piercing the thin skin of her décolletage and then returning to her lips in feverish hunger. They kissed like the other would be stolen away, like the world was going to end. They kissed like they were making up for the hundreds of years apart, like the guilt and suffering and loneliness could be remedied by it. Such had always been their way — they wouldn't talk, Amadeo would crawl out from under her bed to lie sprawled across her body and each would take what was offered, giving what they could spare. She pulled off his clothes with urgency; his passivity would be almost startling if she hadn't known this was part of their dance. He helped pull her gauzy shirt over her head before his hands — cold against her burning skin — grasped her waist.
She paused for a moment to look at him, his eyes closed, an expression of rapturous peace on his delicate features. His eyes cracked open, holding her tighter as she stilled. She wanted him to see her, see how she wore the centuries on her.
He touched her inquisitively, adoringly, fingertips lingering on her erogenous zones. He sat up, lips to her neck once more as his fingers danced over her nipples, cupping the swell of her breasts as she arched into him.
His blazing eyes, dark with lust, met hers as he brought his fingers to his mouth, making to bite off the sharp, translucent nails.
"Don't, Armand," she told him. "I'm not fragile. I never was."
Looking back, it was quite obvious when Amadeo had been turned, and back then all the ways he'd changed had made her terribly sad. From that point onward, he had been so afraid of hurting her. Now she knew he would slip into her room after feeding so he was passably warm and satiated, and that he'd cut his nails so as not to accidentally maim her. But even then she wanted to hold him in her arms, tell him she could take it. She'd already been made a weapon at that point. Bianca simply was overcome with love for a monster that was really a boy in thrall to something much, much worse. And the three-way trysts with his master and her future maker present were a whole other beast; Amadeo, lovesick and now fundamentally broken, with his haunted eyes never leaving his sire, and Marius, devoted to her pleasure, taking pleasure himself in being the eternal teacher — it had made her perfectly jealous in some convoluted, twisted way, as they worked her to completion over and over again in that huge, soft bed.
She slipped out of her reverie. Armand didn't take his fingers away from his mouth, rather, keeping eye contact, he took them in, laving over the digits with his tongue. Shiny with red-tinged spit, he brought them to her core before slipping them in, and before long they were covered with slick and flowing blood. Bianca keened as she watched rivulets of blood trail down his forearm and pool in the cup of his hand, palm pushing against her. Before long she'd seized up, shaking as she rode out the waves of pleasure Armand had precisely drawn from her body. Feeling light, she'd returned the favour, and both their hands were red with love, and they were satisfied.
Armand took her to one of his rooms where they fucked, washed, and dressed, and then he'd taken her by the hand to give her a proper tour of the mansion. It really was empty, though he'd said some vampires had left for good while others would eventually be back. There were two theatres in the house, at least three libraries, and a number of offices where she supposed those confounding books had been and were being written. He was lively and mischievous, the same as when she'd known him but different from what she expected for some inexplicable reason. The lightness hadn't left her body; Bianca felt a happiness she hadn't known in years; though the smile that graced Armand's face was gentle and genuine, it was tinged with something sour.
It was past witching hour, a few hours before dawn, when they sat on one of the terraces that faced the vast ocean. She supposed he'd either fed already or it was one of his fasting days. They'd been lulled into a comfortable silence, listening to the waves.
He said, "Bianca, you know my story but I know nothing of yours."
She quirked an eyebrow. "Is that really your story, Armand?" she asked, referring to the two books that had been published. Armand had appeared quite wildly different in each one, and she was intrigued by yet skeptical of his portrayal.
"Broadly, I suppose it is. It was interesting to see how I was perceived, what was left out."
After getting over feeling scandalized by the fact that their kind's secret had been revealed, she'd still found it difficult to square with the existence of the books. Bianca was aware vampires were certainly not their intended audience, and so she'd come to accept the ambivalent feelings she'd had toward the events of each account, further complicated by personal histories, the evidence of bias, and the tampering by the Talamasca.
She gestured around her. "And all this?" she asked, meaning the existence of Night Island; clearly a recent yet mystifying development.
"I made it for Daniel," he said quietly. "My firstborn."
She sensed some stormy emotion behind these words; some deep, unresolved anguish. Bianca knew Daniel Molloy in name only — the author of the oblique Interview with the Vampire. She did not attempt to understand what it all meant: the old man's brazen publicity stunts, the implication of him being Armand's first; but she'd understood there had been some rift, and recognized that pain. She looked around at the wealth and vastness that surrounded her, and felt small for the first time in a long while. She felt small in the same way when she was a girl in Venice, after the artists and scholars and philosophers left, and the undertakers had cleaned up her mess, and she'd been alone with her thoughts and the rising sun. She felt small in the same way she'd felt as a blood drinker in a ballgown, devastatingly lonely with Marius at her side. But the feeling passed quickly. This wasn't her house and the boy in front of her had no expectations; she was free to leave whenever, free to roam.
"You were always the strongest person I knew," she said suddenly, surprising even herself. Armand raised his eyebrows and smiled a little, obviously disbelieving. She held his gaze firmly and said, "Don't forget yourself." He leaned over and kissed her cheek. The sky was lightening into a brilliant lavender when they'd gone back in to sleep the day. Bianca and Armand shared a large, plush coffin and laid together, her arm around his waist, holding him close.
"I'm going to New Orleans in a few days," she whispered. He looked at her quizzically, and she knew he was imagining a rendezvous with Lestat de Lioncourt. She continued, "Pandora invited me. I want to… get to know her."
He smiled ruefully. "I'm baffled that she was one of the last to leave. I think she hates me, but I can never quite tell."
She hummed, unsure of how to answer. She recalled Pandora's bristling when they came to the mansion earlier, and did not know what to make of it, other than bitterness towards their maker once again. She dispelled that from her mind, and settled more deeply against Armand.
He said softly, "You'll visit?"
"Of course I will," she murmured, and she let out a breath — unnecessary, simply for comfort and relief — and fell into a dreamless death sleep.