anonymous
10-24-2007, 03:36 PM
LUST BLOOD - Chapter One
(ff, reluc, vampire, celeb)
by Zahir (zahir@brainlink.com)
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, got it? The movie described herein has not been made, nor have these people worked together (as far as I know) nor am I claiming this represents anything like a genuine picture of their sex lives. Got it? F-I-C-T-I-O-N. As in "not real." One would think the inclusion of vampires would make that even clearer, but best not to take chances.
Cast (the ladies, anyway): Mimi Jovovich, Estella Warren, Anna Paquin, Giuliana DePandi, Alicia Witt, Jane Paulh and Amy Lee of Evanescence.
***
"It really is a castle," said Anna Paquin with a giggle.
"Actually," replied Estella Warren, "these days its a hotel. Or so I'm told."
Both of them didn't move, at least for now. They stood, taking in the chateau . Part of that was enjoying the chance to stand and breathe fresh air. Even first class air travel included little enough of either. Add the fact they'd gone from New York to Paris meant jet lag on top of tiredness, followed by almost two hours in the limo.
"That movie that was made here," Anna began.
"Yes?"
"What was it called?"
"I think--'Red Lips' or maybe 'Blood Lips.' One of those."
Anna gave a little snort. "Sounds right."
Estella laughed. "It does."
The chateau was white, fairy-like towers behind a tiny moat surrounded by trees. Anna thought to herself it couldn't have ever been a real castle. For one thing, too small. Too many windows. Just a mansion made to look like a castle by someone, probably an aristocrat who-knew-how-many years ago. Which gave her an unpleasant thought. "Its a modern hotel, though, right?"
Her travel companion nodded. "Yeah, I assume so."
"So there's running water?"
"I'm sure there is," laughed Estella. Then paused. She looked at Anna with mock horror. "I hope there is."
"Guess we'll find out!"
With that, both actresses followed the porters taking their luggage inside. The drawbridge--really an ordinary-enough bridge--led to gorgeous set double french doors (well, what other kind?). Dusk was near enough lamps on either side already glowed. Electric light, not torches. Good sign. Inside, central heating kept out the autumn chill, while a chandalier of flame-shaped light bulbs flooded the antique-crammed room.
"Ah!" A middle aged lady approached both actresses, her eye catching the porters, who stopped. "I am Madame LeVert, the conscierge." She had an accent, all nasal vowels and precise consonents with a sing-song pattern right out of high school French Class. "Mademoiselle Warren, your suite is number seven," she said, handing a key. "And you, Mademoiselle Paquin, have number six." She pronounced it seeess. Then she smiled, very professionally. It was nearly genuine. "Welcome. The rest of your company are already here." She barely said the 'h' in 'here.'
"Great!" Anna felt the weight of her key. It was old-fashioned, heavy, and in its own way kinda beautiful.
"Dinner will be served," continued Madame LeVert, "at precisely eight o'clock." Her eyes flickered to the grandfather clock beside the carpeted staircase. It read half past six. "Monsieur Lynn said to encourage everyone to be, as he said, casual. He said there would also be a surprise."
The two actresses looked at each other and grinned. "I like surprises," said Estella.
"Well," answered Anna, "lets see what it is first."
"The porters will lead you to your rooms," Madame LeVert declared.
***
Her name, in so much as she had one, was Lamia. Or so she remembered. More accurately, it was what she believed she remembered, for memories could not be dismissed or left behind. Rather, they accumulated, pressed upon each other, mingled, aged, sickened, died and left bones--images, oders, certain sounds. They remained in her mind, surprisingly. Even the eldest ones, those of the city upon the hill near the sea. Lamia had not sought to recall that city's name in uncounted years. She had even lost the habit of curiosity about her own past. Now and then someone--a lover or victim or, rarely, a hunter--would ask and if she felt the inclination an answer would emerge from her lips. How old was she? She did not know. But no one spoke any longer the earliest language she almost recalled. Centuries ago, she had mentioned the vague memory of first learning about what was today called iron. But these were fragments, glimpses of memories shredded and decayed.
Like what she looked like. She had stopped wondering. Her suspicion was that her shape was now so malleable none could say she looked like anything at all. Rather, Lamia resembled what she wished to, but in an unconcious way. The minds of those around her shaped what form her body and face would take, although certain details remained the same. Or so it seemed. Flesh that blended marble and honey, with hightlights of rose. Hair she could see for herself remained midnight black. She had been told her eyes were sea-green.
And beautiful. All her life Lamia had been beautiful, even if she could not longer recall always what that meant at any given era.
Instead, Lamia focused on the here, on the eternal Now. Great patterns and rhythms remained the same, so that tales repeated themselves again and again. But the details--there was variety!
Hence she enjoyed what was different about this journey. Long ago she'd mastered the power to become shadow only, lurking in a darkened room unguessed by any save the most astute. In this case, as many times before, the room was inside a transportation machine--an oversized such, designed to carry dignitaries of this age from one place to the other. Within the rear room of this machine, two young women rode from the place of the flying machines here to the tiny palace. Drowsy from a long journey, sipping a mild wine provided, neither had noticed Lamia beside them.
She studied them, drinking in the details of each. The one with golden hair was more fit, and just a little older. With long practice, Lamia recognized this one felt more comfortable showing her body, had the confidence of knowing herself a beauty. But the younger, she had the greater brain. As a shadow, Lamia watched them but hardly listened. Details interested her, but not all details. Soon enough their simple chat revealed the reasons for them being here--which was amusing.
Actresses. They had been hired to come and perform in a recorded drama, one whose story dealt with vampires--or what the organizers of this drama thought of as vampires. More--and this was what made it more than idly amusing--the play they were to perform told of a sympathetic monster, one with whom the audience was to feel for. In ancient times, Lamia had been a goddess or demon. She had been a ghost or a ravenous horror. Yet only in recent decades had anyone thought of her as...a person.
Whether Lamia was a person she did not even consider. She simply allowed herself to feel amused and entranced by the conceit.
She followed the actresses as they went inside the tiny palace. Unseen, she began to explore, to eavesdrop, to learn.
And to plan.
***
Dinner felt as if it should be brunch, but Anna didn't mind. She was hungry. The sideboard held a variety of good food, including the fixings for a huge salad which she soon created.
"Its all about the anticipation," said Adrian Lynne at the head of the table. The director had salt-and-pepper hair, and a face with tiny bright eyes. He was answering a question from Anna's co-star, Milla Jovovich. "With a title like DRACULA'S DAUGHTER the audience comes in knowing there's a vampire, knowing she's a woman, knowing what to expect from a vampire--they think. That gives us something to play with."
Wanting to hear more, Anna took a seat next to Milla, whom she'd met a few times before. Ever since learning she was to do what amounted to love scenes with her, Anna had felt nervous. One more reason to sit next to her.
But Lynne stopped, fixed his eyes on Anna. "Would you sit over here, please?" It didn't even sound like a question. Nor did he bother to check if Anna obeyed, but pointed at the empty chair on the other side of the table. Anna almost argued. What stopped her was knowing this was a bad way to start any kind of working relationship. Lips pursed, she changed her seat after a moment. Lynne went on as if there'd been no interruption.
"Plus there's so many other kinds" he said. "There's an engagement. Since the groom-to-be is cheating, we anticipate his fiancee finding out. We wonder when the vampire will feed, on who will she feed. Who will figure out she is a vampire. If we do it right, anticipation for the first world war should also be in the air. That's what you need. Anticipation. Because the world has changed so much. It frightens, and excites. But I think maybe the fear is greater. Predators don't like change. Cats don't like change, have you noticed? They like the way the world to stay the same, with lots of mice to play with, to kill. Its a whole new world, a new century. Your prey is changing, and that's danger."
Next to Anna was a slender Englishman with dark blonde hair. She recognized him from THE GOVERNESS and BEND IT LIKE BECKHAM. Johnathan Rhys-Myers, her 'fiancee.' Oddly enough, he wore a three-piece suit. And insisted on getting up to pull the chair out for her. That was nice.
"The least I could do for my wife to be," he said with an arch tone. Something about the way he said that reminded her of Hugh Jackman, her co-star in both X-MEN movies. On a hunch, she sneaked a peak at the book next to his own place at table--a medical title. Ah hah. Quincy Morris, his character, was a doctor from Edwardian England. Like Jackman, he was immersing himself in the part. Jackman had even taken to eating food he didn't like and never using hot water in the shower--all to keep himself angry. She made a bet with herself that Rhys-Myers had probably gone on rounds with interns by now.
Directly across from them sat one of the most beautiful women Anna had ever seen.
"How was your trip?"
"Well...long!" Anna laughed.
"Started out in London, myself, so I was lucky." Rhys-Myers certainly came across as friendly, if oddly formal. Or was that put on for the part? Didn't matter, really. "Where was your point of origin?"
"New York, I suppose. That's where Estella and I met up."
"Ah! Than I was lucky. Or not--the company of two lovely women would have been good compensense for such a long journey." He said this smiling. Anna felt herself smile in return. Had some charm, this one. Not her type, she didn't think, but whether it was an act or not--she suspected it was--the effect worked.
The gorgeous woman across from them listened and smiled. It took Anna another few seconds to recognize her. Jane Paulh. She had starred in THE LOVER, as well as a made-for-tv movie about the so-called real Dracula. Anna had seen the one several months back, while on a spree of seeing movies adapted from books. THE LOVER, she recalled, had been between the most recent remake of THE GREAT GATSBY and the John Huston version of MOBY DICK. The other she'd rented along with half a dozen other vampire movies in the week after accepting this part. In person, Jane Paulh was even more lovely, just a few years older than Anna herself. She had a brilliant smile, one aimed at Rhys-Myers.
But then, she noticed Anna's gaze, and her smile broadened, shifting towards her.
Oh my.
"Everybody!" The director had raised his voice and all those at the table turned to listen. He lifted a glass of wine. "Just wanted to welcome everyone. Hope you'll enjoy yourselves. To be honest, I'm hoping even more that you'll work hard, but I'd like it if you had fun doing it." A few polite laughs--some more or less sincere--answered this. Moments later, Lynne continued. "Many thanks for taking on this project. It is, after all, you who'll be the public face of all our labors. Me, I'm just the foreman. You, you're the workers. And I'm left-wing enough to say you outrank me! Or that's what my therapist keeps telling me to say until I believe it!" The laughter was more genuine, less forced at that, including Anna's own. "Now, we're doing a period piece," said Lynne, pitch lowering. "That's tricky. What's even trickier is that the period isn't that far away. Some, yes. But a lot of what we take for granted was part of the world in 1914. Mass media. Telephones. Automobiles. Unfortunately, that can be a trap. We can--not saying we will but believe me its an easy trap to fall into--we can forget on some level this is a period piece." He paused, obviously for effect. Both tiny eyes were twinkling, but under the pleasant voice was steel. "So--here at the Chateau will be some rules. Each of you will find a copy slipped under your door tonight. These rules have nothing to do with my likes or dislikes, but everything to do with capturing how different the world was ninety years ago. I must ask--no, insist--that everyone obey these rules. Not for my sake. For the picture. And don't think, by the way, that all of the rules are about the women. A lot of them are, but that's a reflection of the times. As time goes by, maybe you'll notice how the rules for men are no less restrictive. More subtle, certainly. But just as uncomfortable over time."
Anna wondered about that. Just as she wondered what these rules might be.
***
Milla Jovovich didn't want to get out of the bath. She liked the feel of it too much. Besides, this was an unusually large tub, and the water was nicely hot. Two scented oil beads had dissolved in the water very nicely. And just for effect, she'd turned the light out in her rooms and lit a candelabra. It was perfect. She felt very decadent at the moment.
Like a vampire queen maybe? Well, some kind of queen. In truth, she missed her fiancee who was directing his own film right now. That had proven a sticking point, actually. Milla had been slated to star in RESIDENT EVIL 2. They'd liked working together and looked forward to doing so again.
Then...the offer from Adrian Lynne. A chance to work with one of the best directors around. Even Paul hadn't been able to argue with that, although he'd given a half-hearted try. The fact was, he thought this a wonderful opportunity for her--but was angry it conflicted with his own plans. Milla didn't blame him. Then, of course, the money people for ULTRAVIOLET, her next film after RE, weren't as understanding. They heard about the offer and made their own moves. From what she gathered, they'd initially tried to get Kate Beckinsale to replace her, in effect reprising her role from the hit UNDERWORLD. She was uninterested, especially with plans underway for a sequel directed by her own fiancee. Next, the folks who held the purse strings decided to try and recreate the surprise that had been Beckinsale's performance. Since her image had been of a very feminine girl, they sought out an actress with the same image in an effort to cast against type. A reverse of formula casting. So now Jennifer Love Hewitt would be playing the gun-toting vampiress from a war-torn future while Milla herself played an elegant artistic vampiress in turn-of-the-century Paris.
Oh well--at least she wouldn't have to do so many stunts. They were fun and all, but exhausting. And much as she missed Paul, she was also excited to be working with Adrian Lynne. If this film was anywhere near the quality of his other films--like LOLITA or JACOB'S LADDER or UNFAITHFUL--then Milla felt sure she'd be very proud. So would Paul.
But instead of gun fights, she'd have lesbian love scenes.
Laughing, Milla reached over and took a sip of wine from the fluted glass next to the tub. Another sign of decadence she'd decided to foster. Amusingly, Lynne had sent her a bottle of genuine Transyvanian wine with the crass name of "Vampire." It had surprised Milla. She had tasted it, expecting the kind of mass-produced fermented grape juice so common in America. This was better than that--an interesting blend of dry and fruity she'd never encountered before. Not a great wine, but nice.
And worth a laugh. She was going to write and tell Paul about it. Likewise, she promised to give him all the steamy details of shooting the lesbian love scenes. Men! Ah well.
Soon--too soon--the water went from hot to warm, then from warm to almost tepid. It took time, during which the candles each lost almost an inch of wax and Milla finished her glass of wine. But at a certain point, she stopped enjoying the bath and so emerged from it. A gloriously thick bath towel (American didn't have bath towels--they used bath sheets) awaited her, and rubbing herself with it was another bit of decadence as far as she was concerned. For weeks now she'd been thinking what it would be like to live for centuries. One firm conclusion was that vampires would have to draw out anything that felt good, shutting out the entire world as much as possible. They'd probably be very languid, doing it all in slow motion. Adrian had said that was a good tack to take. So now, Milla took her time drying off. When finished, she decided not even to don her kimono. The heat was on, so she remained nude.
Picking up the candleabra, she stepped into her dark bedroom. She decided she liked this look, all shadows and flickering light. It made the entire room interesting. Individual shadows almost seemed alive, seemed to move as if unicorns or wolves or maybe angels.
Indeed, imagining the same took a few moments of time which she quite enjoyed. Letting her imagination flow, she thought perhaps one set of shadows in particular were watching her, following her across the room as she headed for the four-poster bed. The shadow, she allowed herself to storytell, was a guardian angel. But angels could fall, could they not? Isn't that what happened with Lucifer? Might someone's guardian angel also fall, become instead a guardian demon?
She'd have to mention that to Adrian, or to James Hart, the screenwriter. Maybe it was an image they could use somewhere.
Moments after putting the candleablra down and blowing out each tiny flame, the idea of a guardian demon suddenly wouldn't leave her. How could she be sure that wasn't exactly what happened sometimes? Or had happened? The world was a weird place, the universe full of bizarre stories and events. She'd been reading up on them since getting this part, and she'd deliberately allowed herself to believe these tales. What if werewolves really did exist, maybe hunted to extinction in the modern age? Might not restless spirits of the dead wander places they knew in life? Or certain people touched by God experience the same trauma as God's own son? How could she be sure an angel or demon wasn't here in the darkness with her?
That was when she felt hands on her breasts.
Her first instinct should have been to scream or at least pull away. But she didn't. Why not? Instead, she allowed those cold hands--a woman's hands--feel her breasts, weigh them, stroke their thumbs against her nipples. No, this wasn't right. Was it? She must be dreaming, must be. The wine and atmosphere plus all the talking and thinking about this film--she simply must be asleep. This was a dream.
It was certainly an intense dream. Fingers on her nipples sent currents of pleasure like lightning through her nerves. She trembled at it, at the pain she didn't want to end.
"Who are you?" She asked the dream.
Her answer--if answer it was--came immediately. The hands left her aching nipples and ran down the sides of her naked body. Whoeveritwas (her guardian demon?) must be kneeling. As if to confirm this, a cold but electric mouth kissed her navel, tongue reaching out and exploring it.
Milla trembled. Waves of strange sensation erupted from where this stranger kissed and touched. Cold and heat at the same time. Revulsion and pleasure, but mostly pleasure--bone deep. No, blood deep. She could feel it flowing through her veins, warming and chilling her simultaneously. Her breasts tingled even more than they had at her touch. Knees trembled. Breath grew short. And as the stranger's tongue continued to lap at her navel, its tip exploring every fold and tiny crevice again and again, Milla felt her loins begin to moisten.
A dream, she repeated to herself. It was all about the script and the ideas it put into her head. Plus her musings about shadows and demons and decadence.
It must be a dream.
She was thinking this up until the stranger's mouth moved down and fastened onto her vulva. Milla had enough time to feel shock, to recognize it as shock, and to be dimly aware of falling back onto the bed. After that, all she knew was the pleasure. Everything that tongue had done before to her navel, it now did to her willing cunny, only more. What had been waves of pleasure not became a flood, washing back and forth across Milla's body without mercy. Every cell screamed in joy, while Milla herself could do nothing but lie on the bed, gasping and riding the sensations. No, not riding. She was swept away, out of control.
Her brain heard the lapping noises from her groin, but not more listened to them that it did her own weeping cries of joy. The fact the strangers hands and mouth were so cold should have hurt. In fact, they did. But the pleasure was so much more it drowned out the pain. Milla could only think--the little thinking she could do--about how much she wanted this, how she'd do anything at all for it not to end. Those hands lifted her easily, pulling her groin harder into that mouth. Milla squirmed, trying to help, but was so lost in sensation she could barely tell her body what to do. All she wanted to do was drink up these feelings, to drown in them.
The orgasm, when it came, seemed to last centuries. She cried out in what would have been a scream, save there was little air left in her lungs. Milla had spent the last several minutes or hours gasping rather than breathing. Every muscle locked, her entire body arched, even toes and fingers curling. Had there been anyone to hear, the only sound coming from Milla might have sounded like the final exhalation of someone dying after vast exertion.
If they were unfamiliar with that sound. The only one who was listening knew that sound intimately, and realized Milla was simply overwhelmed with more pleasure than any mere human could generate. Lamia's powers included the ability to reach in and stroke portions of her victim's soul. All vampires had this ability to some extent. She, being an ancient, could play almost any human like a musical instrument provided there was physical contact. When flesh touched flesh, there was little she could not make her victims experience. In this case, she'd reached out and set fire to every sensual pleasure Milla Jovovich had ever known. Now, the pretty young actress lay gasping for breath across her bed. She was, to use a bit of modern slang, "high as a kite" from what Lamia had done to her. Lamia liked to see her like this. Even the way her eyes rolled in her head, and the drool coming out of her mouth was pleasing.
She liked willng prey. That's why she made sure they were willing.
Lamia moved her mouth, from her victim's genetalia to the inside of her thigh. Time to feed. Needle-sharp fangs extended, glistening slightly with venom in the dim moonlight through the window. Long experience told Lamia exactly where to bite.
Her fangs sliced into Milla's flesh, piercing a vein. Lamia began to drink. What was left of Milla's consiousness was swept away by pleasure so intense it was agony. She welcomed it.
TO BE CONTINUED.
(ff, reluc, vampire, celeb)
by Zahir (zahir@brainlink.com)
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, got it? The movie described herein has not been made, nor have these people worked together (as far as I know) nor am I claiming this represents anything like a genuine picture of their sex lives. Got it? F-I-C-T-I-O-N. As in "not real." One would think the inclusion of vampires would make that even clearer, but best not to take chances.
Cast (the ladies, anyway): Mimi Jovovich, Estella Warren, Anna Paquin, Giuliana DePandi, Alicia Witt, Jane Paulh and Amy Lee of Evanescence.
***
"It really is a castle," said Anna Paquin with a giggle.
"Actually," replied Estella Warren, "these days its a hotel. Or so I'm told."
Both of them didn't move, at least for now. They stood, taking in the chateau . Part of that was enjoying the chance to stand and breathe fresh air. Even first class air travel included little enough of either. Add the fact they'd gone from New York to Paris meant jet lag on top of tiredness, followed by almost two hours in the limo.
"That movie that was made here," Anna began.
"Yes?"
"What was it called?"
"I think--'Red Lips' or maybe 'Blood Lips.' One of those."
Anna gave a little snort. "Sounds right."
Estella laughed. "It does."
The chateau was white, fairy-like towers behind a tiny moat surrounded by trees. Anna thought to herself it couldn't have ever been a real castle. For one thing, too small. Too many windows. Just a mansion made to look like a castle by someone, probably an aristocrat who-knew-how-many years ago. Which gave her an unpleasant thought. "Its a modern hotel, though, right?"
Her travel companion nodded. "Yeah, I assume so."
"So there's running water?"
"I'm sure there is," laughed Estella. Then paused. She looked at Anna with mock horror. "I hope there is."
"Guess we'll find out!"
With that, both actresses followed the porters taking their luggage inside. The drawbridge--really an ordinary-enough bridge--led to gorgeous set double french doors (well, what other kind?). Dusk was near enough lamps on either side already glowed. Electric light, not torches. Good sign. Inside, central heating kept out the autumn chill, while a chandalier of flame-shaped light bulbs flooded the antique-crammed room.
"Ah!" A middle aged lady approached both actresses, her eye catching the porters, who stopped. "I am Madame LeVert, the conscierge." She had an accent, all nasal vowels and precise consonents with a sing-song pattern right out of high school French Class. "Mademoiselle Warren, your suite is number seven," she said, handing a key. "And you, Mademoiselle Paquin, have number six." She pronounced it seeess. Then she smiled, very professionally. It was nearly genuine. "Welcome. The rest of your company are already here." She barely said the 'h' in 'here.'
"Great!" Anna felt the weight of her key. It was old-fashioned, heavy, and in its own way kinda beautiful.
"Dinner will be served," continued Madame LeVert, "at precisely eight o'clock." Her eyes flickered to the grandfather clock beside the carpeted staircase. It read half past six. "Monsieur Lynn said to encourage everyone to be, as he said, casual. He said there would also be a surprise."
The two actresses looked at each other and grinned. "I like surprises," said Estella.
"Well," answered Anna, "lets see what it is first."
"The porters will lead you to your rooms," Madame LeVert declared.
***
Her name, in so much as she had one, was Lamia. Or so she remembered. More accurately, it was what she believed she remembered, for memories could not be dismissed or left behind. Rather, they accumulated, pressed upon each other, mingled, aged, sickened, died and left bones--images, oders, certain sounds. They remained in her mind, surprisingly. Even the eldest ones, those of the city upon the hill near the sea. Lamia had not sought to recall that city's name in uncounted years. She had even lost the habit of curiosity about her own past. Now and then someone--a lover or victim or, rarely, a hunter--would ask and if she felt the inclination an answer would emerge from her lips. How old was she? She did not know. But no one spoke any longer the earliest language she almost recalled. Centuries ago, she had mentioned the vague memory of first learning about what was today called iron. But these were fragments, glimpses of memories shredded and decayed.
Like what she looked like. She had stopped wondering. Her suspicion was that her shape was now so malleable none could say she looked like anything at all. Rather, Lamia resembled what she wished to, but in an unconcious way. The minds of those around her shaped what form her body and face would take, although certain details remained the same. Or so it seemed. Flesh that blended marble and honey, with hightlights of rose. Hair she could see for herself remained midnight black. She had been told her eyes were sea-green.
And beautiful. All her life Lamia had been beautiful, even if she could not longer recall always what that meant at any given era.
Instead, Lamia focused on the here, on the eternal Now. Great patterns and rhythms remained the same, so that tales repeated themselves again and again. But the details--there was variety!
Hence she enjoyed what was different about this journey. Long ago she'd mastered the power to become shadow only, lurking in a darkened room unguessed by any save the most astute. In this case, as many times before, the room was inside a transportation machine--an oversized such, designed to carry dignitaries of this age from one place to the other. Within the rear room of this machine, two young women rode from the place of the flying machines here to the tiny palace. Drowsy from a long journey, sipping a mild wine provided, neither had noticed Lamia beside them.
She studied them, drinking in the details of each. The one with golden hair was more fit, and just a little older. With long practice, Lamia recognized this one felt more comfortable showing her body, had the confidence of knowing herself a beauty. But the younger, she had the greater brain. As a shadow, Lamia watched them but hardly listened. Details interested her, but not all details. Soon enough their simple chat revealed the reasons for them being here--which was amusing.
Actresses. They had been hired to come and perform in a recorded drama, one whose story dealt with vampires--or what the organizers of this drama thought of as vampires. More--and this was what made it more than idly amusing--the play they were to perform told of a sympathetic monster, one with whom the audience was to feel for. In ancient times, Lamia had been a goddess or demon. She had been a ghost or a ravenous horror. Yet only in recent decades had anyone thought of her as...a person.
Whether Lamia was a person she did not even consider. She simply allowed herself to feel amused and entranced by the conceit.
She followed the actresses as they went inside the tiny palace. Unseen, she began to explore, to eavesdrop, to learn.
And to plan.
***
Dinner felt as if it should be brunch, but Anna didn't mind. She was hungry. The sideboard held a variety of good food, including the fixings for a huge salad which she soon created.
"Its all about the anticipation," said Adrian Lynne at the head of the table. The director had salt-and-pepper hair, and a face with tiny bright eyes. He was answering a question from Anna's co-star, Milla Jovovich. "With a title like DRACULA'S DAUGHTER the audience comes in knowing there's a vampire, knowing she's a woman, knowing what to expect from a vampire--they think. That gives us something to play with."
Wanting to hear more, Anna took a seat next to Milla, whom she'd met a few times before. Ever since learning she was to do what amounted to love scenes with her, Anna had felt nervous. One more reason to sit next to her.
But Lynne stopped, fixed his eyes on Anna. "Would you sit over here, please?" It didn't even sound like a question. Nor did he bother to check if Anna obeyed, but pointed at the empty chair on the other side of the table. Anna almost argued. What stopped her was knowing this was a bad way to start any kind of working relationship. Lips pursed, she changed her seat after a moment. Lynne went on as if there'd been no interruption.
"Plus there's so many other kinds" he said. "There's an engagement. Since the groom-to-be is cheating, we anticipate his fiancee finding out. We wonder when the vampire will feed, on who will she feed. Who will figure out she is a vampire. If we do it right, anticipation for the first world war should also be in the air. That's what you need. Anticipation. Because the world has changed so much. It frightens, and excites. But I think maybe the fear is greater. Predators don't like change. Cats don't like change, have you noticed? They like the way the world to stay the same, with lots of mice to play with, to kill. Its a whole new world, a new century. Your prey is changing, and that's danger."
Next to Anna was a slender Englishman with dark blonde hair. She recognized him from THE GOVERNESS and BEND IT LIKE BECKHAM. Johnathan Rhys-Myers, her 'fiancee.' Oddly enough, he wore a three-piece suit. And insisted on getting up to pull the chair out for her. That was nice.
"The least I could do for my wife to be," he said with an arch tone. Something about the way he said that reminded her of Hugh Jackman, her co-star in both X-MEN movies. On a hunch, she sneaked a peak at the book next to his own place at table--a medical title. Ah hah. Quincy Morris, his character, was a doctor from Edwardian England. Like Jackman, he was immersing himself in the part. Jackman had even taken to eating food he didn't like and never using hot water in the shower--all to keep himself angry. She made a bet with herself that Rhys-Myers had probably gone on rounds with interns by now.
Directly across from them sat one of the most beautiful women Anna had ever seen.
"How was your trip?"
"Well...long!" Anna laughed.
"Started out in London, myself, so I was lucky." Rhys-Myers certainly came across as friendly, if oddly formal. Or was that put on for the part? Didn't matter, really. "Where was your point of origin?"
"New York, I suppose. That's where Estella and I met up."
"Ah! Than I was lucky. Or not--the company of two lovely women would have been good compensense for such a long journey." He said this smiling. Anna felt herself smile in return. Had some charm, this one. Not her type, she didn't think, but whether it was an act or not--she suspected it was--the effect worked.
The gorgeous woman across from them listened and smiled. It took Anna another few seconds to recognize her. Jane Paulh. She had starred in THE LOVER, as well as a made-for-tv movie about the so-called real Dracula. Anna had seen the one several months back, while on a spree of seeing movies adapted from books. THE LOVER, she recalled, had been between the most recent remake of THE GREAT GATSBY and the John Huston version of MOBY DICK. The other she'd rented along with half a dozen other vampire movies in the week after accepting this part. In person, Jane Paulh was even more lovely, just a few years older than Anna herself. She had a brilliant smile, one aimed at Rhys-Myers.
But then, she noticed Anna's gaze, and her smile broadened, shifting towards her.
Oh my.
"Everybody!" The director had raised his voice and all those at the table turned to listen. He lifted a glass of wine. "Just wanted to welcome everyone. Hope you'll enjoy yourselves. To be honest, I'm hoping even more that you'll work hard, but I'd like it if you had fun doing it." A few polite laughs--some more or less sincere--answered this. Moments later, Lynne continued. "Many thanks for taking on this project. It is, after all, you who'll be the public face of all our labors. Me, I'm just the foreman. You, you're the workers. And I'm left-wing enough to say you outrank me! Or that's what my therapist keeps telling me to say until I believe it!" The laughter was more genuine, less forced at that, including Anna's own. "Now, we're doing a period piece," said Lynne, pitch lowering. "That's tricky. What's even trickier is that the period isn't that far away. Some, yes. But a lot of what we take for granted was part of the world in 1914. Mass media. Telephones. Automobiles. Unfortunately, that can be a trap. We can--not saying we will but believe me its an easy trap to fall into--we can forget on some level this is a period piece." He paused, obviously for effect. Both tiny eyes were twinkling, but under the pleasant voice was steel. "So--here at the Chateau will be some rules. Each of you will find a copy slipped under your door tonight. These rules have nothing to do with my likes or dislikes, but everything to do with capturing how different the world was ninety years ago. I must ask--no, insist--that everyone obey these rules. Not for my sake. For the picture. And don't think, by the way, that all of the rules are about the women. A lot of them are, but that's a reflection of the times. As time goes by, maybe you'll notice how the rules for men are no less restrictive. More subtle, certainly. But just as uncomfortable over time."
Anna wondered about that. Just as she wondered what these rules might be.
***
Milla Jovovich didn't want to get out of the bath. She liked the feel of it too much. Besides, this was an unusually large tub, and the water was nicely hot. Two scented oil beads had dissolved in the water very nicely. And just for effect, she'd turned the light out in her rooms and lit a candelabra. It was perfect. She felt very decadent at the moment.
Like a vampire queen maybe? Well, some kind of queen. In truth, she missed her fiancee who was directing his own film right now. That had proven a sticking point, actually. Milla had been slated to star in RESIDENT EVIL 2. They'd liked working together and looked forward to doing so again.
Then...the offer from Adrian Lynne. A chance to work with one of the best directors around. Even Paul hadn't been able to argue with that, although he'd given a half-hearted try. The fact was, he thought this a wonderful opportunity for her--but was angry it conflicted with his own plans. Milla didn't blame him. Then, of course, the money people for ULTRAVIOLET, her next film after RE, weren't as understanding. They heard about the offer and made their own moves. From what she gathered, they'd initially tried to get Kate Beckinsale to replace her, in effect reprising her role from the hit UNDERWORLD. She was uninterested, especially with plans underway for a sequel directed by her own fiancee. Next, the folks who held the purse strings decided to try and recreate the surprise that had been Beckinsale's performance. Since her image had been of a very feminine girl, they sought out an actress with the same image in an effort to cast against type. A reverse of formula casting. So now Jennifer Love Hewitt would be playing the gun-toting vampiress from a war-torn future while Milla herself played an elegant artistic vampiress in turn-of-the-century Paris.
Oh well--at least she wouldn't have to do so many stunts. They were fun and all, but exhausting. And much as she missed Paul, she was also excited to be working with Adrian Lynne. If this film was anywhere near the quality of his other films--like LOLITA or JACOB'S LADDER or UNFAITHFUL--then Milla felt sure she'd be very proud. So would Paul.
But instead of gun fights, she'd have lesbian love scenes.
Laughing, Milla reached over and took a sip of wine from the fluted glass next to the tub. Another sign of decadence she'd decided to foster. Amusingly, Lynne had sent her a bottle of genuine Transyvanian wine with the crass name of "Vampire." It had surprised Milla. She had tasted it, expecting the kind of mass-produced fermented grape juice so common in America. This was better than that--an interesting blend of dry and fruity she'd never encountered before. Not a great wine, but nice.
And worth a laugh. She was going to write and tell Paul about it. Likewise, she promised to give him all the steamy details of shooting the lesbian love scenes. Men! Ah well.
Soon--too soon--the water went from hot to warm, then from warm to almost tepid. It took time, during which the candles each lost almost an inch of wax and Milla finished her glass of wine. But at a certain point, she stopped enjoying the bath and so emerged from it. A gloriously thick bath towel (American didn't have bath towels--they used bath sheets) awaited her, and rubbing herself with it was another bit of decadence as far as she was concerned. For weeks now she'd been thinking what it would be like to live for centuries. One firm conclusion was that vampires would have to draw out anything that felt good, shutting out the entire world as much as possible. They'd probably be very languid, doing it all in slow motion. Adrian had said that was a good tack to take. So now, Milla took her time drying off. When finished, she decided not even to don her kimono. The heat was on, so she remained nude.
Picking up the candleabra, she stepped into her dark bedroom. She decided she liked this look, all shadows and flickering light. It made the entire room interesting. Individual shadows almost seemed alive, seemed to move as if unicorns or wolves or maybe angels.
Indeed, imagining the same took a few moments of time which she quite enjoyed. Letting her imagination flow, she thought perhaps one set of shadows in particular were watching her, following her across the room as she headed for the four-poster bed. The shadow, she allowed herself to storytell, was a guardian angel. But angels could fall, could they not? Isn't that what happened with Lucifer? Might someone's guardian angel also fall, become instead a guardian demon?
She'd have to mention that to Adrian, or to James Hart, the screenwriter. Maybe it was an image they could use somewhere.
Moments after putting the candleablra down and blowing out each tiny flame, the idea of a guardian demon suddenly wouldn't leave her. How could she be sure that wasn't exactly what happened sometimes? Or had happened? The world was a weird place, the universe full of bizarre stories and events. She'd been reading up on them since getting this part, and she'd deliberately allowed herself to believe these tales. What if werewolves really did exist, maybe hunted to extinction in the modern age? Might not restless spirits of the dead wander places they knew in life? Or certain people touched by God experience the same trauma as God's own son? How could she be sure an angel or demon wasn't here in the darkness with her?
That was when she felt hands on her breasts.
Her first instinct should have been to scream or at least pull away. But she didn't. Why not? Instead, she allowed those cold hands--a woman's hands--feel her breasts, weigh them, stroke their thumbs against her nipples. No, this wasn't right. Was it? She must be dreaming, must be. The wine and atmosphere plus all the talking and thinking about this film--she simply must be asleep. This was a dream.
It was certainly an intense dream. Fingers on her nipples sent currents of pleasure like lightning through her nerves. She trembled at it, at the pain she didn't want to end.
"Who are you?" She asked the dream.
Her answer--if answer it was--came immediately. The hands left her aching nipples and ran down the sides of her naked body. Whoeveritwas (her guardian demon?) must be kneeling. As if to confirm this, a cold but electric mouth kissed her navel, tongue reaching out and exploring it.
Milla trembled. Waves of strange sensation erupted from where this stranger kissed and touched. Cold and heat at the same time. Revulsion and pleasure, but mostly pleasure--bone deep. No, blood deep. She could feel it flowing through her veins, warming and chilling her simultaneously. Her breasts tingled even more than they had at her touch. Knees trembled. Breath grew short. And as the stranger's tongue continued to lap at her navel, its tip exploring every fold and tiny crevice again and again, Milla felt her loins begin to moisten.
A dream, she repeated to herself. It was all about the script and the ideas it put into her head. Plus her musings about shadows and demons and decadence.
It must be a dream.
She was thinking this up until the stranger's mouth moved down and fastened onto her vulva. Milla had enough time to feel shock, to recognize it as shock, and to be dimly aware of falling back onto the bed. After that, all she knew was the pleasure. Everything that tongue had done before to her navel, it now did to her willing cunny, only more. What had been waves of pleasure not became a flood, washing back and forth across Milla's body without mercy. Every cell screamed in joy, while Milla herself could do nothing but lie on the bed, gasping and riding the sensations. No, not riding. She was swept away, out of control.
Her brain heard the lapping noises from her groin, but not more listened to them that it did her own weeping cries of joy. The fact the strangers hands and mouth were so cold should have hurt. In fact, they did. But the pleasure was so much more it drowned out the pain. Milla could only think--the little thinking she could do--about how much she wanted this, how she'd do anything at all for it not to end. Those hands lifted her easily, pulling her groin harder into that mouth. Milla squirmed, trying to help, but was so lost in sensation she could barely tell her body what to do. All she wanted to do was drink up these feelings, to drown in them.
The orgasm, when it came, seemed to last centuries. She cried out in what would have been a scream, save there was little air left in her lungs. Milla had spent the last several minutes or hours gasping rather than breathing. Every muscle locked, her entire body arched, even toes and fingers curling. Had there been anyone to hear, the only sound coming from Milla might have sounded like the final exhalation of someone dying after vast exertion.
If they were unfamiliar with that sound. The only one who was listening knew that sound intimately, and realized Milla was simply overwhelmed with more pleasure than any mere human could generate. Lamia's powers included the ability to reach in and stroke portions of her victim's soul. All vampires had this ability to some extent. She, being an ancient, could play almost any human like a musical instrument provided there was physical contact. When flesh touched flesh, there was little she could not make her victims experience. In this case, she'd reached out and set fire to every sensual pleasure Milla Jovovich had ever known. Now, the pretty young actress lay gasping for breath across her bed. She was, to use a bit of modern slang, "high as a kite" from what Lamia had done to her. Lamia liked to see her like this. Even the way her eyes rolled in her head, and the drool coming out of her mouth was pleasing.
She liked willng prey. That's why she made sure they were willing.
Lamia moved her mouth, from her victim's genetalia to the inside of her thigh. Time to feed. Needle-sharp fangs extended, glistening slightly with venom in the dim moonlight through the window. Long experience told Lamia exactly where to bite.
Her fangs sliced into Milla's flesh, piercing a vein. Lamia began to drink. What was left of Milla's consiousness was swept away by pleasure so intense it was agony. She welcomed it.
TO BE CONTINUED.