Chapter 14: The Scholar's Submission
The heavy basement window sighed shut behind Alisha, sealing them in the scent of damp paper and dry rot. Agnes did not step back. Her eyes, a pale grey that seemed to absorb the weak light, traveled over Alisha’s form with clinical appreciation.
“You’ve fed recently,” Agnes stated, her nostrils flaring slightly. “The janitor. Curtis. His absence will be noted by noon.”
“Let it be noted.” Alisha’s voice was steady, still thrumming with the residual power of the kill. She leaned against the desk, feeling the old wood grain under her palms. “You knew I would come.”
“I knew the hunger would drive you back to the text. To the source.” Agnes gestured to the open book. “Laura’s work is… compelling. But theoretical. The practice is messier.”
“I’m discovering that.” Alisha watched the older woman move, a glide so smooth it seemed to defy the clutter of the room. “You’ve been here. All this time. In the stacks.”
“A librarian sees everything,” Agnes said, a thin smile playing on her lips. “The students who linger too long in the occult section. The young women who read Anne Rice not for the romance, but for the technical manuals of transformation. Like your new friend. Chloe Morton.”
Alisha’s senses sharpened. “You know her?”
“She checks out the same volumes every fortnight. De Vermis Mysteriis, the Cultes des Goules reprint, the annotated Carmilla. She takes notes in a black leather journal. She is not afraid. She is… eager.” Agnes paused, her gaze locking with Alisha’s. “A ripe fruit. Waiting to be plucked.”
A current passed between them, electric and understood. It was not just hunger for blood, but a hunger for corruption, for the sharing of a secret so profound it required communion. Alisha felt the slick heat return between her legs, a different ache now. The urge to not just take, but to create. To pull someone into the darkness with her.
The rusted fire door at the back of the office creaked open. Two figures stumbled in, laughing, their arms laden with books. Students. A boy with floppy hair and a girl with a nervous giggle, their faces flushed from the chill night air or maybe something from a flask.
“Agnes? We found the stuff on Balkan burial rites you wanted—” The boy’s words died in his throat as he took in the scene: the two women, standing too close, the atmosphere thick enough to choke on.
Agnes moved. It was a blur. One moment she was by the desk, the next she had the boy by the throat, pinning him against a shelf. Leather-bound volumes tumbled to the floor. The girl screamed, a short, sharp sound that Agnes cut off by backhanding her across the face. She crumpled, dazed.
“Quiet,” Agnes hissed, her voice now a guttural command that vibrated in the bones. She looked at Alisha over the boy’s shoulder. His eyes bulged, his legs kicking uselessly. “The theory is one thing, Dr. Vance. The practice requires a partner.”
Alisha was on the girl in an instant. She hauled her up by her sweater. The girl’s name was Megan; Alisha knew her from a freshman composition class. A decent writer. Now, she was just a heartbeat, a scent, a warm body. Alisha ripped the sweater and the t-shirt beneath it in one long tear, exposing small, pale breasts. Megan whimpered, struggling weakly.
“Watch,” Alisha commanded, though the girl’s eyes were unfocused with terror.
At the other shelf, Agnes had torn the boy’s jeans open. He was sobbing, begging. Agnes silenced him by sinking her fangs into the side of his neck. His body jerked, a violent spasm. But then, as the blood flowed, his struggles softened into twitches. A low, involuntary moan escaped him.
Agnes drank, her eyes closed in ecstasy. Then, with her mouth still latched to his throat, she yanked his hips forward, impaling herself on him. He was hard, the vampire’s bite triggering a brutal, autonomic response. Agnes fucked him with a relentless, driving rhythm, the sound of her hips slapping against his flesh obscenely loud in the quiet room. Each deep thrust was matched by a pull from his artery.
Alisha felt a surge of competitive lust. She shoved Megan face-first onto the cracked desk. The girl’s notes on Paradise Lost fluttered to the floor. Alisha hiked up her own skirt, tore the girl’s leggings down, and entered her in one brutal stroke. Megan cried out, the pain sharp, but Alisha’s hand was already over her mouth.
“You wanted monsters in your books,” Alisha snarled into her ear. “Now you’re in one.”
She drove into the girl, the tight, dry friction quickly slickening with blood from the rough taking. It was not about Megan’s pleasure; it was about Alisha’s dominance, about feeling a living, trembling creature being used. She leaned down, her auburn hair mingling with Megan’s brown curls, and bit deeply into the girl’s shoulder.
The taste was sweet, youthfully vibrant. Megan’s body convulsed, a parody of orgasm as her life was siphoned away. Alisha fucked her through it, her own climax building like a storm surge—a terrifying wave of pleasure derived from absolute control, from the feeling of Megan’s heartbeat stuttering against her tongue and her cunt clenching in terminal fear.
Across the room, Agnes was finishing. With a final, ravenous gulp, she broke the boy’s neck with a twist of her head. His body went limp, still joined to hers. She let him drop, a heap of emptied flesh.
Alisha pulled her fangs from Megan’s shoulder, licking the wound closed as the last of the girl’s breath left her lungs in a sigh. She withdrew, slick with blood and other fluids. The two vampires stood amid the carnage, breathing the iron-rich air. Their eyes met again, a silent understanding passing between them.
“The girl, Chloe,” Alisha said, adjusting her clothing. “She doesn’t want to just read about it. She wants it.”
“Then give it to her,” Agnes replied, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “But remember the cost. The hunger never leaves. It just… finds new avenues.”
“I want her with me.” The decision was absolute. “A companion. Something that’s mine.”
Agnes nodded slowly. “Then you must be the one to turn her. You must share your blood after taking hers. It is a more intimate act than any fuck.” She gestured to the two corpses. “Dispose of these. The woods are vast. I will see to the janitor’s schedule.”
As Alisha gathered the cooling bodies, her mind was already racing ahead, past the grisly cleanup. She thought of Chloe Morton’s intense, searching gaze in the back of lecture halls, the black fingernails tapping on the covers of books about eternal night. The girl was a void waiting to be filled with darkness. Alisha would fill her. She would fuck the humanity out of her and then pour the curse into her veins.
She flew to the woods, the dead weight in her arms nothing. Her thoughts were crystalline, focused. This wasn’t an end. It was a beginning. She had a purpose now, beyond survival, beyond feeding. She had a protege to create.
Returning to campus, she didn’t go back to the library. She went to the residence halls. She found the window she knew from faculty records—a corner room on the third floor of Oakley Hall. The blind was up. Inside, under a dim desk lamp, Chloe Morton sat reading, her profile earnest and sharp. A poster of Bela Lugosi was tacked to the wall beside a detailed, hand-drawn map of the campus with certain areas circled in red.
Alisha hovered outside, unseen, a smile touching her lips. Soon, little devotee, she thought. Very soon, you won’t need the maps. You’ll own the night.
She tapped a single, sharp nail against the glass.
Chloe looked up, startled. She saw the silhouette, the faint glow of eyes in the darkness. Instead of fear, a slow, dawning recognition spread across her face. Then, a smile of terrifying welcome.
She reached for the window latch.
The latch gave with a cold metallic click.
Chloe pushed the window open, a gasp of night air rushing into the warm, clove-scented dorm room. She didn’t scream. She leaned out, her eyes wide, drinking in the impossible sight of a woman hovering outside her third-story window. The streetlight below caught the russet highlights in Alisha’s hair, glinting off eyes that held no reflection.
“You’re her,” Chloe whispered, her voice trembling not with fear, but with a feverish excitement. “The one from the faculty photos. Dr.Vance. I read your paper on Gothic literary tropes as subconscious hunger.”
“Did you.” Alisha’s statement was flat, amused. She placed a hand on the windowsill and flowed inside, a movement of liquid shadow. She landed silently on the threadbare carpet, instantly dominating the cramped space. Her gaze swept over the annotated maps, the dog-eared paperbacks, the black journal open to a page titled ‘Turning Rituals: Hypothesized Physiological Stages.’
“It was… rigorous.” Chloe stepped back, hitting the edge of her desk. She was wearing faded black sweats and a band t-shirt. Her heart was a frantic bird against her ribs. “But you left out the important parts. The feel of it. The taste.”
Alisha closed the distance. She was close enough for Chloe to smell the cold night on her skin, and beneath it, something ferric and rich. “The taste?”
“Blood.” The word fell from Chloe’s lips like a sacrament. “Power. Not a metaphor. The real thing.”
“You’re a very perceptive student.” Alisha reached out, not touching, but letting her fingertips hover near the pulse jumping in Chloe’s throat. The girl shuddered, tilting her head back in an instinctual, offering arc. “All this research. What did you think would happen if you found what you were looking for?”
“I thought I’d beg,” Chloe breathed, her eyes locked on Alisha’s. “I thought I’d promise anything.”
“Anything.” Alisha repeated the word, letting it hang. Her hand finally made contact, cool fingers sliding under Chloe’s chin, applying the slightest pressure. “You have no idea what that word means. You read about eternity in books. I have two corpses cooling in the woods behind the gym. That is the ‘anything’.”
A wild, reckless light ignited in Chloe’s eyes. “You killed them?”
“I fed on them. I fucked them while I drained them.” Alisha’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “The boy came as his heart stopped. The girl felt every inch of me taking her life. It’s not a poetry reading, little devotee. It’s a slaughterhouse.”
Chloe’s breath hitched. Her nipples hardened visibly against the thin cotton of her shirt. The reaction was immediate, primal, and deeply honest. “Show me.”
Alisha’s smile was all teeth. She pushed. It was a gentle shove, but it carried untold strength. Chloe stumbled backwards onto her narrow bed, the frame creaking in protest. Alisha was on her before the springs settled, a knee between her legs, pinning her.
“You want a demonstration?” Alisha hissed. Her hands gripped the neckline of Chloe’s shirt and tore it down the middle with a vicious rip. Buttons pinged against the wall. Chloe cried out, her back arching, not in resistance but in raw invitation.
Alisha’s mouth was on her breast, not with tenderness, but with a bruising, possessive hunger. She sucked the pale flesh, her tongue circling the nipple before her teeth scraped it to a painful peak. Chloe’s fingers tangled in Alisha’s hair, pulling, anchoring herself to the sensation.
“Please,” Chloe begged, the word mangled. “Please, I want—”
“You don’t get to say what you want,” Alisha snarled, releasing her breast. She shoved the torn clothing and sweats down Chloe’s thighs in one brutal motion. “You wanted a monster. Now you’re underneath one.”
Chloe was naked, exposed, her body trembling with adrenaline and desire. Alisha ran a hand over her stomach, down to the thatch of dark hair, then lower. She found her wet, soaking. “You’re fucking dripping for it,” Alisha laughed, a dark, horrible sound. “Dripping for your own extinction.”
She plunged two fingers inside Chloe without preamble. Chloe screamed, her inner muscles clamping down in a shock of tight, hot pressure. Alisha curled her fingers, scissoring them, stretching the girl open. She set a ruthless, pounding rhythm, the heel of her hand grinding against Chloe’s clit with each deep thrust. The sounds were filthy, wet, obscene slaps that filled the dorm room.
“This is the preamble,” Alisha growled, watching Chloe’s face contort. “This is the lie of pleasure before the truth of pain.” She added a third finger, stretching her wider. Chloe sobbed, her hips bucking, driving herself onto Alisha’s hand. Her orgasm built not as a wave but as a precipice, jagged and terrifying.
“Come for me,” Alisha commanded, her voice laced with venom. “Come for the thing that’s going to ruin you.”
Chloe shattered. Her body seized, a silent, open-mouthed scream as the climax ripped through her, violent and total. Alisha fucked her through it, prolonging the spasms into shudders of overstimulation. As the pulses faded, Alisha withdrew her slick fingers.
She brought them to Chloe’s lips. “Taste. Taste your own pathetic want.”
Chloe, eyes glazed, opened her mouth obediently. She sucked her own fluids from Alisha’s fingers, a submissive act that sent a fresh thrill through Alisha’s core. This was better than the janitor, better than the girl on the desk. This was a willing unraveling.
“Now,” Alisha said, lowering her body, aligning their hips. “The main event.”
She entered her in one long, devastating slide. Chloe was exquisitely tight, her body still fluttering from the first climax. Alisha buried herself to the hilt, groaning at the intense, velvety heat. She didn’t move at first, letting Chloe feel the full, impossible invasion.
“Oh, god,” Chloe whimpered, her legs wrapping around Alisha’s waist, locking her in. “You’re so deep.”
“I’m everywhere,” Alisha corrected, her voice ragged. She began to move, a slow, deliberate withdrawal followed by a hard, piston-driven thrust. Each one knocked a gasp from Chloe’s lungs. The bedframe slammed against the wall with a rhythmic, thudding drumbeat.
Alisha fucked her with a focused, driven intensity. This wasn’t about Chloe’s pleasure anymore; it was about ownership, about marking her from the inside out. She picked up speed, her hips a blur, the slap of skin on skin a rapid, staccato percussion. Chloe was just a receptacle, a warm, wet sheath being used for Alisha’s dark celebration.
She leaned down, her fangs elongating, brushing Chloe’s sweat-slicked throat. “This is the last thing you’ll feel as a human,” Alisha whispered into her skin. “My cock in your cunt. My teeth in your vein. You’ll die like this, coming for me as I eat you alive.”
Chloe’s answer was a choked cry of absolute surrender. Alisha struck.
Her fangs punched through the tender flesh of Chloe’s neck, seeking the frantic, juicy pulse of the carotid. Chloe’s body bowed off the bed, a silent, seismic shock. The blood hit Alisha’s tongue—vibrant, peppery, laced with the unique chemical signature of obsession and youth and desperate longing. It was the finest thing she had ever tasted.
As she drank, she kept fucking, her thrusts becoming erratic, synced to the pulls of her mouth. Chloe’s hands scrabbled at her back, nails digging bloody furrows. A second, more powerful orgasm seized Chloe, triggered by the dual assault of penetration and vampiric feeding. Her cunt clenched in a vicious, milking rhythm around Alisha’s length, pulling a rough, guttural roar from Alisha’s throat as she came too, her own climax a black explosion of pleasure fused with the act of murder.
She drank deeply, feeling the brilliant light of Chloe’s consciousness dim, flicker, gutter toward nothingness. She drank until the girl’s grip slackened, until the thrilling clamp of her body went loose and still.
At the precise moment before the final light winked out, Alisha tore her wrist open with her own teeth. She shoved the bleeding wound against Chloe’s slack, bloody mouth.
“Drink,” she commanded, her voice raw with power. “Drink and come back. To me.”
There was a pause, a moment of utter void. Then, a weak, reflexive suckle. A trickle of Alisha’s potent, transformative blood passed into Chloe’s still-warm throat.
Alisha collapsed beside her, watching. Waiting for the void behind Chloe’s eyes to fill with something new, something made of shared blood and endless night. The woods, the janitor, the students on the desk—they had been practice.
This was the beginning of something lasting.