Chapter 7: Blood in the Restricted Section
The silence in the Special Collections Room was different now. It wasn’t the quiet of study or solitude; it was a held breath, a waiting pressure. Agnes felt it humming in her veins. She stood by a cabinet of illuminated manuscripts, not seeing them, listening to the familiar, frustratingly mortal rhythm of Brenda Anderson’s heartbeat as it approached down the corridor.
The door clicked open. Brenda slipped in, her sensible heels muffled by the Persian rug. She flicked on a small desk lamp, its pool of light immediately fighting the dominant moonlight. “Agnes? Are you in here? Your office was empty, and there’s a… a strange smell near the basement stairs.”
Agnes watched her. Brenda was fussing with a stack of acquisition forms, her brow furrowed. Thirty, vibrant, trapped in a life of minor cataloguing disputes and unfulfilled potential. Agnes remembered the feeling. It was ash in her mouth now.
“I’m here, Brenda.”
Brenda jumped, the papers fluttering from her hands. She turned, her eyes struggling to adjust. “Agnes? You startled me. Why are you sitting in the dark?” Then she saw. The youth, the impossible smoothness of her skin, the eyes that caught the moonlight like polished mercury. “My God. What… what happened to you? You look… different.”
“I feel different,” Agnes said, rising. She was still dressed in the simple, dark clothes she’d taken from the lost property, but they hung on her with a new, predatory elegance. She moved, and it was a glide, not a walk. “A wonderful thing happened to me last night.”
Brenda took an involuntary step back, her calves bumping against the reading desk. “You look twenty-five. It’s… it’s uncanny. Is this some new treatment? It’s incredible.”
“It’s permanent,” Agnes said, closing the distance. The scent of Brenda—shampoo, lavender fabric softener, and the warm, vivacious blood beneath—was intoxicating. It wasn’t the desperate hunger of the previous night; this was a craving for companionship, for a mirror. “I’ve been thinking about you, Brenda. About how wasted you are here.”
“Wasted? I love my job.” Brenda’s voice was defensive, but it wavered. Her eyes darted to the door.
“You love the books. Not the petty bureaucracy. Not the dim future. I’m offering you more.” Agnes was directly before her now, pinning her gently against the edge of the heavy oak desk. She brought a hand up, cupping Brenda’s jaw. Her thumb stroked the frantic pulse in her neck. “I’m offering you forever. Strength. Freedom from every dull, mortal worry.”
Brenda’s breath hitched. Fear, yes, but underneath, a spark of something else—a deep, buried yearning. “You’re not making any sense.”
“Don’t I?” Agnes whispered. She leaned in, her lips a hair’s breadth from Brenda’s. “Haven’t you ever wanted to stop being the good girl? The reliable one? Haven’t you ever wanted to just… take what you want?”
She kissed her. It was not a request. It was an onslaught. Brenda stiffened, a muffled protest dying against Agnes’s mouth as Agnes’s tongue pushed past her lips. It was cool, commanding. One hand remained on Brenda’s neck, the other slid to her lower back, crushing their bodies together. Brenda’s hands came up, pushing weakly at Agnes’s shoulders, but the strength there was immovable. The push became a clutch, fingers digging into the fabric.
Agnes broke the kiss, trailing her mouth down Brenda’s jaw to her ear. “You will be so beautiful,” she breathed. “So powerful. My associate. My sister.”
“Agnes, please, I don’t…” Brenda’s plea dissolved into a gasp as Agnes’s free hand found the buttons of her prim blouse. They gave way with tiny, popping sounds. Cool air and cooler fingers touched her skin, palming her breast through the lace of her bra. A rough thumb circled her nipple, making it peak into a hard, aching point.
“You do,” Agnes corrected her, her voice dark with promise. She unhooked the front clasp of the bra, spilling Brenda’s breasts into her hands. She weighed them, squeezed them, watching Brenda’s face contort with confusion and a shock of raw pleasure. “Your body knows. Listen to it.”
She bent her head, taking a nipple into her mouth. Her tongue was clever, relentless, and the coolness of it against the heated flesh made Brenda cry out, her head falling back. The rational world of call numbers and due dates was evaporating, replaced by a storm of sensation.
Agnes worked her skirt up, bunching it around Brenda’s waist. Her fingers slipped beneath the waistband of her tights and panties, finding her already wet, slick with an arousal Brenda hadn’t even acknowledged. Brenda shuddered, a moan tearing from her throat as two fingers plunged inside her without preamble.
“So ready for me,” Agnes murmured against her breast, her fingers curling, pumping. “So fucking wet for this. You’ve been dying for someone to show you what you are.”
Brenda could only pant, her hips beginning to move of their own accord, fucking herself on Agnes’s hand. The obscene, wet sounds filled the silent room. Agnes added a third finger, stretching her, a delicious burn. “Oh God… oh fuck…” Brenda whispered, the profanity foreign and thrilling on her tongue.
“Not God,” Agnes said, withdrawing her fingers. She brought them to Brenda’s lips, slick with her own juices. “Taste yourself. Taste your hunger.”
Brenda, mesmerized, her eyes glazed, opened her mouth. She suckled her own essence from Agnes’s fingers, the act of utter submission sending a fresh flood of heat between her legs.
Agnes reached into the deep pocket of her trousers, withdrawing the object she’d found in lost property—a sleek, double-ended silicon form, deep violet. It was not meant for solitude. Brenda stared at it, her mind struggling to comprehend.
“This,” Agnes said, her voice a low growl of anticipation, “is how we begin.” She quickly shed her own trousers and underwear. She fitted one end inside herself, a soft sigh escaping her as it seated fully, the external base resting against her clit. The other end, glistening now from the dampness of Brenda’s arousal Agnes smeared onto it, beckoned.
She turned Brenda around, bending her over the reading desk, scattering the forgotten acquisition forms. Ancient leather-bound volumes watched from the shelves. Agnes positioned herself behind Brenda, guiding the free end to Brenda’s dripping entrance.
“This will stretch you,” Agnes warned, but there was no kindness in it, only hot promise. “Take it.”
She pushed. Brenda screamed, a raw, ragged sound, as the substantial girth breached her, filling her utterly. It was an invasion, a claiming far more intimate than fingers. Agnes gripped Brenda’s hips, her own thighs flexing, and began to fuck her with it.
The mechanics were brutally simple. Each forward thrust of Agnes’s hips plunged the dildo deeper into Brenda, while the base ground hard against Agnes’s own clit. Each backward pull dragged it almost all the way out before slamming it home again. The slap of skin against skin, the choked, sobbing cries from Brenda, the guttural grunts from Agnes—it was a symphony of possession.
“You feel that?” Agnes snarled, pounding into her. “That fullness? That’s me inside you. Your prim little cunt is mine now. I’m going to remake you from the inside out.”
Brenda was beyond words. Pleasure-pain radiated from her core, each drive of the toy striking a spot that ignited white fire behind her eyes. Her own climax was building, a terrifying wave threatening to obliterate her. She was fracturing.
Agnes felt her own orgasm coiling, fed by Brenda’s tight, desperate heat and the relentless friction on her clit. But she had a more profound union in mind. She leaned over Brenda’s back, one hand tangling in her hair, yanking her head to the side, exposing the long, tender line of her throat. The pulse there was a frantic, beautiful drumbeat.
“Now,” Agnes breathed, her fangs elongating, sharp and urgent. “You give me everything. And I give you eternity.”
She struck.
The puncture was exquisite, a sharp, bright pain that melted instantly into a profound, radiating warmth. Brenda’s scream dissolved into a deep, guttural moan. As Agnes’s mouth sealed over the wound and the first powerful draw began, Brenda’s orgasm detonated. It wracked her body, violent convulsions milking the toy inside her as her essence was siphoned away.
Agnes drank, swallowing the hot, life-rich blood in deep pulls. It was a different vintage than the boy’s—more complex, layered with the frustrations of a stifled life, which made the release of it all the sweeter. She drank, and she fucked her through the dying paroxysms, feeling Brenda weaken, sublime, toward the brink.
When the pulls became shallow, when the heartbeat fluttered like a trapped bird, Agnes tore her wrist open with her own fang. She pressed the streaming wound to Brenda’s slack mouth.
“Drink, Brenda,” she commanded, her voice thick with shared blood. “Drink and live forever. Be my sister. Rule this silent world with me.”
Brenda’s lips, cold and pale, moved instinctively against the offered vitae. A trickle, then a swallow. The blood—Agnes’s blood, charged with ancient power—flowed into her. A shudder, different from the climax, a seismic reordering of soul and cell, passed through Brenda’s limp form.
Agnes withdrew the toy, catching Brenda as she slumped. She held her turning sister in the moonlight, stroking her hair as the transformation began its cruel, glorious work. The library, their kingdom, stood silent around them. Soon, there would be two predators in the stacks. Two hearts beating in the dark, waiting for the next mortal footfall, the next tantalizing pulse of warm life in the quiet. The hunt, Agnes thought, smoothing Brenda’s brow, was always better with a partner.