Echo of Darkness – Episode 3

Published for Kindle |
Copyright © 2014 Teresa Wymore. All Rights Reserved. |
Lesbian erotica | Dark fantasy |

Outside Sophie’s that evening, I saw Maria. She was quite different from the ragged young woman I had met in Nicaragua. She wore a feathered hat and peacock blue jersey dress.

She came to me when I entered an alley. I chased away a dog and turned to find her, black eyes shining. In death, her full lips were deep rose, her skin unblemished and perfectly brown. Death had sharpened her watercolor edges.

Looking at her brought back the jungle, brought back the memory of her heat. Of softness. My body ached. I didn’t know how she could make me feel anything. We were both dead.

“There’s nothing I can do for you,” I said.

“I don’t want to be alone.”

“Dead bodies don’t need the safety of numbers.”

“Why did you kill me?” She was young. Young for death. Young for a monster.

“How did you find me?”

Metal cans crashed onto the bricks behind us. Two boys had been watching. They laughed and ran down the alley.

Maria watched them and then turned to me. Her eyes held many questions. I waited for her to ask, but she kissed me.

She was cool like the day. I took her face in my hands and tried to focus on what I had given her rather than on what I had taken away. I rubbed her cheeks, traced her lips. Her skin was the story of her life, and I thought I might know her if I touched her enough. But there was nothing to know. What was she but a vessel?

Unlike Maria, I had let a decade pass before I went looking for my creator, only to find he had drifted away, as the world-weary ones did. He had moved to the Yukon and joined the frozen shadows there.

I came to understand why he shed his body, as I came to understand why he fed my darkness instead of consuming it. There are those we eat and those we feed.

When Maria touched me again, I felt the impossibility of life stirring inside me. I felt the impossibility of desire. I couldn’t turn away from her, so I ran.


A charming Frenchman bought me wine and thought I wanted more. I did. Souls are my sustenance, after all. When the thing that should give me pause is the thing I must have, what’s left to stir my conscience? It’s the same for humans. Some animals are friends. Some are food.

The Frenchman was no different from my first meal in Bečkerek centuries ago. Staring and still surprised by their encounter with fate, the drying eyes gradually lost their light. After losing a liter of blood to me and having the rest spill or settle into its recesses, I dropped the body and scaled the brick building.

In Sophie’s office, I could be a cultured woman. In the streets, I was a wild thing, unencumbered by empathy. As I crouched atop the building, I observed the meandering bodies below. They appeared little different from termite hills and their fecund inhabitants. Like every living thing, they would inevitably become the food of another.

Leaving Paris, I traveled to Monte Carlo. I saw a film about Napoleon and attended a ballet with a lively score and livelier choreography. Young men were the foundation of the performance, the signature contribution of the Ballet Russes to modern repertoire.

After the performance, I entered a dancer’s room through a third-floor window. He was changing his costume. Upon seeing my nude body, he paused.

I wasn’t human; that was the first mistake my victims usually made. There was no point trying to reason with hunger. I wasn’t mortal; that was the second mistake they often made. The only defense was not to attract my attention in the first place.

He stepped back but didn’t cover his own nakedness. He appraised mine.

The darkness expressed its compulsion differently in people. The compulsion to possess drove me forward. The compulsion to possess kept him still. He was captivated by my false youth. He was captivated by what it said of him.

He was a smooth, blonde Ukrainian. As I stared at his wide mouth, I pinched my nipples, but noise at the door surprised me. I stepped behind the drapery.

A redheaded boy entered, not older than twelve, and the Ukrainian turned, his memory of me left in a shadowland of an impossible dream.

When the dancer set a hand on his shoulder, the boy got down on his knees. The submissive posture excited a tangled hierarchy of domination and lust in the Ukrainian, who told the boy to open his mouth.

With corded arms wrapped in a net of turgid veins, the Ukrainian masturbated above the upturned face. His beefy torso shone with sweat as urgent whines escalated in pitch. After a time, he pumped with his triumphant fist and groaned when warm globs dropped onto the hairless cheek. Lust satisfied, his eyelids drooped with disgust as he stared down. The boy was another sycophant. The male dancers had many.

I envied the Ukrainian’s perfect lust. That desperate drive toward oblivion had once mattered to me, too. When I was alive, erotic longing sent me into secret places. Now, I scraped the world for the darkest hearts, and this dancer’s narcissism was magnificent.

When the boy left the room, I left the drapery.

The world had lost its color. All was black-and-white. All was blood and hunger. “Do you know what I am?” I asked.

His arrogance grew less certain. He tried to reconcile what he knew with what he saw, the sensible world with a nightmare.

I stepped near. He flinched. I reached for him, and he stepped back. I came closer and touched a finger to the throbbing pulse on his neck. His face slackened. He knew what I was, and that meant he knew what he was.

He stood in muted horror as I roamed the room. The nail file on the dresser was flimsy. I tossed it back. The hooks on the wall were curled. I thought of breaking the mirror into shards but found tweezers. I tested them against my finger and returned to him.

With gentle hands I pushed him to the floor. His body obeyed, though tears welled up in his eyes. He wanted to speak but couldn’t. I turned his head to the side. His neck was thick and athletic. I licked, sucked, and bit, leaving a ring of blunt wounds. A trace of oozing blood taunted me.

His breathing grew shallow. Sweat continued to accumulate. The last moments were always the fullest, as fear brought every cell to life. He was at the edge of another oblivion, but he wasn’t eager for this one.

I punched the tweezers into his neck. He grunted. When I pulled out the metal, blood erupted from the hole.

As that first satisfying splash hit my stomach, warmth radiated through my body. Sped by his frantic pulse, the flow gave me little chance to savor what I swallowed. I took enough to warm my belly and let the rest spill to the floor in pulses that gradually slowed.

I lay stroking his splendid torso. His breathing grew shallow. Blood continued to ooze and some thickened around his wounds. After his chest stilled, I closed his empty eyes.