CALYPSO
As darkness descends across the mountain, Calypso keeps pace with the little human's Jeep as it runs through the winding roads. He doesn't appreciate how closely she continues to get to the edge of the pavement without guard rails. Does she not realize how fragile she is? Humans are foolish with their mortality. Thus, why they don't deserve the gift of prolonged lifespans.
The red halogen glow of her taillights brings the vampire some relief and she pulls into the single parking space in front of a tiny, old wood cabin. Calypso tucks himself into the bushes alongside the modest house so he can have a better of his favorite perfume. She hops out of her vehicle—literally jumps to the ground—and pulls out the food she picked up earlier. That smelly restaurant was the one place Calypso couldn't follow her or hear her voice because of the raucous inside. It peeved him to lose sight of her but he patiently waited outside.
He doesn't intend to wait patiently outside her cabin, though. While she pads over to her door and fumbles with her keys, he pulls out his phone and looks up her address on a public real estate domain. The half acre lot has been owned by Bellina Caster for nearly five years. Calypso glances up at the door and notices she's staring in his direction with wide eyes.
Just as he thinks, 'Fuck, she's seen me!,' the girl manages to unlock her door and scuttle inside. He hears the lock click into place behind her.
'Bellina. Is that your name, little human?' he wonders. It's more beautiful than he could've anticipated, like her. He twists away in disgust of himself. What is this nonsense he's thinking? This is just a human girl. Perhaps he can tap her vein and be done with it. Get his fix and leave her alone. His lust for her sweet blood is the only thing truly keeping him here, isn't it? He's never smelled someone like her. His curiosity is justified.
The girl hardly makes any noise as she moves about inside. Calypso has lost sight of her so he treads around the house to find his perch on a nearby tree or window. He realizes quickly that the earth drops off below her house. There's essentially no way to get to her back porch without climbing over the house. Calypso removes his coat and drapes it over the bush. The garment is just another part of his human facade. He can stand in freezing temperatures during a blizzard and not feel cold. Nevertheless, the garment will only hold him down now and he can't afford to misstep and startle her.
Grabbing onto the edge of the tin roof, Calypso slowly and agilely lifts himself onto the top of the girl's house. He keeps low and shuffles across the steep, narrow surface. Once he's over the back porch, he performs a similar technique to get down from the roof. He stands completely still while listening for movement inside. The sound of a running shower piques his interest. His pulse picks up as he imagines that curvy figure unclothed and bare to his view. It excites him more than the intoxicating smell surrounding her house. He wants—no, needs—to see the girl. As if in a daze, Calypso follows the sound of the shower to a window off the porch. Peeking into it, he sees a bedroom lit by lamps and a bright doorway leading to what must be the bathroom. He tests the window and, upon finding it locked, toggles it with both his supernatural strength and poise until the lock slips out of place. He lifts the window and climbs through.
Her aroma encapsulates Calypso. He draws in a deep breath and relishes in the addictive sweetness. How has he never found her before? She must be new to the village.
Before he can gather his wits and close the window, the shower cuts off. Calypso looks around hastily for a place to hide but none of her furniture is big enough. At last, he looks up, spots the metal cross-beams, and jumps up to latch onto them. He barely has pulled his legs out of human view when the girl emerges from the bathroom in a plume of steam.
His eyes rove over her toweled figure before latching onto her face. Not a trace of makeup or her glasses to obscure his view. Something unspeakable shifts inside him. This human girl is . . . breathtaking. For a moment, he doesn't smell the intriguing aroma of her blood. His eyes don't ever stray from her face. He's bewitched by her. Not even his bigotry towards her humanity can diminish this overwhelming enthrallment.
Then the beauty of her simple, round face is marred by a look of terror. The warmth is sucked out of his body like an unpressurized plane mid-flight. Her palpable fear fills his mouth with acid, rather than the satisfaction it usually would. A rage comes over him, a need to dispose of whatever has inflicted this terror upon the fragile human girl. Calypso follows her line of sight to the window as his muscles prepare to launch at whatever threat there is. Then he sees the curtains billowing in the breeze and realizes that he is the cause of her panic.
'Fuck,' he thinks to himself, pinching the bridge of his nose. Why didn't he close the damn thing?
He watches helplessly from the rafters just mere feet overhead while the girl slams the window and locks it back into place. She grabs something from her bedside table—a gun. Calypso is surprised at first. This innocent girl holding such a dangerous weapon? Then he smiles. He's underestimated her. She may be weak, but she's not defenseless. His gaze tracks each movement, twitch, and tremble as she searches her tiny house for any sign of threat. Humans are used to being the tallest creatures around. They rarely think to check above them.
This naivety becomes Calypso's saving grace. While a bullet would never kill him, he prefers that they don't share such a miserable encounter as that. He thrives on making his prey fearful but his primal instinct has been replaced by some protective inclination. Within the hour, the girl has returned to her bed and fallen asleep. He stoops on the rafter for many minutes after her breathing and heart rate have slowed. To him, the passing minutes are seconds ticking by. After much deliberation, he stealthily drops onto his feet with hardly a noise. The girl remains lost in her slumber and shows no indication of awareness.
Calypso moves to her bedside. He should vanish out the window as he came and leave her. His concubines are undoubtedly stricken with worry for him. They'll be upset with him for putting them through this. Nevertheless, he can't pry his eyes from her relaxed face. He wishes to perch on her bed and watch her through the night.
His newfound voyeurism soon becomes boring, however. Calypso is entrapped by her tempting smell and tethered by his intense physical attraction. He aches to ravish her body, both with his fangs and his fingers. Without disturbing her, he crawls onto the bed and stretches out beside her. His eyelids flutter shut for a moment while he allows his senses to soak up the moment. Her scent both maddens and calms him. The sound of her gentle breathing relaxes him. He feels fatigue from the day settle over his body, something he has long been unaccustomed to.
When he opens his eyes, he has subconsciously inched closer to the ambrosial human. The silken pale flesh of her vulnerable throat is inches away. He can hear the throb of life pulsing below her skin, calling out to him, begging to be tasted. Undoubtedly, he would disturb her sleep if he sinks his fangs into the soft, warm tissue. The only way he can keep her blissfully unaware would require a new level of intimacy. Calypso hasn't penetrated someone's dreams in ages. Centuries, probably. Injecting one's consciousness into another's subconscious takes not only a level of skill but also of trust. The human may not trust him but she doesn't know any better yet. Calypso trusts his own mental strength will be enough to sever the connection when the time comes.
Propping himself up on one arm, he bends down to run his nose through her damp hair. The thirst for her blood intensifies even more until it is unbearable. Then as he draws a long sniff into his nostrils, a bite of iron blends with the human's delectable scent. Calypso stiffens.
Fresh blood.
He swallows and clenches his jaw. She's bleeding. Is she hurt? He breathes again and groans at the smell of his most indomitable weakness. His predator instincts slip over his free will like a shield as he traces the scent down her clothed chest, her pillowy midsection and expansive hips, and just past the elastic waistband of her pajama pants.
"Fuck," he swears quietly.
The girl sighs, blissfully unaware.
He's forgotten how fertile youthful humans are. She must be menstruating. Steeling himself, Calypso fights every instinct inside him to move back to the head of the bed. The smell of her fresh blood seems to grow and coat his mouth in the taste. His eyes nearly roll back at the flavor of his favorite human cocktail.
"Dreams," he murmurs to himself. "I must do it now."
As he slips into a lustful trance, he applies one of his hands to her head and simultaneously slips into her mind while sinking his aching fangs into her neck. Reality ebbs away, replaced by a new setting.
A balcony. Calypso can see glowing city lights as far as the eye can see. In her dream, the girl sighs and rests her elbows on the railing. He can feel apprehension swirling around her. What is she so worried about? he wonders. It haunts her even in her dreams.
There's a knock on a door somewhere behind them. She turns away from the city and steps into a luxurious condo. Everything is ornate from the tiled floor to the gold-trimmed furniture. Calypso can tell the girl doesn't even notice these things as she heads for the door. Her apprehension is building by the second, unfurling into a sinister sense of dread. Calypso unplugs from her dream body and reconfigures the dream, taking over the reins. When she opens the door, whoever or whatever she anticipated is not there. Instead, it's Calypso. He's dressed in a solid black dress suit, his bronze hair gelled and styled down to his shoulders.
For the first time in the dream, he can also see her from a removed perspective. She's dressed in a tight black skirt that stops at her knees, showing off her thick legs, and a professional, sleeved yellow blouse that highlights the bits of gold in her irises. Her wheat-colored hair is loose but rumpled, as if just released from a tight bun, and her bare feet show him each ruby red-painted toenail. She's a fucking masterpiece on legs.
He can feel the girl's surprise, her compelling attraction to him, and then confusion.
"You?" she asks. "What are you doing here?"
Calypso grins wickedly at her. "I came to visit. May I come in?"
The girl glances around the condo foyer, her dark blonde brows knitting together. "How did you find me?"
"Darling, I will always find you."
She eyes him mistrustfully. "What do you want from me?"
Calypso leans in to press his shoulder against the threshold, imposing himself upon her. The girl takes an uncertain step back.
"I don't know yet," he honestly replies. "I want to find out. Now, may I join you?"
He feels her resistance, how strong her will is even subconsciously. Stroking the arms real physical body, he works to loosen her guard. She finally caves and steps aside. Calypso dresses his face in a smirk as he moves into the condo. His eyes rove the exquisite light fixtures and artwork along the walls.
"You have a very nice place," he says.
"It's not mine." She closes the door and brushes past him into the kitchen. He resists the urge to grab her and push her against the wall. Even in a dream, his compulsion for her is dizzying.
"Who does it belong to?" he asks, following her over to the granite kitchen island.
She grabs an opened bottle of wine and pours it into two glasses. He's pleased by her gesture.
"My parents," the girl says. She offers him the spare glass. "I hope you like Riesling."
He doesn't care for wine in any form, as it all tastes like watery soil to him. His tastebuds are fine-tuned to blood and nothing else.
Swirling the glass, in his hand, he says, "So where are they? Your parents?"
She takes a sip and her face contorts bitterly. "I don't know. I mean, I think I do, but I'm not sure."
It dawns on Calypso then that this is not just a dream. It's a dream of a memory. Judging by her apprehension, it's not a pleasant memory either.
"Do you live here?" he asks.
"No." She rosy lips pull up into a vague smile. "I just dropped by to say hi. They aren't here, though."
"That's alright," he assures her as he feels her frustration increase. "You can enjoy my company until they arrive."
She looks up from her wine to peer at his face. Her hazel eyes are clear, her expression thoughtful. He could gaze into them all day.
"Tell me something about yourself," he says.
"About me?" Simpering, she tries to hide her face behind the wine glass. "I was just wondering about you."
Well, there's a stroke to his ego. Calypso sets the untouched wine aside and presses closer to her.
"Is that so? What were you wondering about me?"
"I don't know your name or anything about you."
He knows that sharing his name now, in a dream, may have repercussions in the conscious world. Rather than address her uncertainties, he brings a hand to her face, stroking her cheek with the back of his fingers. The warmth he felt in the cafe returns with crushing force. This time he doesn't bother with restraint as he bows down to kiss her delicate mouth. She responds with equal prowess, flicking at his lips with her tongue. Calypso feels himself grow hard immediately, both in the dream and reality. Her skin is like velvet against his, all warm and textured to his poreless, ageless flesh.
When they part for air, they're now on the gold suede sofa in the living room. Calypso is impressed, as she manipulated them here. He gazes into her soulful eyes before pushing her back on the sofa. She grabs onto the lapels of his suit and drags him down flush to her body. The air in the room becomes thick and hot, arousal swirling between them.
His desire for her is quickly wearing down his self-control. When he drops his mouth to her jaw, she utters a breathy moan that unravels him. Snarling like the lust-starved creature he was, he tears the skirt off her body with one tug. She melts into his touch like putty while he studies her manicured sex, growling with raw need.
"Please," the girl whimpers, squeezing her thighs together. "Please."
"What is it you want, darling?" Calypso hisses with a menacing grin. "You want to be fucked? Hmm. Is that it?"
Biting her lip, she passionately nods her head.
"Speak!" he bellows.
"Yes!" she shrieks, pushing her head back against the couch. "Fuck me!"
He shoves her thighs apart with one hand and dances his free fingers across the seam of her seeping pussy. Her hips buck forward to suck his fingertips inside her wet warmth. They moan in unison at the feeling of their joined flesh, the rapture buzzing through their cells. The girl's walls clench around him and he can hardly imagine how it'll feel around his cock.
Somewhere in the recesses of their dream, a song begins to play. Neither hear it at first, as the sound of fingers slamming ruthlessly in and out of her cunt echoes through the room, but the song grows louder. Just when the girl's pussy begins to twitch, the song breaks through Calypso's haze of lust and he remembers. He's not finger fucking the human in her parent's condo. He's slurping away at the blood dribbling out of her neck, fondling her sex. That song is Marianne's ring tone.
Calypso rips his consciousness from the girl's dream. He slices open his wrist and smashes it into the girl's mouth. She begins to stir from her sleep.
"Shit," he snarls, his voice shaking the small cabin.
He pulls his wrist away and quickly opens the window, slipping out into the night. Just in time too, because the sun is rising and the little human is waking.