Darkness seems to be her fortress, her abode.
Hidden in the shadows, a woman—dressed in a sleeveless ebony-black dress—took a bite from that flesh that she was fiercely holding.
It was just a quick and small bite to savor the raw virgin heart—enough to register the taste in her craving tongue and dry throat.
The corpse of the heartless woman lies before her—literally heartless. By just one glance, one could tell that no single drop of blood could be harvested from the body. Not even organs as they are all, well, devoured by this wretched creature.
The woman’s autumn-colored hair was shining amidst the pitch black darkness. Shadows have indeed become her blanket, her cloak.
As she tread towards outside her shack, with the essence of darkness still covering her, her shimmering russet eyes beamed, as if a predator just spotted her long-awaited prey.
Without further ado, she then took the bowl of blood—derived from the heartless corpse—that she had prepared minutes ago into the wholly black-colored flower, its petals accentuated with silver linings.
***
Rozelyn’s emerald green eyes followed Rosette Richards as she sauntered towards Hemera Bellamy and Vesta Smythe, in which the two have their matching outfits—both wearing a black dress with red accent along its bodice and hem.
She went inside again and noticed that the couple bedding earlier were now back to the ballroom—now dancing to the rhythm of Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller’.
Rozelyn sat on a chair nearest the veranda, just a few meters away from the huge crimson silk curtains.
Again, her eyes and attention didn’t seem to notice that she already ran out of champagne. It only took a matter of seconds before a masked woman in sleeveless ebony-black dress approached her.
“Yes, please,” Rozelyn politely accepted. Her alluring green eyes watched as the liquid poured into her champagne glass. Fizz was now oozing again in her glass—her favorite part.
The masked woman, whose hair was the very color of falling leaves, bowed in a feminine manner then walked away without even glancing again towards her direction.
‘Spooky…’ Her mind whispered. Or was that her higher self?
Nonetheless, she advertently drank from the glass as her throat was already yearning for champagne, craving for her favorite beverage. She drank it without even pausing or halting— without giving herself a moment to inhale and exhale. She released a satisfying sound—as if her throat that had been dried for days was now miraculously watered.
‘Was listening to Rosette’s heart-breaking story really made my throat dry? Or is it just a mere coincidence?’
She conversed with herself again. No doubt that Rozelyn needs someone to talk to, in order to refrain her from continuing to talk to herself alone.
Ten minutes have passed and she just watched the bunch of people dancing in the grandiose ballroom. She is already on the second round of her champagne frenziness, thanks to the butler beside her and she was able to ask for fresh and nice champagne every time her glass ran out.
It seems that her ‘light’ quarrel with Cyrill made her go down this drunkard path. The cubes of ice in her champagne were now melted—turning into water and blending with her champagne. Well, it was unusual for a person to put ice on a wine, even for a champagne.
But Rozelyn, as unusual as her name and personality and entire being, didn’t mind the questioning look of the butler when she asks for a bucket of ice.
Twenty minutes have passed and Rozelyn felt something excavating in her brain. It felt as if a crawler—a worm—was digging aggressively in the flesh of her mind.
Her migraine greeted her again.
“Darn it! I should have stayed in the house!” She whispered ferociously. To be honest, her whisper is a little percent away from being considered a shriek, a yell. She somehow forgets that there were listening ears around her. There were monitoring eyes surrounding her.
Her migraine grew even more aggressive. It was like a kraken that just got out from a millennium-old cave. Her head aches, causing her anxiety attack to have its epic comeback during the most unexpected time. Her migraine seems to make its visitation more noticeable to the crowd than to her.
Honestly, she is on the verge of puking—seconds away to vomiting. She rushed to the nearest restroom. But, to no avail, no restrooms are found. So, she traversed to the Mullins’ rosarium located near an empty shack.
She puked and then used her arm to wipe away the remnants of her vomit.
Rozelyn was about to return to the ballroom when her vampire smell sensed a carrion—a corpse. When she decided to investigate further, she heard a series of moaning sounds. It was like the sound of two people fucking. No, it was not like a pleasure sound. It is indeed a sound of pleasure. And the voice…she couldn’t be wrong to whom does that voice belong to. There is only one person she knew who possessed such pitchy and sharp voice when fucking. A voice that the owner’s sex moans seem to be like a symphony of melodic notes—as if it was an aria by an opera singer.
Her migraine became wilder than ever, causing her to excruciatingly stumble on the ground.
In a blink of an eye, she was now near the car that contained the moaning sounds.
“Did I just teleport?” She asked herself. It was wholly disturbing for her. She was just standing near an empty shack seconds ago. But as soon as she stumbled, it seems a tendril of her power had also escaped from her, causing her to be teleported to the place she wanted the most—needed the most.
She crept towards the car and was absolutely right. Anaztasia and Avril are fucking in the midst of the night’s silence. Or was it just her Thaumaturge senses that made her hear that sensual music?
Nonetheless, she still knocked three times through the car’s window. Yet, the two seem to be unbothered.
“Shit!” was the only word she heard from Anaztasia.
Rozelyn just straightened her body and sat on the ground, disregarding the crawling ants that were harvesting food and preparing for winter. She moved backward a bit to allow the tiny creatures a clear pathway, staining her palms with the murky soil and filth.
She watched the army of ants march towards a small hole in the ground.
“Such a cozy and warm home for the ants…” Rozelyn whispered.
Probably the result of her migraine suddenly attacking was her enjoyment in watching as the last ant vanished into that hole.
The moans dissipated and it was a signal for her to let the two love birds know that she was outside.
She knocked again by the car window, using her Thaumaturge powers—using her invisible and phantom hands. She was ten meters away from the car. Rozelyn was obviously too lazy to stand up.
The two, Avril and Anaztasia, who just reached the climax and were still kissing, were startled by the three knocks.
“Who’s that?” Avril asked. He shifted into a cobra, thinking that it was some sort of a spy or a Death Summoner.
“Relax, Avril!” Anaztasia reprimanded. She peered outside and saw Rozelyn waving a hand at her. The raven-haired vampire was sitting at the ground like a toddler patiently waiting for her mother to finish.
“It’s just Rozelyn, Av,” Anaztasia confirmed. Relieved, Avril shifted back into his human form and quickly put on his tuxedo that was already wrinkled because Anaztasia sat beneath it as they were having their tango inside the car in a missionary position.
The Luna and the Alpha got out of the car swiftly. Still, the migraine-flooded Rozelyn, who was obviously reeking of champagne and drenched in drowsiness, was still seated on the solid ground, like a beggar waiting for alms.
“What’s gotten into you?” Her best friend asked softly.
“She must be craving for a private tango,” Avril jokingly said.
“Hush, Avril!”
“You’re wolfy boy has a point, Ana,” Rozelyn replied.
Anaztasia could absolutely hear Rozelyn’s soft chuckle, making her cross her arms and pouted. Avril, too, cackled like a passing circus clown.
“Seriously, Roz. What is it?”
“I was just handed champagne by a masked woman and then my anxiety and migraine visited…again.”
Anaztasia pondered for a minute. She then raised her right brow and uncrossed her arms before answering, “You really blame an innocent woman, eh? If there is someone that is to blame, it’s gonna be you. You’re obviously drunk and exhausted. Thanks to the sparkling drink that everybody calls as champagne.”
Her tone was sarcastic. How could she not when, after having fondue with her boyfriend, she found her best friend sitting on the bare ground as if she was a homeless junkie?
“Get up, Miss Thaumaturge. We’ll take you to your knight in shining blue jeans so that he can take you home,” Avril graciously offered.
“That’s my bae!” Anaztasia remarked in a jovial manner.
And Rozelyn has no choice but to get up, brush off the brown soil from her butt, and take the offer of her best friend and her best friend's lover so that her brain will now be alleviated of its aggressive headache.
***
“Thanks,” Cyrill sweetly replied as his eyes followed the masked woman in sleeveless ebony-black dress as she turned her back and proceeded to give the other guests a glass of champagne.
The autumn-haired woman had indeed a perfectly-rounded ass—perfect for a bare-skinned dance in a canine-style.
Cyrill was having his luscious wet dreams when the flash of a passing random raven-haired woman reminded him of Romaine’s step daughter—of Rozelyn Nadeshiko Byrnes Zadzisai.
‘I should apologize to her…’ His mind whispered. Without further ado, he stood up from his chair and straightened himself. He was about to go to the ballroom, to where Romaine said Rozelyn will be, when the sight of the Irish pack’s alpha and his Luna caught by the corner of his electric blue eyes.
Speaking of the devil, Rozelyn was with them. Even a few meters away, his expression changes in just a single sight of her.
Suddenly, he became hungry—ravishing. Not for Rozelyn but for something else. Something that he only craved once during a full moon. Something that will made him sprint away as his mind was being drilled by some sort of a worm, making him run away from the revelry of the place and into the nearest shadow-flooded little forest of the Mullin’s estate.
The three then followed Cyrill. Hiding their worriness by not running and just by brisk walking, they followed him. Rozelyn complained and in no less than a minute, she was knocked down.
Her breath was obviously reeking of alcohol as Rozelyn’s head was now on Anaztasia’s slender neck. The Luna could obviously tell that her best friend could no longer endure the drunkenness and just wholly plunged into her drunken state.
Avril offered to carry the now-snoring Rozelyn when Anaztasia just gestured to immediately follow Cyrill and check on what happened to him.
Cyrill, on the other hand, was entirely confused on why his werewolf cravings sprouted when it was not yet full moon—not yet Samhain.
He shifted into his werewolf form and immediately clawed the nearest tree in order to release his feral madness and control his seemingly surfacing hunger.
Avril spotted a huge white wolf with enormous claws and fangs that could probably tear a sumo wrestler apart in just a matter of seconds.
He sprinted towards his best friend and beta, who was now in his wolf form, as Anaztasia couldn’t because she was literally carrying the now-sleeping Rozelyn.
To Avril’s joy, Cyrill just unleashes his wildness into a lemon tree and not to someone’s or something’s flesh.
***
Ten minutes passed and he now seemed to be calm. Sitting under this lemon tree and sniffing the scent of lemons could probably contribute to the vanishing of his ravishing self moments ago.
“Thank Dracula, you’ve calmed down!” Avril cheerfully stated.
Cyrill just smiled at him—at the very man who offered him to drink the Moonflower’s juice, turning him into a Pasiphae werewolf.
“You know me, Av. I will always be ca—”
A barking from the distance interrupted their conversation, prompting Cyrill to shut up—and sprint towards the beagle.
Cyrill’s hunger was turned on again by just the barking sound of a beagle.
Avril was now gaping. The width of his gaping mouth could probably fit two lemons. He was just staring at his beta and successor, who was now wearing the skin of a huge white wolf... again
He was about to awaken Anaztasia and Rozelyn—both were snoring under the shade of the mulberry tree—when the sound of bones cracking resonated in his ears.
Avril immediately turned his head to Cyrill’s direction.
Between his mouth is the dismembered head of the beagle—probably one of Maebh’s dogs. Blood has stained the autumn ground and the carcass of Maebh’s beagle was being feasted by the least werewolf he expected to be doing so—Cyrill Emerson Clarke.