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| (c) Stanislav Istratov |
Hair: Long/Straight/Red
Eyes: Bluish-Green
The following is a short scene that I wrote to understand more about Olivia Vangley's delectable character, which is included in the forthcoming novel Enura. A revised version of this scene may or may not make it into the novel. If not, it will be added as bonus content. Nevertheless, it is a fun, little scene. Enjoy!
Wager
“So who is this man? Seems like an oaf.” Maven twisted her black, curly hair with one finger and spied Lawson through a hole in the painting.“A vampire hunter,” said Olivia. “The man enlisted to protect us. Ironic, is it not?”
“Seems stiff as a board. And his personality?”
“Just as stiff. But there is something about him: A quiet confidence—a persistence despite the odds. He may be of few words, but he does not choose them wildly like an oaf would.”
“Fair enough.” Maven looked closer and tried not to laugh. “So how is this mortal to help? He looks little stronger than a dog, and word on the street implies that his weapons have been confiscated. What is Vissorouy to think?”
“His weapon is his mind, Maven. He is a tactician, a strategist who moves the pieces across the board, not the oaf who bludgeons himself on the battlefield. Quiet men…ever so reserved, especially those guarding secrets. You should turn him. Make him yours for the night and all eternity.” Olivia prodded Maven.
“Reckless wench! Is that a heartbeat I hear between your legs?” Maven nudged her back.
“That died long ago, as you well know. So how about it, then? He is not of Vissorouy. You can do with him as you please after his utility has been served, however slight that may be.”
“Turning a man to our end is not always successful,” Maven cautioned. “Few survive the transformation. That is why our numbers are what they are, fewer than what humans have been led to believe. But alas! Our dashing hero looks frail. I do not think he will survive the journey.”
“Is it a wager then?” said Olivia. “What would be fair play if I am right and you are wrong?”
“You may throw coins at me, but it does not last the same.”
“What then? Shall we play for my husband’s ornate egg collection? Or silk gowns from India?”
“Such fleeting things? Break an egg, particularly over your husband’s head, and you’ll forget about our wager,” said Maven. “And as the decades pass by, silk wears down. Something wagered must be something that stands the test of time, or at least, improves with it.”
“Do I hear an idea coming on?”
“Why not play for Lawson’s hand?”
“That will not work. I am a married woman, and this one is quite young.” Olivia took a look as well. “Mid thirties I’d imagine, though the lines on his face suggest more.”
“No, I mean his hand.” Maven tugged her away.
“His physical hand? Do you mean to separate it from him?”
“Why such a face? He has another.” Maven feigned embarrassment of her scandalous words.
“Wretched soul! Tell me more…” Olivia mock slapped her.
“Do you remember the old manor?”
“There have been many, and not all of them faery tale dwellings like this.” Olivia gestured.
“I mean the unhappiest fossil you’ve left behind. You know, the one on the hill? Your husband used to reduce humans to wine. Blood and broken bodies enriched the soil, which in turn, fed the grapes. Those sweet, heavenly, blood-filled grapes—a sinful delight for lonely vampire brides like us. Why not start a new batch with that fool’s hand as a catalyst? Of limited issue, of course—one bottle only! Your husband would not have to know, and surely you have darker secrets! You could pot it in my crypt using soil from the manor. And if you get a taste, you could take more from him—plant him in the field to his neck and harvest many more. Or just hide him in the cellar for the occasional snack.”
“Maven, we cannot revert to our old ways. I’d like to say that to some degree we have evolved, though it is fun to fantasize in jest. But in this age, if Lawson were my slave, I’d task him to write for me all day long.”
“As a writer of books? Like 1001 Arabian Nights, but with vampires?”
“Nothing of the sort,” said Olivia. “You’ve heard of the archives below. I’d have him chronicle the bloodlines of our families. I would dictate, he would scribe, my ever faithful servant. The tales that have been passed down through my family, and those I have experienced myself, have yet to find their way to the page. He would be my instrument! I suppose he would need to be a vampire in the end. Writing for 20 or 30 years would be insufficient, especially if he were any good at it. He would need at least a hundred to capture all of my thoughts. Why cut him short? And if my lord and husband chipped in, he could be writing for another thousand. I admit, training new scribes every quarter century is not appealing. So a vampire scribe he would be…”
“Still…nothing revitalizes the spirit like a good glass of vintage.” Maven looked aside for a moment. “Very well, then. Do we have a wager?”
“Indeed.”
The two shook hands.
“And if he fancies you over me, the honor of breaking teeth on him shall fall to your bedside,” said Maven.
“And if he fancies you?”
“So much the worse for him. Of course, we could always tie him to a chair and bleed him until he begs for immortality.” “More fantasies! Considering what has been taken, I doubt he would ever beg for such a thing.”
“Well, I do not care about lineage, or any book for that matter. Might we just throw him in your oven and be done with him? The world loses another vampire hunter and life miraculously goes on.”
“You are horrible,” Olivia giggled. “It would be fun, no less, especially listening to you explain to your husband why your teeth are attached to that brute’s neck. Very well. There is business to attend to in the kitchen, and eventually I’ll need to sharpen my axe.” “Goodbye, love.” Maven kissed her on the cheek.
“Bye, sweet nightmare.” Olivia kissed her back.
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