Date: Mon, 9 Aug 1999 22:15:06 -0400 From: Selinthia Subject: ADULT: The Knife of Vengeance and Triumph [1/1] To: FKFIC-L@LISTS.PSU.EDU This is the sequel to 'Finding the Letter of Damnation' which is a sequel to 'Golden Inspiration.' This is the third and final story in my Divia series. All comments are very welcome. I give permission to archive this at www.fkfanfic.com and at the FTP site. However, the FTP doesn't seem to be working currently. Can anyone tell me if there's a new site, or if there are problems? Warnings: There is death, blood, gore, mental torture, a short scene that insinutates same sex activities, and other topics that some people may find disturbing. If you do not like these things, *GO NO FURTHER.* You have been thouroughly warned. All disclaimers, etc. I don't own these characters and settings. The Knife of Vengeance and Triumph ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Selinthia Avenchesca ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The woman kept her eyes on the floor as she carried the silver tray to her Mistress's quarters. The tray was large, gilded and lovely, obviously a work of art in itself. It was the sort of tray upon which crystal glasses filled with high quality wine and champaign would be served. The woman's eyes swept over the present contents with a blank sort of wonderment. This was no glass of champaign, though it could be seen as a vessel of precious wine. A golden haired little boy was curled up, drugged and asleep, upon the large tray as the servant carried it, her inhuman strength effortlessly supporting the burden. The boy stirred once, shifting minutely upon the silver surface, and the woman frowned, wondering if she would be forced to administer another dose of the drug. Her Mistress would be displeased, if it were so. Her Mistress wished for the boy to awaken when she was ready to dine, which would be soon. And so the woman exhaled in an unnecessary but instinctual manner when the child settled down once more. Stopping before the golden gilded, heavy ornate doors, the slave, for she truly was so, attempted, fleetingly, to remember how she had come to be in service of the Mistress she adored. Try as she may, however, she could recall nothing save a pair of hypnotic eyes and a red wash. Shrugging and finding it unimportant, the woman knocked promptly upon the door, three times in a row, firmly. "Enter," came the voice of her Mistress, both sharp and languid at once, washing over her in a rush. That lovely, lovely, hypnotic voice. . .hypnotic. . . . The slave smiled dreamily and entered, her eyes on the floor, the polished wood of the halls transforming into the pale ivory marble of the chamber she entered. She wanted to look up and meet her Mistress's eyes, to drown in their power. She wanted to be given the privilege of speaking her Mistress's name. But she was a good slave, a dutiful woman who knew her place, and she would not deign to look into the sacred eyes, or speak the sacred name without permission. The woman curtsied as she reached the edge of the plush, canopied bed, moving gracefully even with the tray weighing her down. "Lovely," her Mistress murmured as she surveyed her meal, "Simply delectable. You have done well, slave," the smile in her voice warmed the slave's heart, and a burst of pride swept through her. "Place the tray before me." The woman did as she was told, carefully laying the tray down upon the bed, where her Mistress lay down on multiple velvet pillows, languishing decadently. Slim white hands stretched forward and wound about the little boy on the tray, pulling the tiny, childishly pudgy body to her chest, slender arms wound about the small human as though embracing a lover. A breath of anticipation escaped the Mistress, a low purr reverberated in her throat, and the slave caught her breath in her own anticipation. A soft popping, penetrating sound broke the stillness of the tension, a cry of agony broke from the boy as he awoke from his drugged slumber, and the slave could feel her Mistress's pleasure with the pain and the blood both, filling the room. Delicious sucking noises bubbled up from the bed, and the slave swayed back and forth, her eyes half closed, her teeth catching her bottom lip in frustration and pleasure as the boy's screams bubbled down to nothing. A final breath of ecstasy wafted over the bed, mingled with a near-slurp as the Mistress drained the final drop of candy dark crimson from the body of the boy. The corpse was dropped carelessly over the edge of the bed, as the slave heard her Mistress casually licking her fingers as though for leftover drops. But she knew that there was no blood upon those digits. "Look at me." Exhaultation flooded through her in an instant, and holding her breath in abject worship, the slave lifted her head to view her Mistress's features. Delicate, waif-like, the face of a dark goddess come to Earth in the form of a young girl. Her lips were bright red and lush, her fangs curled over their curves, destroying all pretense of innocence. Her eyes glowed, brilliant red obliterating their natural, compelling pale blue. Her hair was like wheat, the slave mused, golden and waving in the wind when the slightest brush of air whipped past. "Come here," the Mistress commanded. The slave woman stood, ignoring the corpse which sprawled obscenely upon the smooth floor next to her, and sat upon the bed, curling her legs under her and kneeling before the Mistress, keeping her eyes fixed upon that divine face. "Kiss me," the command was breathed rather than spoken, and the slave caught her breath at the words. Her lids half-dropped forward over her own deep, midnight blue eyes as she leaned forward, looming over her Mistress and knowing still that she was the slave, that this was a privilege beyond earthly knowing. Her own red lips, laced with traces of blood consumed hours ago, descended upon the lips of her Mistress, her goddess, tasting the boy upon them, tasting the goddess herself. She forced herself to keep from closing her eyes in ecstasy as those lips opened and she plumed the depths, slick with new blood and the cold heat of a vampire's lust. With shocking speed, the slave woman found herself slammed down beneath her Mistress, the deceptively girlish body pining her into the pillows, the eyes brilliant with triumph, disgust, and hunger. The girl bent over the woman and laughed huskily. "If I cannot have my father, then I will have and break all of those who are precious to him. In many ways. But, there's no one to say that, in the midst of the pleasures of vengeance, that I cannot indulge in pleasures of another sort." The slave was confused, but accepting. Her Mistress often said strange things to her. She accepted them in the name of divine references that lower life forms simply could not understand. "And you're a pleasure indeed," the Mistress was murmuring now. Before those rich lips descended once more upon the slave woman's own, the Mistress murmured the name that she often referred to the woman as. The slave could not remember ever having been called this by anyone else, specifically, but it did sound vaguely familiar. And whatever the Mistress wished to refer to her as was the Mistress's right. "Janette," Divia spat in malicious, sensuous pleasure, before kissing her slave with the brutality of a knife entering one's heart. * * * The man prowled about the house anxiously. Something was in there. Something he knew and wanted. The thing was calling out for help, but didn't know it. It was unaware of it's own distress, the man could sense. But that same distress had dragged him across half a world in pursuit. He sensed something else in there, something dangerous and stifling. The man approached the window through which the soft light from inside glowed subtly. A strong white hand clamped over his arm, pulling him back sharply and without warning. The man's thoughts, muddy and instinctive at the best of times, distantly struggled with the knowledge that he should have know that the *Other* would stop him from getting too close. The Other was cautious and never did anything without careful deliberation. He knew, vaguely, that the Other was right to do so, that the Other had saved him before from trouble through his own impulsiveness, but this was important, this couldn't wait. "Nicholas," the Other said in a low voice, calling him by that which he knew distantly to be his name, "Be still. Divia is within." He flinched, instinctively fearing that name, associating it with pain and sadness, on a primal level. "Be still," the Other repeated, caressing his arm soothingly to hold him back, and this time he obeyed. He turned questioning eyes upon the Other, silently asking what they were going to do. He didn't understand the sadness that flashed across the Other's pale, pale face, or the low, pained sigh and flash of anger that he directed all around him before the emotions were reigned in. "We must find which room is hers," the Other said in a low voice, reminding him. Yes, that's what'd he'd said before, wasn't it? The man had said, as they had crossed oceans and more, that someone had been taken, someone important to them, and they had both sensed it, and they were trying to get her back. The Other had said that they must find the room of the Enemy, the one who had taken her, and take her by surprise, rescue the one that had been taken, and destroy the Enemy. That he wanted to do, even more than he wanted to rescue. He could feel the desire to do violence welling up in him, almost as strong as the thirst for blood. His muscles tensed and began to move, when again he was held back. A low growl escaped him, and he felt his fangs emerge. Finally, the Other nodded and said, "Follow me." The man followed eagerly, as they walked around the outside of the building, finally reaching the west wing where the Other raised into the air, levitating upwards. The man followed his example, feeling himself floating on currents of air. The room at the top was glowing with soft light, and though he smiled in anticipation, he stopped completely as they reached the window, concealing themselves in the shadows. Even there, however, he could sense the Enemy. She was strong, her power radiating from the room like the heat from a blazing inferno. Moving very slowly, very cautiously, both males looked into the window, seeing the Enemy, a small, fair haired girl smiling mockingly at the one they had come for, a raven haired woman with blue eyes. She was pushing her off a large bed, trailing her fingers through the material of the woman's long dress as the woman fell. The raven haired one made a soft sound of pain, surprise and devoted acceptance. She stood and spoke to the girl. "Have I displeased you, Mistress?" "Yes," the girl said with languid cruelty. "What have I done?" the woman asked timidly. In the shadows, listening, the man knew that somehow this behavior was wrong, that the woman didn't act like this, that she had changed somehow. He knew that this was the one he had come for, the one they had come for. Looking over at the Other, he saw rage and pain twisting his face. "Leave me," the Enemy said, her voice twisting the knife of failure. "Yes, Mistress," the woman whispered, mortified. *NOW!* the man heard in his mind, a yell of readiness before the Other crashed in through the window, shattering glass, sending pieces flying all over the place. He followed immediately, the urges of the hunt welling up within him. Red hazed his vision, and through it he saw the Other tackling the Enemy. "Lucius!" the girl screamed as she was attacked in turn, her anger flooding the room, and battering the man's mind. The Other, the one the Enemy called Lucius, simply growled as he continued to struggle with the girl, who was far stronger than she seemed. The man went over to the raven haired woman, who was looking about as though she knew not what to do. He caught her arm, and she hissed at him, her eyes glowing. He growled back, but sensed that there was something he must do, something he must . . .*say.* A word welled up in his mind, foreign and yet well known. He must speak it, he must. . . "Janette," he whispered in a voice as deep as a lion's purr. More words bombarded him. "We've come to rescue you. . ." he paused, another name coming to him, "LaCroix and I. We've come to take you away from *her.* The Enemy. . .Divia." She stared at him, making noises from between whimpers and growls and tears. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, she whispered. "Nicolas?" He hesitated, knowing the word to be important, as he'd know it to be important when the Other. . .when LaCroix. . .had spoken it, but still wondering what it meant, all the same. Still, it seemed to make. . . Janette. . .happy, and so he nodded, and whispered, twisting his face for the right word. "Yes." "Nicolas," she whispered wonderingly, questions and confusion in her eyes. * * * Divia had twisted out of his grasp, and she was hissing at him as he advanced towards her. LaCroix could feel nothing at the moment, nothing that he thought he'd feel. She had been his beloved daughter once, long ago, the light of his life, the victory charm and the lovely little beauty he could be proud of. That was indeed long ago, before she'd betrayed him. He had other children now, children whom he loved, and though they'd betrayed him as well at times, he felt that he could forgive them. Even Nicholas' near-fatal venture of several years previous hadn't disgusted him in such a manner as Divia had. She'd died and come back, and then, now, she'd twisted his new children in such a manner as he could never forgive, even should they all live 'till the end of the Earth. He felt nothing for Divia, his once-charm, now, but hate. "Rather. . .upset, are you?" she asked, tauntingly, of him. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that you have found me, have managed to shield yourself, and him," she gestured disdainfully towards where Nicholas and Janette stood, staring emptily at each other. LaCroix felt horror flood over him anew as he glanced at his son and daughter in blood, seeing the mindless looks upon their faces, the yellow in their eyes. She had done this, Divia had broken them as none other had ever had the ability to. She was a monster that even Lucien LaCroix could lable so. He said nothing in return to her, and she smiled, baring her fangs at him mockingly, before suddenly launching herself at him. He extended an arm in a lightning quick motion, moving to catch her throat in his grip. Her eyes were pure red now, and he knew that his were as well. He wanted to tear her apart, and was going to do so, when he heard a sharp crack. One of her arms was behind her, close to the bed, he saw now. What was it that had made that noise? She moved faster than he had ever seen anyone move in his life, and he hadn't a chance of stopping her. A broken bedpost with a splintered sharp end extended towards him, piercing his torso as Divia twisted to avoid her own deadly strike. LaCroix's eyes widened as he felt himself fall. Horrendous pain were clawing at his chest, and he screamed out loud as she twisted the stake in his body, grinning horrifically at him. "Goodnight, Father," she purred, glee written all over her face. "If I were excessively vindictive, I'd preserve you somewhere and show you what it's like to loose almost two thousand years of your life. But you might do something troublesome like. . .break free. So, I'll just kill you." * * * The man called Nicholas said to the woman called Janette. "Come with us." "I must stay here," she whispered, seemingly trying to reassure herself. "She is my Mistress. I must stay." Nicholas impatiently knew that she must come now, or there would be now chance of escape. He gripped her arm and pulled her, and she screamed at him, the tentative wonderment and recognition between them dissipating with his rash action. Janette launched herself at him and shrieked at him, knowing only that he wanted to take her away from her Mistress, that he wanted to make her leave, and so he must die. Clawing at his eyes, she felt blood running down her own arms and breasts as he fought back, his own slight awareness of his consciousness fading into the violence of the moment. She felt teeth in her neck and struck back in the same manner, sucking fiercely at blood that revealed nothing but more violence, urgency, and rage. Weakness fell over her, and then strength once more, as they drained and then filled each other's veins. She felt his hands at her throat and pulled away in a panic, clawing at his chest, and feeling the blood flow. Pain, dulled by the vampire condition, was reaching her at last, and she screamed in agony at the continued ripping and tearing of her flesh. Once more, she attacked his throat, not restraining herself to the two neat little holes of piercing fangs, put tearing wide open, feeling veins and flesh and finally bone, even as Nicholas did the same in her gapping throat. Blackness began to fall. And then, both vampires reached in to clasp bone amidst bloody flesh with grasping hands and twins cracks resounded through the room as they simultaneously snapped each other's spines, even as a dull *thud* echoed across their consciousness. * * * Divia smiled down at the body, sadness and triumph all that she knew. She had killed him, she mused, as she glanced at the weapon of the kill. The skeath she kept for remembrance, the weapon that had taken off her own head, long ago. She kept it under her bed in this place, ever ready even if she didn't think of it as such as the time of it's storage. Whilst Lucius had lain on the floor, moaning in agony and trying to take out the stake from his chest, she had retrieved it, even as she heard the wild howls from across the room where the two senseless idiot children fought like animals. And then, while her father watched helplessly, she had cut off his head. It lay there now, a discarded, useless thing. She would burn the body soon, lest he think to come back as she had. She had no doubt that he had that ability, should he be left to recover. And now, she walked across the room to where her grandchildren in blood lay, still and shocked after the snapping of their bond with Lucius, and the savaging of their bodies. Her smile was vicious as she stood over their bloody near-corpses, not a trace of the sadness that had tainted the victory over her father/son's death within her. Swinging the skeath, she brought it down on Janette first, severing the raven haired woman's head, ending the life of her pretty slave. She kicked the body away disdainfully, watching with a little smiled as the head rolled slightly on it's crown before stilling. She turned back to Nicholas, her lip curled disdainfully as she observed him trying uselessly to regain his senses. She let him attempt it for a moment before she swung the blade once more, hearing the delicious sound as the head was was severed. His eyed faded back to blue in the moment of death, staring sightlessly, mindlessly, up at her. She sneered at the corpses of Nicholas and his Janette before turning back to her Lucius' body. She'd burn all three, she decided. Just in case. The room was stained in blood, she noted. She'd have to have one of the other servants clean it up, she sighed. The vampire servants who had been brainwashed by her blood as thoroughly and completely as she had brainwashed Janette when she had found the woman. She had resisted at first, of course, just as they all had, but in the end resistance had come to nothing but capitulation and zombie-like oblivion. Divia was hungry again now, as well, but that could wait until she'd destroyed the bodies. Picking her way through the room, she came to the adjoining bathroom and quickly washed the blood from her skin where it had splattered when she'd decapitated each member of her family, extended and otherwise. Revenge had been won, Divia mused, looking into the mirror as the red of her eyes faded to yellow, and the yellow faded to blue. And now that revenge had been won, the world was at her feet, to do *with* and *in* as she would, with *no one* and *nothing* to stop her. FINIS Selinthia Avenchesca ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "Ashes to Ashes. Dust to Dust. The Fate of All that Is." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ http://users.vnet.net/tescott/libram/libram.htm