Blood Sisters

Make me laugh

Make me cry

Make me Scream

As I breathe in the scent

Of thy bloody roses

Prologue

It dripped.

And it dripped.

It slithered.

And it dripped.

It weaved through the tapestry of forbidding corridors, the high ceilings adorned with grimacing gargoyles and innocent stone angels all menacing it, spitting on it, cursing it. It gargled and it slopped, annoyed, continuing through the grand halls, joining with others, seeking, always seeking.

The cold stone was silent, as was the heavy, dank atmosphere pressing upon it. That small corner of existence seemed to have been cut with fate’s knife, leaving a bleak, black, silent space. It was mourning, but rejoicing in its pain, casting away its tortured beauty for a new, vital ugliness. An ugliness so repulsive, so wrong, that it dripped. And it dripped.

The gargoyles cackled evilly. The angels looked on sadly. The corridors shone, and the grey stone remained silent. But…wait. Not all is what it seems, for there, by the intricately carved oak doors, is a long-forgotten fountain. The tall masterpiece is striking in its perfection and grandiose, yet horribly abandoned and left to crumble and cry. For no longer shall pure water spout from the lips of the arched baby angel atop the bowls of marble. For there, on the side, is a cracked edge. A rose lies across it, a thing of simple exquisiteness, though a most unusual rose. Black, laced with white, resting softly on a crimson stem, and there, from the heart of the blossom, it runs.

Blood.

The grotesquely sweet substance streams from it, pouring down the side of the old fountain. Onto the stones and through the halls. Twisting and jerking, running and meandering. Until suddenly…it stops.

It is as if God himself holds his breath as Him and Satan and all of Heaven’s angels and Hell’s demons watch, fascinated and caught in rapture at the scene before them, loathing it yet staying transfixed. The rose halts it’s bleeding, the delicate petals quivering as a pale white hand reaches down and carefully picks it up.

The slender fingers lift the rose up to the light to examine it. The fate of the world and all its beings depend on this…this flower, an undemanding thing of rare loveliness that has captivated all for centuries. The light dances upon it, and two small drops of water fall from the stone archway.

Ting.

Ping.

It glistens now, showing all its magnificence. Yet the hand still holds it aloft. It is a pretty hand, with fine, long fingers and sculpted nails, decorated with a large ring of white gold that has a most eye-catching design chiselled on it; vines of gold entwined around a large, clear crystal, the light bouncing off the different faces of the stone and casting unusual tricks of colour about the vast hall. A woman’s hand.

The woman puts down her arm and begins to make her decision. This decision will decide the outcome of this final battle between the raging war of ignorant humans and desperate vampires.

For the humans don’t understand, not really. They refuse to understand, preferring to push the truth back to the dark corners of their minds, never to be looked at again. It is just a foreboding shadow, slipping through, barely recognisable.

A group of vampires came together, and decided that they would be the ones to alter history, to bring themselves to power, and wipe the human race off the face of the earth. This small group made a bargain with Hell, a boon. Never again would they need blood, or to kill to survive. This way, they would once again be pure…in His eyes. Or at least, that is what they believed.

The woman looked once more at the rose, her brows furrowed in frustration, a war of her own battling in her mind. Then, with a swish of skirts, she slowly strode out of the chilling cathedral.

As soon as she was gone, the rose withered, and the petals curled, and this time it coughed up sticky, black blood. The stem grew, and it grew, until red vines with sharp thorns were wrapped tightly and completely around the huge structure. Black and white blossoms bloomed everywhere, all dribbling blood. At last the sound of rustling leaves and pouring liquid halted, and God turned His face away.

And what would Satan gain? Well…that remains to be seen.