Author: Eva McFarlane. Eva is a graduate of Edinburgh Napier University with a BA (Hons) degree in English, she is a current student in the MA Creative Writing programme. Originally from Edinburgh, she enjoys all writing with a Gothic twist, primarily within the dark fantasy and horror genres. She is also a poet, with her first poem The Men they could have been published in summer 2024 in the Whitburn Gala Programme. Additionally, Eva has recently completed her first poetry manuscript and is eager to get published while she also works on her novel The Corpse Road.

Many called her a traitor, a failure through and through. I called her my sister.

I still remember those screams as they strapped her down onto the table, and pumped her with the toxic fluids that only a true royal ready and capable for the throne could survive. Judging from my opening, you can guess that she was not the unlucky victim destined for the throne.

Her name was Rosamund, my eldest and only sister. I was twelve years old when I found her emptied corpse strapped to that bloody table. The ceiling had rained with sharpened spikes, I had not watched as they descended, though they littered her poor body all over, making it easy enough to determine what Rosa’s final moments were like.

I was twelve years old when I became next in line for the throne. That was the same year that my mother drained the city of Zerzdir dry, I had accompanied her there, obviously against my will. “You must learn what the people expect.” She had warned me. Fear and conquest. Always fear and conquest, that was the nature of our survival.

Rosa had fought for a better way, one where she did not have to inherit the crimson curse, she did not want to be like our mother. Old accounts told of our mother once being the princess of people’s hearts; kind, and compassionate, like Rosa, she too hoped for a better way.

My sister knew that drinking all of Mother’s blood would cast her true self out, allowing the darkness to swallow her entirely. Instead, as Rosa retrieved the blade of a fallen soldier, wetted with our own mother’s blood in the wake of one of many failed rebellions, she hoped that the red liquid would be enough to sustain her through the ritual…

I had come too late, her cries awakening me from my dreamless slumber so that as I snuck along, confused and a little frightened, I had only the chance to watch as her body crumpled like a shrivelled-up raisin, the skin loose and textured. I watched for the briefest of moments as her soul slithered out and her once ash blonde hair became a fully coated deep red.

By the time I could steady my nerves to call her name, she was gone.

“Tomorrow, you will wake up to a whole new world.” My sister’s words churned in my head. I did not understand what she had meant back then, but I do now.

Yes, as I watched the sun rising through the cracks of leaves and branches, I finally understood the weighty terror my sister had to carry for all those years… one day, I would lose myself in the throne, in the bloodlust and power. I did not want it then; I do not want it now.

---

I watch intently as my servant, name unknown, mops up the fresh pool of blood from one of my many murder sprees. My pearly whites glow out through my joyful excitement. I bend myself towards the ground, dip my finger in the remaining crimson murk, and lick the coppery flavourings of the soul. My mouth pulls and my cheeks crease into a grin as my lips match the blood of my conquest.

I rearrange the crown that sits atop my lavish, golden-rayed locks. I sit down upon my throne and catch myself gazing out the window towards my kingdom; my kingdom dying outside like the dying, setting sun. I watch as those citizens brave enough swarm around my castle, daring to be the next to paint my majestic, yet plain floor— what is it they are rebelling for? I think I knew once, though now my memory betrays me.

I turn my attention away from the crowd of my wretched haters, drawing my sight towards the painting that gazes back at me. Her icy eyes cause a shiver to slide down my spine; she was a professional at turning any room she waltzed into to ice.

“I promised I would avenge you, didn’t I?” I say, narrowing my eyes into the same position she holds within her portrait. “Mother.” That word: that describing factor holds a weight I cannot bear.

I watch as her sharpened eyes glide along the canvas, no longer resting straight ahead, now searing into me. Her dour face displays a savage grin as her hands reach out, I feel her fingers clawing around me from beyond her unholy grave. My breathing falters as my nails dig into a hand as cold as ice, I let out a cry as pain and dizziness swirl. She does not loosen her grip; she does not let me go.

 “Avenge me,” she demands as blood spills from her mouth.

Her cold breath hits against my cheek. I close my eyes, begging, pleading, “Stop.” But she does not

“Avenge me,” it is said again and again. Her blood pools all around, making her hands slide against my neck in its tacky coating, “you know what you must do.”

“Mother,” I utter, “please—”

I fight to free myself from her grasp as her stabbing grip tightens until I feel my eyes bulging outwards, daring to pop out their sockets. I attempt a plea, though I only choke out a gargle of inaudibility as I grow weaker and evermore desperate. With a painful thud, my body crumples to the ground, and with it, I feel the running of warm liquid and the freedom to breathe once more.

I am left gasping for air, drawing it in hungrily after being starved at my mother’s hand. Running my fingers along my throbbing neck to find pearls of blood bleeding out from fresh cuts, I draw my eyes back to my mother’s painting, a questioning, fearful expression now decorates my face. At first, the painting appears as ordinary as it always has, though I quickly learn I am mistaken. The whispering chant of my mother’s demand hisses in my ear as I feel her eyes searing into me, burning, forever burning.

I rise to my feet trembling, feeling weak, parched— oh, so parched. I need another. I need to feed!

“You,” I bark as I fight to compose myself. My unnamed servant jumps to attention, “Bring me another.” His eyes widen as tears form. He offers a meek nod of submission before exiting, swiftly returning with my next plaything.

My latest toy stares at me with a cocktail of terror, hatred, and whatever other negative connotations my presence brings. “He looked at me like that too,” my mother whispers in my ear gleefully, “as he was killing me.” Terror is sparked within me once more, I turn around, but I do not see her.

“You—”

My voice faltered as I grabbed onto the doorframe, my mother gasping upon the ground, drenched in a river of her own blood. Meanwhile, he towered over her victorious.

Drawing his eyes away from his once illustrious ruler, that gaze fell upon me. With a softening expression, he drew himself near. I backed away. There was hurt in his eyes, but I did not care.

“I said I would run away with you.” I cried, gaze darting between the two figures as fury and hurt mingled within me, “Why do this?”

“Because you were right, she would never stop searching for you.” His breathing grew heavier, hands quivering with horror and revulsion at himself. “I done this for us— for you, so you would not turn into her.”

Now, I am the one towering over him. “It was you?” I utter breathlessly, causing his eyes to meet mine in confusion. I look up to catch her standing behind him, a grin in true Cheshire Cat fashion protruding along her pale face.

I feel my body tremble, I take a deep breath in, fighting the urge to show him weakness. I mirror her grin with my own, getting into character. She always told me that character is everything to a ruler of our species.

I breathe out.

“You are going to die today,” I tell him as I fight to remain composed, “it is a pity; you’re cute. I would have enjoyed playing with you in other ways, but my time as a ruler is very limited, so this will have to suffice.”

Now, it is only fear, a straight, strong shot of it that goes from his face, all the way down to the quivering in his boots. If I were close enough, I would bet that I have made his long, silver hairs stand on edge.

I draw closer, and the tantalising thump thump of his heart strumming in my ears lulls me into tranquillity. I find myself moaning with excitement as I watch the way my plaything’s Adam’s apple bobs up and down as he swallows repeatedly, his veins protruding out thick and juicy. Before he has the chance to blink, I have my dagger, black as a raven’s wing pressing up against that very throat. He does not swallow now; he does not dare make a move.

Don’t do it. You plead, ruining my fun.

“Shut up!” I snap at you, though only a cocktail of confusion and terror greets me. The spell has been lost; my boy’s eyes suggest the flickering of realisation dawning upon him. He dares to meet my gaze, even with my dagger glinting against his stubbled neck.

“Rosette, it’s me…” he dares to utter, “You’re still in there… aren’t you? Please, tell me you remember me… look, I know we can work this out, okay? I didn’t know, Rosette, I didn’t know what killing her would do to you.” He leans in closer, hesitating, though even fear does not hold him back. He winces as my blade digs a little deeper, now tasting the blood promised to be spilt.

I do not ask for his name which I supposedly know, for I tell myself I do not care. I also tell myself that I am unmoved by the scent of fresh hay that radiates where he stands, even though it feels so tantalisingly familiar. Even as the image— the memory of a warm summer’s night prances through my mind, I do not give in. I tell myself that his hand never once held my own, neither did his eyes of Antarctic grey ice brush up and down me as we spoke of carefree ramblings in a distant past.

Now, why does my dagger no longer press against soft flesh?

Why am I leaning into him?

Why is he leaning into me?

NO!

The warm light in his eyes becomes snuffed out at my decree as his pupils widen like dark pits where the soul becomes trapped, never to be freed. Blood is splayed all around, my art flying through the air as my blade, once black, now crimson drew the final deep cut that ushered the man’s oblivion.

I hear you screaming, though I match the sound with a cackle. I feel you wanting to run to his body, now coated head to toe in crimson, rather than his disastrous outfit of dirt brown.

I do not let you.

His blood is sweeter than that of my previous boy; still warm and syrupy so that I cannot help but bend down for more. And more. And more.

Your cries do not evade me, for I hear every profanity directed my way, every insult and shriek as terror, revulsion and grief swell around you. Even as the night gives way, and my vast and hateful subjects retire for the night, my thirst cannot be quenched. I drink until the ground surrounding my toy returns to its former shade of icy white, the crimson pool that haloed around him wearing away with every swipe of my tongue.

I do not stop until the sweetness of his blood no longer graces my floor, by which point, the world has fallen to the silence of the night.

I cannot hear your voice ringing now.

I savour the peace.

I rise to my feet, gliding through the darkness, past the now discarded bodies littering my throne room. I sit myself down and bask in the window’s view, watching as firelight flickers out in the distance, with figures scurrying here and there. I imagine them laughing, cheering, and conversing with one another.

My toy appears… why am I seeing him? Why is his hair swept behind him in an unknown breeze? Where are these flicks of flames licking the air coming from?

“We could do it, you know,” he said, leaning in, “get out of here. It’s not too late, you don’t have to go through with it.”

Urgency swirled in his eyes, gaze never faltering.

“We can’t. My mother—”

“Stop letting her control you, this is your life, Rosette. Live it!”

He gazed expectantly, pleading for the hellish reign of my family to end. I did not want to be like Mother, I was so sure things could be different.

Oh, how quickly I learnt however that I was not so different from my Mother after all…

I reposition my crown, I revel in the darkness, waiting with legs crossing and then uncrossing as I watch the shadow of the clock and listen to the ticktock of time passing by. When at last the chime rings out, I feel the explosion of power as my senses heighten, though with them, my cravings grow also.

I make my way to the door which leads out onto the balcony, I swing it open, sensing the vibrations of terrified feet racing to whatever crevice of safety they can find. My mouth waters as the scent of fear wafts heavy in the air, I throw my bloody dagger away with a clatter, for I need it no more. As I slide the door open, I take a step outside, feeling the breeze of the winter air no longer stabbing into my flesh the way it has done for my entire twenty years.

“Your majesty,” I halt in my tracks, my enraged eyes darting behind me towards a man of plump and short stature. He does not offer a shred of fear, “We are ready for you.” He draws deeper into my throne room, ignoring the small congregation of discarded bodies as he extends his hand.

“Start without me, Bernard.” I growl, drawing my eyes back towards the dots of light in the distance leading to houses where bodies, fresh and flowing with blood reside.

“Rosette,” he begins, now clasping my blood-stained hands in his own, “how long have I been your mother’s advisor?”

I scoff. “Oh, I don’t know, but I’m guessing you’re about to tell me.” I snatch my hands away, crossing them against my chest expectantly.

“Longer now than you have breathed air. I have watched your mother be born and bred for the throne, as I did your grandmother, and the heir before her and so on. I am a fountain of knowledge, young lady, it is best to let me advise you if you hope to live long enough to continue the line.” Bernard extends his hand out once again, more forceful this time as his fangs, as long and menacing as a blade point my way. “Come, the ritual must be completed, it is imperative that you follow tradition.” I turn my head from him and back to the window longingly. “They will still be out there when we are done, you have my word.”

As I wrap my fingers around the roughened hands of my new advisor, we glide through the darkness out of my throne room as he leads me into the palace underground.

I know this palace like the back of my hand, I have combed every hall and explored every room, including the underground. My mind takes me back to that night, to the cries of her, to the blood and confusion as I watched her fail in her mission. I would have once shivered in terror if I were dared to venture back down there, though now, as I am led down there, I glide towards it eagerly, fearlessly.

You’re too weak. You jeer.

“I’m not weak!” I scream, feeling my confidence waning as your words take hold of me. Bernard turns to face me, alarmed by my cry.

“Rosette,” he says cautiously, “I never said you were. Are you well?”

“I wasn’t talking to you, Bernard!”

His gaze lands upon me, then shifts to behind, searching out into the dimly lit hall for you, but his eyes do not become fixed upon where I know you stand, taunting.

He bids me to move onwards, I do so, listening to the tip tap of echoing footfalls clicking out along the stone flooring. Down age-worn staircases, through winding corridors where darkness nestles, I am swept into a ballroom. The music stutters to a halt while the dancers trip into stillness, and the men and women with monstrous grins offer congratulations as they hungrily, oh so hungrily await me to take my rightful place as queen.

I shine out my perfectly newfound fangs to the shapeless mass of expectant eyes, sparking cheer and applause.

Bernard ushers me along, not letting me linger to take in the praise I deserve. If he were anyone else, I would have snapped his head off gladly, I know my mother had wanted to on countless occasions.

“Majesty, the high priestess will prepare you for the ritual. When it begins, the rest is up to you.” Says Bernard, gesturing for the high priestess to step forward. Her face is covered by a thick white cloak which flows long and vast all around her, she appears more spectral than earthly in her attire. Save for the long ebony hair that escapes her covering, I may have mistaken her for a ghost.

Bernard squeezes my hand particularly hard, “Prepare yourself, Rosette, you cannot fail.” My mind flashed back to that night, to her. I hear her cries, oh, her never-ending cries.

My lips rise into a quivering grin and my eyes narrow in certainty, “I will not fail.” I say this loud enough for all to hear, so you will hear.

The priestess guides me into a hidden chamber, the scent of dried blood overpowering the room. I notice a table presented in the centre, that is where the odour is the strongest.

I turn towards the priestess, my mouth forming words that I do not get the chance to speak. A sharp pain stings my neck before I notice the needle, cold yet fiery stabbing in where the liquid courses through. I feel myself slump down heavily before two hands as grey as wet snow wrap around my torso and guide my motionless body towards the table.

“Ah, my child,” I hear my mother’s voice coo in my ear, “the life of a queen is a challenging one, you sacrifice so much, even parts of yourself. No matter, it is almost time. Oh, do not exert yourself, dear. Soon you will see things our way.”

I feel everything as she straps me down upon the icy cold table. I feel the stab of tiny spikes piercing my flesh, watching as they hang menacingly from the ceiling, sharp and at the ready. I feel my blood leaving my body as the pain rises, as the spikes descend, stabbing, burrowing, awakening the pain that is forever growing like a merciless monster that has entangled me in its hold, not daring to let me go.

“I know it is unbearable, dear, but I am afraid it will only get worse…” my mother warns, holding aloft a knife directed towards my arm, already blooded in its silver sheen.

I gasp out words of inaudibility, a plea if you could imagine myself doing such a thing. “Mother—” she turns to meet my tear-filled gaze, then, the priestess comes into view, taking up the space my mother had previously resided in.

The priestess caresses my trembling hand, my hand with veins, once blue, now turned cherry red protruding out and winking up at her. She nods her approval, her strange grey-coloured hands rubbing together before a prayer erupts from her lips.

You won’t survive this, you say in a matter-of-fact manner, the throne was never right for you, you’re too good, this isn’t you, this is Mother. It’s her blood in your veins, when that drains out of you, then you’ll see; they’ll all see, you’re nothing.

I do not have the energy to offer up a retort, instead, I succumb to the seething pain that burrows deep within me, making its home inside my very bones. Somewhere along the line, darkness swallows me whole, and I have only this pain, unending and debilitating to accompany me…

“Drink up, Rosette, you cannot let the line die with me!” My mother’s order ushered me forward as she lifted up her trembling arm, her blood calling out like nothing had ever done before. I hesitated for a mere second, then bent down. The first lick was like static ecstasy streaming through me. After that, I was unstoppable. I did not realise that slowly I was losing myself as I resigned to the darkest reaches of my mind. While I had wanted to escape this fate, she… I, whoever this tyrant was taking over my body, basked in the blood’s rich aroma, taking pleasure in the growth of my new fangs as with them, my fate became sealed…

It was not the life I would have chosen.

---

I listen gleefully to the bells tolling out bong booong into the shadows. I hear the violent thump thumping of racing heartbeats as people of all ages flee to their own place of false safety. I lick my lips, I feel my mouth, dried and parched for blood foaming and watering with the scent of fresh blood coursing through many veins.

My eyes dart behind me to my band of true subjects awaiting my order, the first kill. I revel in their impatience, their sighs ringing through my ears. No matter, I want the first to be special.

I listen to the resounding creak of a door, wooden and battered by the ages sliding open. A man steps out, whistling, actually whistling in his youthful, cocky tune.

“Get inside!” Another one barks, carrying a bell that stutters out a muffled chant as he scurries toward the young man. “She is coming, she is coming!”

The young man scoffs, “Go cry about it in the news, old man. Ain’t no one coming for me.”

He trails off into the shadows, with the elder of the two left standing alone, fearful, yet bravely performing his duty. The town crier begins his wailing, his little bell no longer muffled, now ringing out in warning so that all can not help but listen to his unexpected raving:

“She’ll sample you like a fine wine,

Her thirst knows no bounds;

Tonight, on you she will dine

Until no more live bodies can be found!

For the queen comes to drink her fill,

We cannot escape her crimson reign, she comes with a desire to kill—”

Silence stills the night for a fraction of a second as the cryer bends down towards the round object that I have just rolled his way. It slithers awkwardly toward him; I take pleasure in every uncertain motion as he eventually decides to pick it up. My excitement grows evermore when he lets it fall, realisation sprouting as he drops the head that was once perched atop the young man.

Blood coats my face and hands as I step forth, I grin, baring my sharpened fangs as I savour the earthiness of my first victim’s blood.

The man’s wide eyes fall upon me.

I listen as the cries of innocents rise up into the night, my band of brethren striking the chords of terror until nothing and no one come morning will remain.

She would have been proud, you whisper, horrified.