Confessions of the Hell-bound
folder
Vampire › FemSlash - Female/Female
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
3
Views:
4,242
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Vampire › FemSlash - Female/Female
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
3
Views:
4,242
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
II. Smoking Pistol
II. Smoking Pistol
I turned over in my bed and struggled to gather the blankets around my feet. The night was so cold, especially with the wind hammering the shutters and the icy rain pouring over the thin roof. My stomach was in knots. I thought it was because of Nicolas’s attentions, but then there was such a commotion outside that everyone was jolted from their sleep and from their beds at once, frightened and confused.
The younger children raced to the windows, but Marta and I were quick on our feet and rushed to block their path. With the world caught up in war, there was no telling what was out there.
“Do not open the shutters!” Marta ordered in a loud whisper. “Go back to your beds and be quiet!”
“Go, go!” I ushered, sweeping them back with my hands. There were feet pounding outside on the rocky drive. It sounded like a stampede of loud, drunken animals. Then I heard the guns cock.
A sister came rushing through the door, her eyes wild with fear. “Get the children to the cellar! Now!” she cried, as softly as she could.
Marta and I did not waste time with questions or hesitation. We herded the little ones downstairs and through a corridor, to the kitchen where the door to the cellar had been left open for us. Flashlights shone through the windows, and there were silhouettes of broad men in uniforms and hats all around, with guns in their hands or slung over their shoulders. There were cars outside, with more coming out. A pounding was upon the main door, and I could hear the sisters trying to bar it. My heart raced, and I resisted the urge to scream for Nicolas.
The last of the children were clamoring down the creaky basement stairs when the butt of a gun burst through the back door, sending the glass from it flying into the kitchen. Poor Marta and I stared dumbstruck as we watched it shatter. A man reached in and opened the door. We screamed as the men were suddenly upon us, inside our home, with their guns and bright lights and harsh German tongue. I slammed the basement door shut as Marta grabbed my arm and we ran without direction deeper into the house.
We rounded the corner into the dining hall, our bare feet skidding across the wooden floors. We pushed the heavy doors closed and pressed our backs to them as the Germans thundered in the corridor outside. Light flittered under the door as we cowered there, Marta praying in Swedish, the language of her mother. Marta tried hard to be as a Rumanian girl is, but in times of great grief she always reverted to the ways of her better days. The door lurched as the intruders pounded on it. We screamed, and at last I could not keep myself from crying out for my Nicolas.
“Anka, we have to bar it!” Marta hissed though gritted teeth.
“With what?!” I looked around wildly. I spotted the rack with the fire poker on the hearth, and so did she.
“I will hold it, go!” She sunk to the floor when I left her, and pushed against the doors with her hands and her feet, her blonde curls falling around her face and sticking to the sweat on her brow. “Quickly!” she cried as she struggled to hold them back. We could hear them laughing at us.
My fingertips touched the steel, cold from its rest. I wrenched it from the rack and gripped it determinedly in my hands as I dashed back. I was not quick enough. I had crossed only half of the room when the doors flung open and I met the eyes of a tall German soldier, a pallid swastika tilted on his arm. I shrieked and shrunk back into the room, drawing the poker to my chest. Marta clamored to her feet and ran to me, and we backed away, with nowhere to go.
“Kleine hexen!” the closest man growled as his big feet thundered into the room with each slow, tantalizing step he took.
“Schau dir das gesicht auf ihr!” another man said as he came in behind him, pointing to Marta.
“Die andere ist auch nicht schlecht,” said yet another.
I did not know what they were saying, but I knew enough about Nazis that my eyes dared to seek out the gun that hung above the mantle. Marta though, was a girl of fire and gall, and she went so far as to reach for it.
The shot went off with a deafening bang and the bullet buried itself in her porcelain skin. The fire pokers clattered to the ground as I screamed and knelt to catch her as she fell. Blood poured from her shoulder and soiled her pretty pink nightgown. I was aghast as she gasped and cried in my arms, my tender friend.
“You bastard!” I screeched, and before I could think I was on my feet, fire poker in hand, rushing at the man with the smoking pistol.
**********
Chapter 3 is in progress as of 2/24/10. The story is about to start moving very fast, and will proceed like that for awhile. So, hang in there, my porn-deprived readers.
**********
I turned over in my bed and struggled to gather the blankets around my feet. The night was so cold, especially with the wind hammering the shutters and the icy rain pouring over the thin roof. My stomach was in knots. I thought it was because of Nicolas’s attentions, but then there was such a commotion outside that everyone was jolted from their sleep and from their beds at once, frightened and confused.
The younger children raced to the windows, but Marta and I were quick on our feet and rushed to block their path. With the world caught up in war, there was no telling what was out there.
“Do not open the shutters!” Marta ordered in a loud whisper. “Go back to your beds and be quiet!”
“Go, go!” I ushered, sweeping them back with my hands. There were feet pounding outside on the rocky drive. It sounded like a stampede of loud, drunken animals. Then I heard the guns cock.
A sister came rushing through the door, her eyes wild with fear. “Get the children to the cellar! Now!” she cried, as softly as she could.
Marta and I did not waste time with questions or hesitation. We herded the little ones downstairs and through a corridor, to the kitchen where the door to the cellar had been left open for us. Flashlights shone through the windows, and there were silhouettes of broad men in uniforms and hats all around, with guns in their hands or slung over their shoulders. There were cars outside, with more coming out. A pounding was upon the main door, and I could hear the sisters trying to bar it. My heart raced, and I resisted the urge to scream for Nicolas.
The last of the children were clamoring down the creaky basement stairs when the butt of a gun burst through the back door, sending the glass from it flying into the kitchen. Poor Marta and I stared dumbstruck as we watched it shatter. A man reached in and opened the door. We screamed as the men were suddenly upon us, inside our home, with their guns and bright lights and harsh German tongue. I slammed the basement door shut as Marta grabbed my arm and we ran without direction deeper into the house.
We rounded the corner into the dining hall, our bare feet skidding across the wooden floors. We pushed the heavy doors closed and pressed our backs to them as the Germans thundered in the corridor outside. Light flittered under the door as we cowered there, Marta praying in Swedish, the language of her mother. Marta tried hard to be as a Rumanian girl is, but in times of great grief she always reverted to the ways of her better days. The door lurched as the intruders pounded on it. We screamed, and at last I could not keep myself from crying out for my Nicolas.
“Anka, we have to bar it!” Marta hissed though gritted teeth.
“With what?!” I looked around wildly. I spotted the rack with the fire poker on the hearth, and so did she.
“I will hold it, go!” She sunk to the floor when I left her, and pushed against the doors with her hands and her feet, her blonde curls falling around her face and sticking to the sweat on her brow. “Quickly!” she cried as she struggled to hold them back. We could hear them laughing at us.
My fingertips touched the steel, cold from its rest. I wrenched it from the rack and gripped it determinedly in my hands as I dashed back. I was not quick enough. I had crossed only half of the room when the doors flung open and I met the eyes of a tall German soldier, a pallid swastika tilted on his arm. I shrieked and shrunk back into the room, drawing the poker to my chest. Marta clamored to her feet and ran to me, and we backed away, with nowhere to go.
“Kleine hexen!” the closest man growled as his big feet thundered into the room with each slow, tantalizing step he took.
“Schau dir das gesicht auf ihr!” another man said as he came in behind him, pointing to Marta.
“Die andere ist auch nicht schlecht,” said yet another.
I did not know what they were saying, but I knew enough about Nazis that my eyes dared to seek out the gun that hung above the mantle. Marta though, was a girl of fire and gall, and she went so far as to reach for it.
The shot went off with a deafening bang and the bullet buried itself in her porcelain skin. The fire pokers clattered to the ground as I screamed and knelt to catch her as she fell. Blood poured from her shoulder and soiled her pretty pink nightgown. I was aghast as she gasped and cried in my arms, my tender friend.
“You bastard!” I screeched, and before I could think I was on my feet, fire poker in hand, rushing at the man with the smoking pistol.
**********
Chapter 3 is in progress as of 2/24/10. The story is about to start moving very fast, and will proceed like that for awhile. So, hang in there, my porn-deprived readers.
**********