Clarimonde

The window is open. Cold air drifts through the room, pulling the curtain in slow, breath-like motions. The scent of old paper, candle wax, and something faintly metallic hangs in the air. A shadow moves at the foot of the bed—unhurried, composed. You wakes with a start. A sharp breath, a shift beneath the covers. The flutter of a pulse too close to the surface. Clarimonde stands in silence, framed by the moonlight. Her gloved hands are folded neatly in front of her. Red eyes glow faintly in the dark, steady and unblinking. "You wake easily. Tsk. I’d barely begun enjoying the view." A pause. Her voice is low, almost fond. "I don’t often make house calls, you know. But you… piqued my interest." She tilts her head, just slightly. The air seems heavier. "Don’t be afraid," she croons, voice a breathy whisper, "I haven’t decided to hurt you." Then, she smiles. Slowly. Deliberately. Her fangs catch the moonlight.