I had a dream last night.

Don't be ridiculous, she says, taking his finger-tips into her mouth. Vampires don't dream. Now dream of me.

She opens her mouth slightly. He watches his fingers glisten, like embryos in a second womb.

Oh Molly, he says, twisting his fist into the belly of her mouth so that her top lip splits and cries with blood, I can assure you my heart, this dream was real.

EVEN NOW, as her nostrils flared with each desperate effort for breath, she was laughing at him. Kneeling astride him, her face but inches from his own, she prickled with scorn; a million insects seemed to crawl beneath her skin. He could feel the laughter bubbling up and over; in the sweat between her thighs, in the teasing touch as she pressed against his groin. She was awash with pleasure.

A strange desperation crept inside her eyes; she wanted to speak. God, but Daniel knew how she wanted to speak, to carve her mark into his flesh, each word slicing deeper than the soaked knots of the lash. She would grind him to earth and watch him split between her toes. But Molly had no need to speak. Those cold white eyes were miasma enough to pare him back to the bone.

And yet, before, when they both had slept, how small she must have seemed. The feather-weight of her fragile bones. Her skin, but a whisper of shimmering cells. He might have held her then, as she crumbled in his arms.

But she had woken and turned her face towards him, her pale eyes bleary from sleep. He had spoken, told her of the dream, and straddling him, her hair tangled, she had slipped his fingers inside her mouth; dismissed his pain in an instant. If words were palpable, he would have gathered his up as they spilt from his lips; watched them beat in the fat of his fist. And in one delicious moment, he would ram his fist down the length of her throat and watch her choke on each foolish word. But his fist was clenched, and empty.

Daniel extended his fingers and probed the chamber of her throat. It was the extent of his victory, to notice the wheezing tone as her breath became shallow. But soon he would draw back his fist and take her face between his hands, flick his tongue across her lips and cleanse her wound with tenderness. But before he doctored to her care, might he not tear those foul, malicious words out from her throat? Perhaps there was a kind of glory here, he thought, watching saliva trail from her mouth.

The teeth sank deep through his wrist and cracked on the bones. Immediately her tongue pressed inside his wound, curling up under the flesh until it met with the broken vein. The familiar lapping sound was abhorrent.

"No!" hissed Daniel, blood streaming down the inside of his arm.

With a sickening rent of flesh, Molly twisted her head to one side and sat back on her haunches, grinning; slivers of skin caught between her teeth. She snapped at the air, her blond hair washing against her face and shoulders, collecting streaks of scarlet as it brushed against her chin. She touched a finger to her mouth and brought it away, studying the blood. Again, she grinned - a wide boyish smile - and raised her head slightly. She snaked her tongue over the finger, licking it clean.

Daniel backed away. Crouching at the top of the bed, he watched her with a sense of revulsion. Yet there was something darkly sensual about her behaviour, a sense of innocence even, which he knew to be ludicrous. If Molly had known innocence, it was long ago within her mother's womb.

Absurdly, Molly remembered to breathe, and collapsed over the side of the bed, gasping. For several moments, there was only the sound of her frantic breathing; the coarse sound of air being dragged through inner flesh. Her lungs replenished, the laughter spilled from her lips. Still leaning over the side of the bed, the voice was slightly muffled, but the words were clear:

"Jesus, Daniel. You're such a prick."

She lifted her head and turned her face towards him, licking her lips, luxuriating in the liquid warmth spilling over her chin. "Don't you know it's wrong to strike a lady, you mother-fucking creep."

Daniel muttered. He was nursing the skin back into place at his wrist. The vein had knitted the instant that Molly released her lips, but the skin needed a little more encouragement.

"Excuse me?" Molly's eyes fixed again upon his own. Daniel didn't answer. Twisting the sheets beneath her as she moved, Molly began to edge across the bed on her hands and knees, her head lowered, the whites of her eyes hard and brilliant. There was a rhythmic charm to the movement, as though she were responding to an inaudible beat. The undulation of her spine was exaggerated by the fact that she was naked; save the flowered bands of Japanese tattoos. Slowly, in an action so prolonged that she assumed the rigid poise of a predator, she moved her face up to Daniel's. When she spoke, it was in a whisper,

"What did you say, Daniel, my Isiah? Did you want to tell me more about your..." she paused and fixed him hard with her stare, "dream? I can listen, I can slip inside your mind and, take a look around. Clear away the spooks." She inched towards him, animating her hands. Again, she paused, and this time Daniel saw the effort as she visibly swallowed. "Come on Daniel, don't you want to share?"

Quietly, with little register of emotion, Daniel spoke.

"I said that I agree. It is wrong to strike a lady. But you are a vampire. More importantly - you are Molly."

Kim Lakin