Blood And Briars

The evening air was thick with the scent of rain-soaked earth and the lingering aroma of roses. The mist that hung low over the cemetery swirled around Garnetta Briars as she made her way through the narrow, winding paths between the gravestones. Her dark maroon hair, cascading in soft waves down her back, caught the last dying light of the sun, giving it a deep, almost blood-like hue. The long black dress she wore clung to her figure, flowing gracefully with each step, blending her with the encroaching shadows. Garnetta's stormy gray eyes were fixed ahead, her gaze distant, as though she was seeing something far beyond the rows of weathered tombstones.

She walked with a purpose, her fingers lightly trailing along the tops of the gravestones she passed, feeling the cold, rough texture of the stone against her skin. There was a kind of quiet reverence in her movements as if she belonged to this place, this realm of the forgotten and the dead. At seventeen, Garnetta was a girl who commanded attention, not just for her ethereal beauty but for the aura of mystery that surrounded her. She was a loner by nature, preferring the company of her thoughts and the quiet solace of the cemetery to the bustling life of the small town that lay beyond the forest.

Tonight, as she did every year on this day, Garnetta had come to visit her mother's grave. It was a ritual, one she performed with the utmost devotion. The grave was tucked away in a secluded corner of the cemetery, far from the main path, where the trees grew thick and the shadows deep. She reached the small, unadorned headstone and knelt down, placing the bouquet of red roses she carried on the ground before it. Her fingers lingered on the petals, brushing them gently as if the flowers could convey the words she could not.

"Happy birthday, Mama," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the rustling of the leaves overhead. The wind seemed to carry her words away, dispersing them into the night. Garnetta's eyes closed for a moment, and she let herself be engulfed by the memories of her mother—the warmth of her smile, the soft lullabies she used to sing, the way her arms felt around her when she was scared.

But the tranquility of the moment was abruptly shattered by the distant sound of raucous laughter. Garnetta's eyes snapped open, and she stiffened, her senses on high alert. The laughter grew louder, accompanied by the unmistakable clinking of glass bottles. Garnetta's heart sank as she realized that a group of boys, likely from town, was making their way through the cemetery.

She rose to her feet, her calm demeanor masking the unease that gnawed at her insides. Garnetta had no interest in being seen or spoken to, especially not by drunken fools. She turned to leave, intending to slip away unnoticed, but it was too late. The boys, five of them, had already spotted her.

"Hey! Look who it is!" one of them shouted, his voice slurred with alcohol. Garnetta kept walking, her head held high, pretending not to hear them. Her pace quickened as she made her way toward the edge of the cemetery, where the forest began.

"Hey! Don't ignore us!" Another voice, more aggressive this time. Garnetta's heart pounded in her chest, but she refused to show fear. She could hear their footsteps behind her, stumbling and uneven, but drawing closer.

One of the boys, tall and broad-shouldered with a mop of unruly hair, jogged up to her, blocking her path. His breath reeked of beer as he leered down at her. "Where you going, pretty girl?"

Garnetta's stormy eyes met his with an icy stare. "Home. Get out of my way."

The boy's grin faltered at the sharpness of her tone. "Come on, don't be like that. We just want to talk."

"I'm not interested," she said coolly, trying to step around him, but he moved to block her again.

"Don't be such a stuck-up bitch," another boy jeered from behind her. Garnetta felt a surge of anger rise within her, but she kept her expression neutral, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a reaction.

The tall boy grabbed her arm, his grip rough and demanding. "Come on, just stay a while. Have a drink with us."

Garnetta's patience snapped. "Let. Go."

She yanked her arm free, her voice laced with venom. The boy's face twisted with anger at being rebuffed. He reached out to grab her again, but in his drunken state, he miscalculated, tripping over a thick tree root that jutted out of the ground. As he fell, the glass beer bottle he held slipped from his grasp, spinning through the air in a glittering arc.

Time seemed to slow as Garnetta watched the bottle hurtling toward her. She barely had time to react before it struck her temple with a sickening thud. Pain exploded in her head, and she crumpled to the ground, her vision blurring as blood began to seep from the wound.

The boys stared in stunned silence, the reality of what had just happened slowly dawning on them. Panic set in, and without a word, they turned and fled into the night, leaving Garnetta lying there, bleeding out on the cold, unforgiving ground.

Darkness began to creep in at the edges of her vision. Garnetta could feel her life slipping away, her consciousness fading. But just as she was about to succumb to the void, a shadow fell over her, and she sensed a presence kneeling beside her.

Through the haze of pain, she saw him—a man with dark, flowing hair and eyes that glowed a deep, unsettling red. His face was pale, almost ethereal, and he exuded an aura of power and danger. Garnetta's breath hitched as he leaned in closer, his voice soft and melodic, with a lilting French accent.

"Do you wish to live?" he asked, his voice like a whisper in the dark.

Garnetta could barely form words, but the thought of dying alone, here in this forsaken place, terrified her. With the last of her strength, she whispered, "Yes."

A faint smile curved the man's lips. "Very well, ma petite rose."

As her vision faded completely, she felt the sharp sting of his fangs sinking into her neck, and then, there was nothing but darkness.