The White Ghost

Well and Guinevere is sly enough to steal a little taste
And her laughter it peals into the night
Oh but forbidden fruit always stays sticky on your face
And without virtue I’m worthless in a fight
~Edwin McCain

St. Petersburg, 438

She stared at her reflection in the frosty crust that clung to the river Neva and cringed. Anya hated life, hated the way she looked and hated Russia. She’d run away again, knowing that she had no choice but to go back. Glowering at her reflection, she wished she had an actual choice. Her husband would simply laugh as he waited for her return, and then would punish her for insubordination. Why had her father betrothed her to Ivan?
She knelt down and felt the emotional pain take over again. How many times had she wished she could escape? How many times had she realized she had no choice but to return?
No choice. Her face scrunched in a pained grimace and she lay her forehead down on the thin layer of ice that coated Neva’s banks. This was her only solace.
The voice came from the darkness and startled her. “Don’t stick your tongue to the ice, it’ll freeze there and that would be quite uncomfortable.” The tone had a chuckle in it.
She swung her body around and looked up at the pale, but ridiculously handsome, stranger that stood a mere three feet from her. His eyes were amber, his lips soft, his hair long and flowing with a breeze she’d not noticed until that moment. She realized she was still sitting; quickly and ungracefully, Anya pulled herself up and stood before the man.
“I didn’t know anyone else was out here.” She stuck out her chin, trying to intimate that she was already claimed like a good wife would. She didn’t really mean it though and it seemed that he understood. His grin was condescending.
“Just be careful. With your tongue, I mean.” He walked away but she suddenly knew she didn’t want him to.
“What’s your name?” She hurried the question and even though he had his back to her, she knew that he’d smiled.
He turned to her. The breeze picked up and tossed his hair. “Vladimir.”
She moved toward him, mesmerized, her dark hair coating the sides of her face like a protective shield. Her deep brown eyes searched his face, hoping to find some sort of salvation there. She touched his cheeks, angling him down toward her, looking for the one action that might make her husband banish her.
Her lips touched the stranger’s and she found herself pushing herself against him, passionately opening her mouth and searching for his tongue. He responded as if these things happened to him everyday and gripped one hand on her back, while the other tangled in her hair. They were breathless, pulling each other and then he dipped his head fluidly to her neck, bit quickly and sucked her life away.

Britain, 538

She edged upon the city, trying to remember Vladimir’s instructions.. Her need for independence, to not be controlled by someone, had finally kicked in. Vladimir had thought it was unwise. His plan would’ve worked better if they’d stayed together.
Now she stood on the border of Camelot with everything to lose. This place was beautiful. She, like anyone else in Europe, had heard of King Arthur’s rise to power. Anya and Vladimir both had speculated on how he’d been physically able to pull the sword from the stone … both had decided it must’ve been with the mysterious help of Merlyn, the wizard.
She teetered, not sure if she wanted to cross into a world of assumed magic. She took a deep breath and finally crossed into Camelot. The air was crisp and clean. She strolled through the quiet moonlit town, listening to the wind stroke the leaves of a tree, causing them to rustle lightly but otherwise there was nothing, no one stirring about. She headed toward the castle boldly, still unsure how to proceed. A virgin vampire, in a new town, without her mentor, Anya should’ve been scared. Yet, she still found herself victim to fear again.
She hopped easily over the large wall that protected the castle from intruders. The bridge was raised from the moat, so she simply sat on the wayside, thinking.
She’d left Vladimir in Wales, where he had been schooling her over the years, helping her perfect a Welsh accent, helping her learn their customs, their mannerisms. It was a far cry from her homeland of Russia but she paid attention and she’d slowly let her new identity claim her. Now she sat in front of this enchanting castle, clad in a beautiful dress, and looking down into the sparkling moss-green water. Her reflection was far different from that fateful night on the river where she’d been born.
She was now a stunning woman. Her long glossy hair fell in waves to her slender waist, which was accentuated by a crimson corset. Her eyes were so dark that they appeared black. Her white skin was so smooth it could’ve been porcelain. She stopped herself from admiring her brutish beauty and decided to wait until morning to see the king. Somewhere a wolf howled mournfully and she wondered if it had caught her scent on the playful breeze.
Eventually, the sun peeked over the horizon, and even though daylight couldn’t harm her, it did make her uncomfortable because it could reveal things about her that couldn’t be easily identified in the shadows. Her uncanny smooth skin. Her coal black eyes. Her quickness. In the dimness, most people just thought that their eyes were playing tricks on them.
Finally, as the village awakened and first light spilled over the horizon, the bridge lowered over the moat, opening up access into the castle. She strode onto it confidently.
Two sentries guarded the gate, crossing their spears in front of her, denying her entrance. They wore Camelot’s colors; purple tunics with gold sashes, but the only weapons they held were the spears. She flashed them a brilliant smile and asked to see the king. She didn’t give them a reason, trusting that the magical lilt of her voice would mesmerize them. She was not disappointed.
One of the dazzled guards left his post and led her through the castle and toward Arthur as if he hadn’t a care in the world. They passed some of the royal court in the corridors but no one questioned them, no one stood in their way. After a few moments, he led her into a great hall. It was dark in there, much to her liking, with small bits of sunlight cutting in from small windows at the top of the massive gray-stoned walls. She stared upward at the large purple and gold banners hanging from the rafters and suddenly felt eyes burning into her. Shifting her gaze, she looked directly into the eyes of King Arthur.
He was older with graying hair at the temples and kind gray eyes. His face was wrinkled, showing him to be perhaps in his late 40’s. There was a modest gold crown that sat on the table by his left hand and he was clad in casual clothing, certainly not expecting to entertain. Around him sat the Knights of the Round Table, all glaring at her suspiciously. The sentry that had gained her access acted as if there was nothing strange about her arrival.
“A lady to see you, my Lord,” he said clearly in a youthful voice and dropped to a revered genuflect. “I’ll just be outside if needed.” He left her standing in front of the greatest king England had ever seen. The wifeless king.
The hall was deafening silent. No one moved, no one breathed. Finally, it was Arthur who spoke, his voice veiled and quiet.
“What may I do for you, lady?” Even as he spoke to her, her eyes flitted around the table and realized that the knights were all tense, ready to protect their king if need be. She did not see Merlyn. That put her a bit at ease.
Her voice came out soft and light as her eyes finally rested back on Arthur’s. Black on gray.
“I’ve come from Wales to ask for your assistance, your protection.” Keep it simple, she told herself..
His brow rose at the declaration. “Are you in danger?”
She nodded, not breaking eye contact.
He stood, towering over the table. “From whom?”
Anya feigned fright when she spoke. “Melwas, the King of the Summer Country. He has claimed me as his own. I do not wish to be another of his wives.”
She bowed demurely as Vladimir had carefully taught. That had been the most difficult mannerism to master simply because she hated even the concept of timid reservation never mind forcing herself to suffer the feeling. That was her old life. She was bold now, yet in that moment, she couldn’t show that strength.
King Arthur relaxed and several of his knights chuckled. “You want me to save you from a betrothal?” The table erupted in light chittering, all at her horrified expense.
“No,” she urged with a bit of sting in the intonation, “not a betrothal. An abduction! He takes me against my will!”
Arthur sat down again, sure that the danger she was speaking of was not danger at all. She was just a silly girl, scared of marrying her betrothed.
“There is nothing I can do for you, no action I can take. If he has asked for your hand, you could choose not to give it, however.” Arthur’s eyes softened again and seemed to be smiling at her.
She stood, unable to move, incapable of uttering the words that Vladimir had insisted she say. It was as if her tongue was stone and wouldn’t allow the formulation of words.
They all started eating again, the noise level rising considerably. She refused to be dismissed. “You could ask for my hand.”
One of the knights dropped his turkey leg in surprise and it clattered to the floor. All eyes were focused on her again, including the king’s. His eyes were now shocked.
“Did you just intimate that you want me to marry you?”
She nodded curtly. One of the knights howled with glee, slapping his hand on his knee and laughing heartily. “Arthur, I believe you’ve just received your first ever proposal! You never cease to amaze me!”
Arthur stood and approached her, reaching out his hands and she placed her cold palms into his warm ones. “My dear, I don’t even know your name and you’ve stormed my castle, demanding I make you my queen. Surely, this Melwas cannot be that horrific. If you married him, you would still be a queen.” His voice had taken the tone of a parent soothing a child. She was offended.
She leaned up on her tiptoes, her hands still clutching his, and even though she could only reach his shoulders, his face was leaning a bit toward hers seemingly without his knowing. “Guinevere,” she murmured softly. “My name is Guinevere.”
Vladimir was the one who’d come up with the name, once he realized it meant “white ghost” in Welsh.
“Guinevere,” Arthur whispered in return, clearly spellbound suddenly by her presence.
“Arthur and Guinevere,” she smiled, letting the brilliance of her face penetrate through any remaining reservations he may have harbored. He found himself smiling giddily and suddenly full of thoughts of a splendid royal wedding. How many times had he been advised by Merlyn to take a wife? Why not this eager, beautiful woman who would bear him strong heirs to his throne? Why not this woman who stood in front of him pleading for his generous assistance, thus saving her from a lifetime as a second-rate queen?
As if on cue, the sentry that had escorted her in earlier, returned with a white-haired Vladimir dressed in brilliant kingly clothes. Vladimir allowed his eyes to glower as they fell on Arthur, the king’s hands still wrapped about hers. She gasped.
“Melwas?” Her voice was artfully horrified.
The Knights of the Round Table all stood, their swords swiftly picked up from the floor and out in front of them ready to protect their king and his … lady friend.


Camelot, 542

She lay next to him, staring at the full moon that cast its whiteness across the village. She had succeeded in her plan to bring vampires to power, at least some type of power, as her and Vladimir, now masquerading as Melwas, had planned all those years ago. Her husband lay snoring unattractively next to her. She’d failed to give him an heir and the royal court was beginning to get worried.
She looked at his neck, exposed and soft, and wondered if she should kill him now. Arthur’s bloodline was non-existent. Would she be allowed to take the throne, and a new husband? Vladimir hadn’t thought so, now admitting to the flaw in their plan. She sighed. Patience. She needed patience.
She hissed at Arthur’s still figure, revealing her sharpened teeth, wanting to display her ferociousness without him actually seeing. She knew that he’d named someone as his predecessor in his will. She would never rule, and that had been her biggest mistake. Currently, Vladimir was a king but she was a powerless queen. If she killed Arthur, she would be nothing but a widow, cast aside for whomever he’d chosen as his descendant.
Arthur was a good man. He would continue aging and suddenly, there would be the question of why she hadn’t aged.
Vladimir kept pleading with her to leave Arthur, to be his queen. He’d promised they could rule together. As tempting as it was to join another vampire who was in power, Anya needed to maintain her independence. Her control on her own life. She would never relinquish herself again.
She put on her silk robe to cover her sleeping gown and wandered out to the cold halls, barefoot, to pace about while the rest of the castle slept. She knew two things: she did not love Arthur and she needed a solution to an impossible situation.
Like a caged lioness looking for an escape, she turned suddenly and faced the still silhouette of Lancelot, one of Arthur’s most trusted knights. He leaned against a shadowed wall, his eyes steady, observant. She bit the inside of her lip at his pure gorgeousness.
His eyes suddenly moved, raking over her body in a sensual way, stopping in some places. If she could’ve blushed, she would have. He caught himself, realizing his inappropriate behavior in the presence of his queen and with a tortured look, turned to leave her alone with her thoughts.
She felt wanted and that intimation was alien. It was such an odd feeling that she wanted him to come back, wanted him to look at her that way again. She shivered at the waning scent of his lust. For once, she had instincts and as animalistic as they were, she wanted to follow them. She waited three seconds and then headed toward the sleeping quarters for the Knights of the Round Table.
Anya found his room quickly, following the remnants of his lustful scent. She stood at the door nervously, emotions overwhelming her. This was new to her. She’d never had a choice before where it concerned men, and now that she had it, she was afraid to make it. She turned the knob soundlessly and swirled into the room, which reeked of masculinity. He had his back to her, unwitting of her presence, and he was stripping his clothes off violently. She turned her head like a cat watching a human do something utterly strange, but she realized that she was merely curious about his anger. Was he mad at her?
No, her little internal voice muttered, he’s mad at his need for you. You are the queen!
“Lancelot?” Her voice came out in a whisper.
He turned quickly, surprised and shirtless. It was her turn. Her eyes washed over his rippled muscles, his strength, and his beauty; she paused for a moment at his midsection and then let her gaze fall back to his eyes. They were too blue, fiercely bright. His face was guarded, conflicted, and she understood immediately. He wanted her … but he had a loyalty to his king. Would he throw all caution to the wind and bed his king’s wife?
She stepped forward, deciding to not use any of her gifts to persuade his judgment. She wanted him to want her for who she was. She gained on him quickly but he hadn’t moved a single muscle; he simply kept his eyes trained on her. She went to his window, turning her back on him, and then suddenly murmured, “I haven’t been happy for quite a long time. I’ve never actually felt wanted, you know.”
Her fingers traced the stone sill, unfeeling of the abrasiveness.
He moved behind her. She turned and sat on the sill, looking up into his face. He was less than a foot away, still uncertain, still lustful, and full of doubt. Before he could blink, her lips were only a notch from his. “I won’t tell him,” she promised in a deep sultry voice.
Suddenly, Lancelot’s hands gripped her hair. He whirled her around and they fell to the bed, moving their bodies in aggressive rhythm. She left the room before the sun rose, leaving him looking pensive and concerned, but kept her word. She never told her husband. She returned to Lancelot’s room every single night at the same hour for a full year, and Anya, relenting to her alter ego Guinevere, realized she never felt more alive despite the ridiculous fact that she was dead.