In Dreams He came

One Shots:

Little Mouse

Summary: You don’t want to be his lab partner. He doesn’t want to be yours either. However, you both can’t refuse Professor Stonehearst and you both want the best grade in this project. So what choice do you have other than to work together?

Pairing: Isaac Night x Reader

His Masterpiece

Summary: In a moment of weakness, Isaac decides that he is going to build himself a loyal assistant for his laboratory. You are the creation he’s most proud of and he can’t have anyone know about you. So, what’s he supposed to do when one day you aren’t waiting for him in the lab anymore?

Pairing: Isaac Night x Reader

A Little Death

Summary: You have been Isaac’s lab partner for quite some time now and yet you keep your Outcast ability a secret from him. Whenever he tries to find out, you get distant and leave, but that doesn’t stop him from trying. He was a man of science and he ached to reveal what rare specimen you actually are.

Pairing: Isaac Night x Reader

Isaac Night SFW Alphabet

Summary: Just an Isaac Night x Reader SFW Alphabet as the title says <3

Pairing: Isaac Night x Reader

Cure Your Disease

Summary: Isaac met you as a child in the hospital and you’ve followed him ever since. When he came to Nevermore, you came too, even though it was no place for you. You were not an Outcast. At least that’s what you all thought, until one thing happened that would change you forever.

Pairing: Isaac Night x Hyde!Reader

Dear Shortie

Summary: Just some headcanons about Isaac with a shorter Reader.

Pairing: Isaac Night x shorter!Reader (gn!Reader)

Isaac Night NSFW Alphabet

Summary: Just a quick Isaac Night x Reader NSFW Alphabet that’s pure smut and filth lmao

Pairing: Isaac Night x gn!Reader

Series:

Losing Game

Summary: When Pugsley electrified the ground to revive the boy with the clockwork heart, not one, but two zombies clawed their way out of the ground. Reunited after death and then separated once again, Isaac Night wants nothing more than to find his lost love and cure his sister on the way.

Pairing: Isaac Night x Reader

It’s a four part series and finished 🖤

Dream A Little Dream Of Me

Summary: Ever since you were a child, you had dreams of a constant ticking sound and a raven-haired boy, who seemed to be lost in the constant madness of his mind. You always thought they were nothing more than dreams. That is until your brother digs up a zombie and you first learn about Isaac Night.

Pairing: Isaac Night x Addams!Reader

It has eighteen chapters and is finished 🕯️

Bonus chapter

Lovers From The Past

Summary: The year is 1467, and you, the princess of Transylvania, fall in love with a lord; a clever, handsome young man. Your love was great and your bond unbreakable, but fate demands tragedy and the love of your life gets killed before your very eyes. Devastated and driven by rage, you search for your beloved for five hundred years. At Nevermore Academy in Jericho you are to find him, and his name— Isaac Night.

Pairing: Isaac Night x vampire!Reader

It currently has fifteen chapters, but it will have a lot more ✨

He blinked again, strands of his own dark hair falling over his forehead, as he slowly sat up. Francoise placed a hand on his back to steady him, ever the caring soul. His clockwork heart was ticking at a normal pace again, and he no longer felt like he was on the verge of collapsing at any moment. His neck felt stiff and his throat was dry, but only one thought occupied the forefront of his mind: Where were you?

Your name escaped his lips, and he looked to Francoise, his gaze questioning. Her deep brown eyes had always mirrored his own, but while his were cold, hers were filled with such warmth that they made his clockwork heart beat more gently. Only one other person could elicit that reaction from him. Someone who had become very dear to him, someone he couldn't quite fathom. A beauty he knew well, yet who remained a mystery to him. The most frustrating girl he had ever met.

“Where is she?” Isaac asked, his gaze wandering to the rest of the room. He appeared to be lying on a couch with a thick, springy cushion that supported his head, and his shirt had been unbuttoned beneath his brown coat to check his heart and ensure it was still functioning. His pale chest was exposed, though he cared little about that. He hadn't been the one shot after throwing himself in the line of fire to prove his love. No, you had been the idiot. Yet, in doing so, you had saved his life. That was something he would never forget.

Morticia and Larissa stood beside the sofa, whispering to each other. The male voices he had heard earlier had evidently left the room. Larissa had also helped them steal Hester Frump’s car to get to Willow Hill by shapeshifting into Hester to order the butler to bring the car out of the garage and pull it up front. She had stayed behind to distract the butler, allowing them to drive off in the limousine. But where were they now? The walls were striped in white and blue, the sofa was yellow, which was clashing completely with the rest of the decor, and the furniture in general looked as though it had never been intended for this setting. Had it been stolen? Wherever they were, it certainly wasn't Nevermore. His gaze darted quickly between the black-haired girl and the white-haired one, and he sat up even further. “Where is she? Tell me.”

Finally, Morticia looked at him with those deep, dark eyes of hers and her long, raven-black hair framing her pale face, and for a moment, Night felt the ground vanish from beneath him. What if you were dead? If you died for him? No, that couldn't be. Based on his research and a bit of common sense he knew a vampire couldn't be killed by an ordinary bullet. Yet his mentor’s weapon had looked very old, and the man himself was incredibly clever. A man who always had a plan and who obviously hated you for what you represented. You were a distraction, a breath of fresh air, the promise of a gentleness awaiting him once his project was complete. You were the gift that awaited him when his plan bore fruit.

And that was precisely why you couldn't be dead now. He wouldn't allow it.

“She's alive.” Frump's answer lifted a weight from his shoulders, and he released a breath he hadn't realized he’d been holding in his lungs. So he had one more chance to thank you, and then, hopefully, you would finally reveal the truth about your secret— the cure you knew about. “She’s still unconscious, but she’s alive.”

“Did you get the bullet out? Were you able to stitch her up?” Isaac asked immediately, wiping a hand across his face. The blood that had smeared his cheek back in the parking lot had evidently been washed off, which had been done likely by Fran while his body was still recovering from exhaustion. If his weakened body hadn't betrayed him and, if he hadn't lost consciousness, he would have patched you up himself, probably right there in the car. After all, only he possessed the expertise and talent for such a task. Which naturally raised the question... if not him, then who had treated you?

Morticia raised her hands in a calming gesture and nodded, while Larissa stared fixedly at the floor. He didn't like the look of that. What was she hiding?

“The bullet— or whatever you want to call it— is out, yes. She doesn't seem to have any internal bleeding, but the flesh looked quite burned from the inside. That’s why we poured some water on it, disinfected the area, and then had it stitched up.”

He blinked in confusion. A normal bullet couldn't burn a person from the inside out. That would have required a completely different method of wound healing, and you would be in severe pain for weeks to come as the damaged tissue healed from within. He didn't even know what time it was or how much time had passed. When had you been stitched up? Perhaps he could still inspect the damage and salvage the situation somehow, sparing you from too much pain when you finally woke up.

“Then who took care of her? Francoise can’t stitch like that, neither can you, and Gomez is a klutz. The man is all thumbs. He can’t do it,” he replied as he sat up straight. His sister sat beside him on the sofa, keeping her hand on his back just in case he felt dizzy again. That wasn’t going to happen, since his body had only given out due to sheer exhaustion, but he was calm now. Well, almost calm.

“It wasn’t me, either,” Larissa murmured, scratching her head because she didn’t know what to say. Her hair was pulled back into a severe bun, and she was wearing her long, snow-white coat. This didn’t look like her house, nor was it the Addams family estate or the Frumps’ place. Isaac had been invited to Gomez’s home during the break last spring and had stayed there for a few days. He hadn’t wanted to go, since it meant leaving Francoise home alone, but fortunately, their father had been away on a business trip at the time. That was the only reason he’d felt able to accompany his roommate home. He hadn’t seen a room like this one there.

“Then who was it?” Isaac’s voice turned cold as ice and hard as steel, and his expression hardened, too. He didn’t trust anyone else, and he couldn’t imagine they’d called a doctor who wouldn’t ask questions. After all, there was no such doctor in Jericho, and he could hardly picture Frump paying someone for their silence.

Laughter from two men echoed from the next room that had a curtain instead of a door. The curtain, draped across the doorway, was black and patterned with small storm clouds and yellow lightning bolts, which made a sinking feeling slowly begin to spread in the pit of his stomach. Gomez was a klutz, but his older brother was possibly even worse than that. Oh, please no, please, please—

“We… we only had Fester left as a last resort.”

Isaac sprang up from the sofa without hesitation; within seconds, he rushed past the girls and ran to the curtain. A simple wave of his right hand was all it took for the curtain to fly aside, revealing the room beyond, which had previously been hidden from view, and bringing him face-to-face with Gomez Addams and his older, pale, bald brother, Fester Addams.

“Mi amigo!” Gomez exclaimed with a broad grin before immediately pulling him into a bear hug that made him gasp for air. “You’re finally awake. It took hours. We thought our Sleeping Beauty here would wake up sooner than you.”

He didn't push Gomez away, but his angry glare was fixed entirely on Fester, who was standing beside the bed where they had laid you down. The older boy was also wearing a wide grin, which only made Isaac angrier. He knew from his friend that the older brother was not only a bizarre character but also a prime candidate for a long stint in the loony bin.

While Gomez still held him in his embrace, Isaac’s gaze drifted to you. You were lying peacefully on the bed, your head propped up by two soft pillows, and your chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm which was a sight that softened his stern expression somewhat. Someone had cleaned you up and changed your clothes and he fervently hoped it had been one of the girls and not Fester, of all people. Even so, the clothes didn't suit you or match your style at all. You were elegant, beautiful, and refined, yet the white T-shirt with the cherry pattern and the denim shorts definitely didn't fit your look. He cringed at the thought that Fester might have been the one to dress you in that.

When Gomez finally let him go— had he actually thought Isaac was done for? He had always been too sentimental— he finally turned to the Spark’s older brother. The other boy was taller, despite being younger, forcing the bald-headed man to look up at him.

“What did you do?” he asked in a harsh voice, devoid of any empathy. You looked peaceful enough, but he couldn't see the scar beneath your shirt. He certainly hadn't stitched you up properly.

“What do you mean, Tin Man?” Fester asked in return, shaking his head sharply and pursing his lips.

“The girl. She was shot, as I’m sure you know. What did you do to her?” The question came without hesitation, and he took a step closer to appear even more menacing. Had it been any other girl from his year— Francoise excepted— he wouldn't have cared in the slightest. Romances were pointless and uninteresting; Isaac had always been a man of science. Matters of the heart and the urges of the body during puberty had never held much appeal for him. You were the exception. The one variable in his equation that threw everything into disarray.

Fester glanced toward his little brother, who bore him no resemblance, as if seeking help. Yet Fester’s eyes were full of life and sparkling brightly as he took two steps toward you and, to make matters worse, grabbed the hem of your shirt and slowly lifted it, revealing your midriff to Isaac. He took a deep breath, trying for a moment to ignore how soft and inviting your skin looked, and focused instead on the wound.

Night’s brown eyes widened in shock, and for several seconds, he simply stared at what Addams had done. Normally, the goal was to suture a wound as tightly as possible so that, once the stitches were removed, the resulting scar would be small and subtle. This was anything but subtle. It had been a single gunshot wound, yet he had treated it as if you’d been stabbed eighteen times. The entry wound was in the center of your abdomen, just below the sternum— a spot Isaac could have handled perfectly with his own skills— but now he was staring at a massive heart made of stitches right there on your belly. A tattoo would have been more subtle than that. Instead of simply closing the wound, he had extended the stitching, driving the needle through your soft skin to create a huge heart, a mark destined to remain as a scar on your body forever. Forever in the literal sense, given that vampires lived eternally. Isaac saw red.

Without a second thought, he grabbed the collar of Fester’s shirt and slammed him against the wall by your bed, his eyes wild and his teeth bared like a wild animal’s.

“She had a gunshot wound! Just one! You turned it into a massive gash, as if she’d been mauled by a bear!” Isaac shouted right in his face, to which Fester merely shook his head with a laugh. He didn't seem to grasp the gravity of the situation or the implications of what he had done.

“Gomez said she did it for love, and I thought it would be nice if she—”

“Gomez?!” Isaac whipped his head toward the other boy standing in the room, demanding an answer. Locks of his wild, dark hair fell across his face from the sudden movement, shrouding him in shadow. It made him look even more manic. The girls had rushed into the room by now, too. Francoise gently pulled your shirt back down, hiding the scar so no one had to stare at your exposed skin. Morticia, naturally, had slunk back to her lover’s side and was clinging to him like a cat that couldn't bear to be away from its owner. Larissa, on the other hand, stood leaning against the doorframe, looking as though she wasn't quite sure what she’d stumbled into.

“Well, I- I assumed she saved you out of love, and Fester said he wanted to remind her of that heroic act,” Addams explained, stammering. “He only had good intentions, I assure you!”

“Good intentions?” Night repeated, incredulous. “He turned a tiny wound, one that would have barely been noticeable, into a massive scar! He sullied her!”

“So, you think that makes her ugly?” Morticia asked, gesturing with one hand toward your still-sleeping body. Her voice was hard, ready to defend you like a lioness should he answer in the affirmative.

“No,” he said without hesitation, his teeth clenched. “She will always be beautiful, but just think about how she is going to react. She is elegant, graceful, and enchanting, and you go and stick a needle into her skin and put her in a T-shirt and shorts? Have you lost your mind, Fester?”

Fester’s expression shifted from amusement to the quiet realization that what he’d done, even though he’d meant well, hadn’t been the best idea. His mouth formed a silent ‘O’ and he looked down at the floor. Slowly, Isaac let go of him and walked back to your sleeping form, his hand gently brushing over your hair.

“Who cleaned her up and removed the bullet?” Night asked the room, his dark, almost onyx-colored eyes resting on your peaceful face. In sleep, you looked even more enchanting than when you were awake. Your features were relaxed, the tiny lines between your brows had vanished, and your lips were parted slightly. Even though he didn’t like the fact that you had to bear the heart symbol on your stomach, you were still exactly that symbol to him— a heart full of emotion, beating strongly and holding so much feeling that he could barely put it into words.

“I cleaned off all the blood,” his little sister replied, raising her hand as if she were about to answer a professor in class. “I was gentle, I promise. I used a wet cloth, and Tish helped me change her clothes. Don’t worry, the boys didn’t look. We forbade them from doing so.”

A sense of pride swelled within him. Even though he hadn’t been there, his sister had done exactly the right thing and cared for you in his place. He was grateful that your friendship had mended over the past few weeks, even after the accident in the woods. You mattered to her. He could see that, because otherwise, she would never have cared for you like this or thought of all those little details.

“I removed the bullet,” Morticia said afterwards, gesturing toward the wooden dresser beside the bed, a piece of furniture that had clearly been cobbled together haphazardly. “I have the steadiest hand, so I extracted it with tweezers.”

“Good,” Isaac replied with a nod. He stepped toward the dresser and looked down at a white plate. It was marked with dried blood— your blood— and its surface was webbed with fine, lightning-bolt-like cracks. Resting in the center was an object about six centimeters long. At first glance, it looked like a bullet, but it was certainly no ordinary one. It wasn't made of metal, copper, or iron, but rather of wood. The tip had even been sharpened like a pencil point to pierce the target more quickly. Tiny splinters had broken off the sides and were presumably still embedded in your flesh. It was a miniature version of the ancient stake used to kill vampires.

“He knew what she would do…”

“Que?” Gomez asked him, confused, crossing the room in three quick strides. Even though Isaac had always been certain he wouldn’t need friends and that his intellect alone would suffice, he deeply valued Gomez’s loyalty. He would never admit it aloud, but the dark-haired Addams boy was arguably the best friend he had. After all, Gomez hadn’t hesitated when Isaac asked for help, when he’d come to him with the reckless plan to free her from Willow Hill. He had agreed immediately, and the others had followed suit.

“The bullet is made of wood. A standard round would be far more effective against a human, but not against a vampire. He aimed at me, but he knew what she would do. He wanted to kill her by using me as bait.” Isaac’s voice was low as the realization crashed over him like a wave, threatening to crush him under its weight.

“Asshole,” Francoise grumbled, crossing her arms over her chest as a pout formed on her face. Whatever sympathy she might have felt for the old man was gone for good now.

“Did you kill him?” Larissa asked, nervously scratching the side of her neck. It was obvious she didn’t condone these actions or approve of them. Of everyone in the room, she was the one least interested in running afoul of the law. She wanted to be good, to avoid a black mark on her record that could ruin her future career.

Isaac turned slightly toward the tall girl and sighed heavily, wiping a hand across his face. “No, I didn’t. Not him. She killed two guards and I killed one in self-defense. I broke Stonehearst’s arm so he couldn’t fire his weapon anymore. I wish I’d ​​broken his neck instead.”

“Why didn’t you?” Fester asked him then. So far, he had largely stayed out of the conversation until now to avoid provoking the other’s anger again. But this question interested him. “The problem would have been solved then.”

Night didn’t know exactly what to say. Why hadn’t he killed Stonehearst? He could have done it in a millisecond with the flick of his wrist, yet he had only knocked him unconscious. The answer was clear to him, even if he didn’t want to voice it. He had never really had a father figure in his life, someone who genuinely valued him and was proud of him. His own father had been a violent drunkard who spent his days boozing, screaming at his wife, and beating his children. He had never told him his inventions were good or that he would grow up to be a great scientist. Then, however, Isaac had come to Nevermore and met Professor Stonehearst, who immediately took him under his wing. The Normie showed interest in his experiments, providing him not just with equipment, lab coats, and Bunsen burners, but with an entire laboratory and a free hand. He regularly told him how smart he was and that he was proud of him. Over the years, Isaac had learned that many of those words were lies and manipulation, yet the boy inside him still yearned for the father figure he had been denied. He hadn’t killed Stonehearst because of his own weakness. Sentimentality had saved the professor’s life.

“Let’s just say that concern for the princess’s life weighed more heavily on me in that moment than the life of my physics professor,” he lied skillfully, his voice cold and his tone smooth as silk. No one would be able to tell he wasn't telling the truth. He was too good at it, and besides—

“Bullshit. You’ve just got a father complex.”

“Gomez!” Morticia quickly admonished him, gently nudging her boyfriend in the ribs with her elbow. He couldn't just go around saying someone had a father complex, even if it was painfully obvious in Night’s case.

“What? Cara mia, please. I’m right, aren't I?” Addams insisted, glancing back and forth between his girlfriend and his best friend. His roommate could lie and act cold-hearted all he wanted, but he had seen the real Isaac Night. He had often had to stop him from sharing his genius with people who only wanted to exploit him. Or he had watched him patch up someone who had broken a bone or scraped a knee or elbow in a fall. Nevermore didn’t have an on-campus doctor. He had seen it all, yet never commented on it. Night could put on whatever act he pleased, but he wasn't cold-hearted.

Isaac rolled his eyes and scoffed before turning back to you. You were still sleeping peacefully, but it was slowly becoming time to wake you up and discuss the next steps. You were both murderers, though you even more so than him. People would be looking for you, and Stonehearst would likely want to lock you up again for his little project, which he had admittedly never told him much about. All he knew was that his former mentor needed one person from each Outcast class for the project. You were the vampire he needed.

Francoise gently brushed a strand of hair from your face. She was standing on the opposite side of the bed and then looked back up at him with a strange glint in her eyes. He could hardly describe it, but it looked almost amused, as if she wanted to tease him.

“Do you want to wake her with a kiss? Like a prince in a fairy tale?” his sister asked, wiggling her eyebrows. She was clearly trying to hide a grin that was threatening to spread across her face. He had hated fairy tales as a child. Their mother used to read Disney stories to them and show them the movies when they were little. Francoise had loved them; Isaac had hated them. Yet, throughout their childhood— whenever he wasn't in the hospital due to his heart condition— he had loved playing the knight who saved her from monsters. In the make-believe games they often played, he had been the brave hero who slew the dragon to save her life.

“Don't be silly, Francoise. I can't just kiss her. She isn't... We aren't...” He sighed deeply. “It’s not the right time.”

“Come on, she threw herself in the path of a bullet for you and nearly lost her life because of you! If not now, then when?” Weems asked, throwing her arms up in frustration. She was still standing in the doorway beside the curtain, which fluttered gently aside from the movement of her arms.

“There are too many people in the room. That’s not a problem for Gomez, but I have standards and no desire for public humiliation,” he replied, running a pale hand through his hair, causing it to fall across his forehead in a tangle of messy curls. It was the truth, though not the whole truth. The whole truth was simple: he didn't want to waste his first kiss this way.

Morticia giggled, causing his head to snap instantly in her direction only for him to see her reach for Gomez’s hand and pull him along with her. Gomez grabbed Fester’s sleeve and pulled him along too, while Larissa held the curtain open so they could all disappear into the adjoining room. His best friend shot him a wink before the curtain fell shut again. Only Francoise remained in the room with him, though she, too, took a few steps backwards.

“I’m not going to kiss her,” he said, but she shook her head.

“Just imagine it’s the only way to save her. Or do you not want to kiss her?”

“I do! I mean…” He groaned in annoyance and clicked his tongue. It was a slip-up he shouldn't have allowed himself, but what could he do now? She had heard it and the others probably had too, given that the walls weren't exactly thick and there was no door. Of course he wanted to kiss you. He’d likely wanted to do so ever since you broke into his lab months ago and he caught you snooping around. That was back before he even knew what you thought of him, before you confessed that you’d been searching for him for nearly a millennium. That revelation had only fueled his fascination with you, like tossing large logs onto an already roaring fireplace.

“Go join the others.”

His sister squealed with excitement before quickly running out of the room to give him some privacy. He watched the curtain sway from left to right for several seconds before it finally settled. Shadows huddled close together were visible on the floor and the sound of whispering drifted in. They were keeping their voices down on purpose, wanting to hear the moment his lips met yours, even though they likely wouldn't actually catch it. It would be nothing more than a gentle touch. His lips brushing against yours. Plain and simple. Of course, there was no scientific reason for this act, since you would presumably wake up in a few minutes even without a kiss. However, your friends wanted to romanticize the moment, and he couldn't get out of the situation now. After all, ‘No’ didn't count with those five vultures.

He looked down at your sleeping face. Your features were gentle, your cheeks looked soft, and you were completely still. The sound of your breathing was audible whenever your chest rose and fell and you drew the air you needed to live through your nostrils. He knew your friends were listening. They were standing in the next room, pretending not to hear anything, even though they actually understood a great deal.

Your scent reached his nostrils and he inhaled it. Even though the perfume from the night of the Rave’N Ball had long since faded, and he could smell more blood, sweat, and tears on your skin rather than sweetness, there was still something about you that made his heart tick faster. The tiny gears in his mechanical heart turned more rapidly, the ticking sped up just a little, but enough for him to notice. The tip of his nose brushed against your hair as he leaned over you. His right hand found your cheek, his thumb stroking the dark area beneath your eye. Your hair smelled faintly of the soap Francoise and Morticia had likely used to wash the blood from you. It smelled of lavender and blueberries, which was not the best combination perhaps, but likely a result of Fester’s peculiar taste.

His lips grazed the shell of your ear before he whispered softly: “They want me to kiss you, but I don’t want to. I don’t want to rob us of this moment. You’ve waited centuries for this and I want it too, but I’m waiting for you to wake up. So, do it. Wake up, princess.”

Isaac pressed a gentle kiss just at the very edge of your mouth before resting his forehead against yours. Though he dreaded your reaction to the scars that would now be with you forever, he wanted even more to feel your watchful eyes upon him. From the very beginning, even the moment you met in the Nevermore courtyard, your gaze, whenever it fell upon him, had been filled with admiration, desire, and longing. He wanted to feel those eyes tracing his face once more.

“Wake up, give me the cure, and I am all yours. I’ll give you my everything. Just open those pretty eyes, please. Open them.” By the end, his voice had shifted from a gentle whisper to a desperate plea. If not for your sake, then for his sister’s. If you wouldn't wake up for yourself, you had to do it for Francoise, so he could save her life. He still had time, but it was slipping away with every day, every minute, every second. He couldn't bear to live in a world where there was no longer a place for his sister. His hand cupped your cheek, and he squeezed his eyes shut, waiting. Waiting for a sign, a movement, or even the slightest change in your breathing. If his pleas didn't work, there was always the Addamses' electricity or a bucket of water to drag you back to the land of the living.

“Wake up.”

A gentle voice reached your ears as you lay in the grass outside your castle late in the evening. It sounded so familiar, so charming, as delicate as a butterfly’s wings and yet it was merely a phantom, nothing more than a fragment of memory. Stars studded the dark blue night sky, while the moon waned steadily. It was now just a half-crescent slipping behind the swaying leaves of the willow tree that stood firmly in your garden, not far away. Your hair hung loose, and though your robe was silk, it was nothing fancy; you had set your shoes aside so your toes could touch the cool, dew-kissed grass. Beside you stood a telescope. It was a brand new one, a proud invention of nineteenth-century scientists. It was meant to bring you happiness, yet no smile lit up your features.

Approaching footsteps and the rustle of a coat made you look up, prompting nothing but a sigh. Aleo was walking toward you. In his left hand, he held a bottle of wine, and in his right, a plate bearing something that smelled dangerously like cake. You loved cake, especially the recipes you knew from your mother, though refined so they still tasted good in modern times. Aleo wore a light blue suit beneath a navy coat that shielded him from the cool autumn air. At least he always knew how to cheer you up somehow.

“Care for some cake, birthday girl?” he asked cheerfully, smiling down at you. The angle from which he viewed you was surely far from flattering, but that was the last thing on your mind. He was your best friend. He had found you asleep in the stables or retching in the cellar before or crying your eyes out and claw at the dirt, when your emotions got the better of you again.

“I’m not hungry, but thanks,” you replied, a hint of a smile playing on your lips and a sparkle in your eyes.

He clicked his tongue and dropped inelegantly onto the grass beside you. You could hear the wine sloshing inside the bottle, but fortunately, he hadn't pulled the cork yet, so the drink remained safely sealed— for the moment.

“Oh, come on, it’s your birthday! Marge baked this especially for you. It’s got those little lemon slices you like so much.” He tried to persuade you with his good-natured manner, holding the fragrant pastry right under your nose that was far more sensitive than those of ordinary folk anyway. You had smelled the cake the moment the blond man stepped onto the meadow.

“It’s my four-hundred-and-forty-first birthday, Aleo,” you sighed in response. “I’ve celebrated enough.”

“Oh, nonsense!” His laugh was loud and infectious. “You can never celebrate enough. You eat your cake, I’ll open the bottle, and you can tell me about those little stars you love so much.”

He set the plate on your flat stomach before pulling a corkscrew from his trouser pocket. You recognized the rust on the handle, so he must have swiped it from the kitchen when Margaret wasn't looking.

“It’s the patterns they form that interest me, really. The constellations. I want to know how they change, and they remind me of better times,” you explained patiently, picking up the end of the dry pastry. Although he was an aristocrat himself, he seemed to have forgotten his manners, having failed to bring along a cake fork for you. So, you would have to eat with your fingers.

“Of more romantic times, yes, I know. Because you’ve been waiting for four hundred years and your sweetheart still hasn’t reappeared. But you’re certain of it because a small, powerful witch once promised you so, blah, blah, blah.” He pulled the cork out with a loud pop as he rambled, tossing both it and the corkscrew into the dew beside him.

You took a bite of the cake, scattering a few crumbs across your chin and neck. It was soft and dry, yet rich with the flavors of lemon and vanilla, which made it impossible for you to stay angry with him. Even after all these years, your birthday cake was still delicious. “She was a dove.”

“One doesn't speak with one's mouth full,” he chided, though his grin gave him away. He didn't care in the least whether you spoke with a mouthful of food like a commoner or dabbed your lips with a silk napkin like a lady. To put it bluntly, he didn't give a shit about it.

“Look who's talking!” you laughed, covering your mouth with your hand to avoid accidentally spitting on him. “You can be such a jerk sometimes. I don’t know how you’ll ever find a partner.”

“Oh, I use the same tactic you do.”

You raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to explain what he meant.

“I wait out my thousand years, and eventually, I’ll find the right person— someone who suits me. Maybe a pretty farmer’s daughter, a wild beauty from the city, or a lovely, slightly shy lady I happen to meet by chance. If fate wills it, I will find my other half.” His voice sounded strangely serious, even though his words had started out as a lighthearted joke. You wondered if there was some truth to it, given that he had never actually entered into a long-term relationship. He deserved one, though. You wanted all your friends to be happy, because, after all, you were the one who had turned them and gave them their new life as vampire. They would be walking the earth forever because of you. They deserved to find love, at the very least.

“It will happen. I believe in you,” you told him sincerely, nodding your head. A few small crumbs fell into the hollow of your throat, but you didn’t bother brushing them away. The ants would surely enjoy them more than you, but you were selfish and wanted these crumbs for yourself.

His amused grin softened into a friendly smile before he lifted the bottle and held it up toward the sky. “I’ll drink to that. To fate, and to the love that’s still waiting for us.”

He took a deep swig and then handed the bottle to you. Only then did you sit up slightly, balancing the plate on your lap, and mirror his gesture. The glass neck of the bottle drew closer to the heavens for a moment, and you, too, offered a toast: “To fate, to the years that fly by like leaves in the autumn wind, and to true love that shall find us one day.”

The wine’s fruity, iron-tinged aroma hit your tongue and warmed you from the inside out as it made its way down to your stomach. You licked the last traces from your lips before handing the bottle back to him. Above you, the stars shone brightly, yet they still seemed so distant. Back when you had lain in the grass with your lover— right there, not far away beneath the willow tree— the stars had felt incredibly close, almost within reach. As if you had only needed to stretch out your hand, and Isaac would have placed the star of your choice right in your palm. The Moth constellation, which he had named, hung in the sky to your right, and the Tree, which had been your contribution, was right beside it. It looked almost as though the Moth were seeking refuge in one of the Tree’s branches, or simply looking for a place to rest.

He took the bottle from your hand, but instead of raising it to his lips again, he lifted it toward the canopy of the heavens; the night sky was faintly reflected in the dark glass. Then he did something you hadn't expected, something he had no reason to do. Why would he pay tribute to a dead person he had never even met?

“To Isaac Night.” To your surprise, there was no casual grin on his lips, but instead, he looked genuinely sincere. You tilted your head curiously much like a newborn bird seeing a butterfly for the very first time. “He must have been one hell of a handsome bastard to make you fall for him like that.”

He paused briefly before adding with a nod, “I really hope he comes back, so I can tell him he’d better stick by your side. If he breaks your heart, I’ll bring you his so you can devour it.”

You reached for the neck of the bottle and raised it even higher toward the sky: “To the love of my life. May he never break my heart or the devil will come hunting him.”

You both burst into laughter that carried like a song through the silence of the night. The wine was finished, the cake devoured, and then you set out to find a suitable midnight snack in the nearby village. Your companion took the lead in sneaking along, while you followed a fair distance behind, the hood of your coat pulled so low over your face that the rest was shrouded in shadow, unrecognizable in the night. You had just turned into a narrow alley when you suddenly heard a voice right by your ear. It was the same one as before. You froze.

“Wake up.”

A gasp escaped your dry lips just before your eyes suddenly flew open. For a moment, you saw nothing but a brown mass, until you realized that the mass was soft and curly, belonging to the person whose forehead was pressed against yours. His eyes, deep brown and filled with warmth, met yours; the smile spreading across his features warmed you inside and out, as if he were the sun shining down upon you. For a brief moment, you thought you had actually died from the bullet and arrived in heaven, but that wasn't the truth. How could it be? You hadn't been a good person. A place was likely reserved for you in the deepest depths of hell, where God sent his unwanted creations. But didn't that make all Outcasts creatures of the Devil? That same logic had once been used to almost completely erase Outcasts from history, though fortunately that hadn't happened.

“I... Isaac?” you asked in a low voice, raspy from hours of sleep. You didn't know how much time had passed or what had happened, but you knew you were still alive and that your DaVinci’s fingers were tracing gentle circles over your cheekbones.

“There you are.” The corners of his thin lips turned down into a frown, yet his eyes betrayed his happiness. He was glad to see you.

Before you could say anything else, or comment on the fact that his hands were lingering on your face and his body was leaning over yours as you lay in a bed you didn't recognize, you suddenly heard the sound of multiple footsteps entering the room.

“Did it work?!” Francoise’s voice rang loud in your ears, and you immediately sat bolt upright, which caused your vision to blur for a moment, while Isaac wrapped an arm around your midsection to steady you.

“She’s awake, as you could clearly see if you’d use your eyes,” remarked the older of the two Night siblings. His hand rested across your hip like a protective shield.

“¡Oh, gracias a Dios! Pensé que nunca sería capaz de hacerlo,” you heard Gomez say, Morticia being snuggled up against him as always. Your Spanish was a bit rusty, since Alejandro hadn’t been a very good teacher, but you still understood that he was grateful you were alive. The rest of your friends stood beside Gomez and Morticia, instantly bringing a happy smile to your face. There was one person, however, whom you didn’t know and had never seen before.

“What happened while I was unconscious? Who is our new friend?” you asked after clearing your throat gently. The bald man gazed at you with wide, fascinated eyes, as if you were a precious painting being put on display for the very first time. It made you feel uneasy.

“Him?” Gomez gave the other man— who was even paler than Isaac— a firm pat on the shoulder, causing him to merely giggle. “This is my older brother, Fester. He patched you up while Isaac was also passed out.”

“Yeah, and he did it wrong,” Isaac snapped back immediately, while his fingers dug protectively into the flesh of your hip. You had to grit your teeth to keep a pitiful sound from escaping your lips. Your midsection was pulling and aching, but not like during your monthly bleeding, but with a stronger, deeper pain. It felt as though a knife were stuck in the middle of your torso, being slowly twisted over and over again.

“I just wanted to make it look pretty,” Fester grumbled, scratching his bare head sheepishly.

You blinked in confusion and placed a hand over the center of your stomach, where the pain burned the fiercest. “What does he mean, Isaac? What did he want to make look pretty?”

All five pairs of eyes standing by the non-existent doorway slowly turned toward the floor, and you looked up at Isaac for answers, although he was staring at the other five with eyes of steel. You gently nudged his shoulder with yours, causing his gaze to meet your own, and in less than a millisecond that icy coldness transformed into the comforting warmth of a fireplace.

“Come, I'll show you. Can you stand up?” His question was gentle, and he extended his free hand to you in a gentlemanly gesture. A nod was your only response before your palm met his and he interlaced his cold fingers with yours. During the escape from Willow Hill, the contact had been a matter of course— something you hadn't paid much mind to— but now it was different. Now, your entire focus was on him, rather than on dodging bullets or being attacked by guards. Now, your focus was entirely on the sensation his fingers stirred up inside you when he gently pulled you off the bed. His left arm was still wrapped around your waist and you doubted he would be moving it anytime soon.

A hiss escaped your lips as your feet hit the floor, the pain shooting through your side being unlike anything you’d felt before. It felt as though a fire were burning beneath your skin, melting you from the inside out. Your hand tightened around his, but he held firm, betraying no reaction.

“It burns,” you managed to say through gritted teeth. Slowly and patiently, he guided you past the bed and toward the bathroom that happened to be a small room adjoining the bedroom, but one that at least had a door. A look of disgust crossed your face as your gaze swept over the furnishings. Nothing here matched at all.

“Try to take a deep breath,” Larissa advised from the side. It was surely well-intentioned advice, but this time she caught you on the wrong foot, and your eyes narrowed sharply.

“I’m not brainless, Weems! I’ve endured worse than a little gunshot wound, but I’ve never experienced anything that feels like it’s burning me alive,” you snapped back, causing Francoise to flinch and Larissa’s eyes to widen in shock. They had never seen you like this before. Normally, you kept your angry side more in check, but the pain was drawing it out more than you wanted.

“Come on,” Night whispered against your hairline, continuing to pull you gently along— though not before one last question reached your ears.

“What was the worst thing? That- that you endured, I mean," Francoise’s voice held a note of curiosity, and her eyes were both wary and inquisitive.

“Uncertainty,” you replied without hesitation, a strain in your voice. “The years slip by and people who matter to you and their children come and go. You are eternal, yet you are alone. You wait and wait, and your hope fades, and in the end, you can never be sure if what your soul yearns for will ever return to you.”

Silence was the only answer you received as Night slowly guided you by the hand and hip into the bathroom, closing the brown wooden door behind you. This bathroom— in an apartment whose owner remained a mystery to you still— was small and stuffy. A round window, the size of a picture frame, let the bright morning sunlight stream in, the shower was tucked into the corner, lacking a curtain, with just two products sitting beside the drain. The sink pressed gently against your hip. Its white porcelain was cracked at the side, and the faucet showed faint traces of rust on its once-silver neck.

It was the mirror that commanded your full attention. There was nothing remarkable about it, as it was roughly the size of a large frying pan and devoid of any ornamentation, yet one detail held your gaze fast. You could see nothing in it. Nothing but the furniture or the large silhouette of Isaac Night standing beside you. It shouldn't have surprised or affected you. After all, you had been trapped in this state for far too long, but perhaps that was precisely the source of your disappointment. Even a bullet from an ancient weapon, fired by a madman intent on killing the person you loved most, had changed nothing about your situation. Perhaps, for a brief moment, you had wished that the burning deep within you meant you were mortal again, but that was not the case. You were still a creature of the night.

“I don’t know why they gave you that ridiculous shirt and those shorts. They don’t suit you.” His breath tickled your cheek and his voice was as sweet as golden honey.

“What would you have dressed me in?” you asked curiously, turning your face just a few centimeters to the side so that his warm breath kissed your lips instead.

“A dress.” His answer was brief and to the point. But you wanted more.

“Describe it to me.”

“I saw you in it when you revealed the truth to me in my laboratory. It was lilac with a flared skirt that ended at your calves. The fabric was silk, I think. I have to admit that dresses are not really my area of ​​expertise, so I can’t say for sure. A brooch adorned your décolletage and a string of pearls graced your hair.” With every word he spoke, your features softened, and your heart melted within your chest. For a moment, the burning pain was forgotten, and you focused solely on the look in his eyes as they gently traced your face, as if searching for something. Like he was searching for a spark of recognition, a small sign that he hadn't just imagined it all.

“I know that dress,” you whispered softly. His shoulders slumped beneath the thick brown coat, the same one he had worn when he rescued you, as if in relief. “I own it. It remains back home tugged away in a closet in Transylvania. I never wore it because I had no reason to. Mayhaps I will wear it for you.”

“I liked the color on you,” he whispered as the fingers of his left hand were toying with the hem of your shirt, sending a pleasant shiver down your spine.

“I know,” you smiled tenderly. “You met me in purple, and the last time you saw me was in it, too.”

“I want to see you in it again.” His fingers slid beneath the fabric, carefully tracing the curve of your side. His fingertips were cold and rough, yet you leaned into his touch as if it were the very cure your wound craved.

“You will,” you breathed, your gaze settling on his lips— lips that had never looked more inviting than they did in that moment.

He breathed your name so softly it might have been nothing more than a gust of wind. His right hand, still holding yours, pressed it against his chest so you could feel the vibration of his heart. It was ticking faster than a normal clock’s ticking.

As his fingers explored, they grazed the edge of your wound, drawing a whimper from your lips. You had to squeeze your eyes shut to hold back the tears that instantly welled up. You looked down as he slowly pushed the fabric up, allowing you to see for yourself the havoc Gomez’s idiotic brother had wreaked upon your body. The skin around the stitches was red and swollen; the sutures themselves were unsightly, and their shape served as a cruel reminder of why you bore this wound in the first place: because of love.

“It’s… larger than I expected,” you remarked simply, quickly swallowing back the bile that had risen in your throat.

“The entry wound is here,” Isaac explained, pointing to the area over the stitched heart where the two lines met at the top. It could have been so small, but instead, it was the size of a palm, situated right between your navel and breast. “If I hadn't lost consciousness, I could have stitched you up and I would have done it right, too.”

“It’s not your fault,” you tried to explain gently, for you didn't blame him at all. Fester was to blame and maybe even Gomez, who had likely egged him on. He was your friend, but clearly not quite right in the head. Even though he’d meant well, this was a scar that shouldn't have happened.

“Yes, it is! If my body hadn't let me down again, then—“

You silenced him by pressing a finger against his lips. His eyes crossed comically as he looked down at your index finger, coaxing a smile from you despite the pain. “I don't blame you, Isaac. Maybe you can still fix it?”

He planted a fleeting kiss on your finger before gently pushing it aside with his ability alone. His hands found your waist, and he slowly sank to his knees in front of you to examine the damage more closely. Your heart skipped a beat, and you quickly looked away to hide the flush that was undoubtedly coloring your face. His breath was hot against the sensitive skin of your stomach, and your hands instinctively found his shoulders, your fingers digging into the rough fabric of his coat.

“I don't want to pull the stitches out right now. The damage is already done and there’s nothing I can do about it. Unless you know an Outcast who can heal, I cannot do anything," he said. Every word he spoke sent a shiver through you, and at the same time, you felt your knees go weak. You didn't even consider the possibility that it might be due to blood loss or the fact that you hadn't consumed a drop of blood since yesterday, despite having lost so much of your own.

“The last Caladrius was wiped out about two hundred years ago. As far as I know, there aren't any left,” you answered honestly. He was still kneeling before you, and this time, your eyes met. His hands moved to your lower back, pressing your body slightly forward so that his chin, cheek, and the tip of his nose brushed against your flesh, dangerously close to your raw wound.

“I am not familiar with that species,” he replied, his interest piqued as he briefly nuzzled his cheek against your flesh.

“Oh, they were ethereal. Snow-white hair, flawless skin, silver eyes, and white feathers covering their shoulders. They had the power to take away pain and sickness, absorb it into themselves, and then heal. You’d think humanity would protect such a power, but they didn’t.” You had nothing more to add to your explanation. Yetis, sphinxes, cyclopes… the world had once been far more magical. It was thanks to the Normies that this magic vanished.

He scoffed and pressed his forehead against your wound. It stung for a moment, but you bit your lip and closed your eyes. Your hands found his hair and buried themselves in its depths. His curls were softer than a feather pillow, though your nails grazing his scalp made him hiss.

“That alone is reason enough to loathe Normies,” he grumbled. Without asking, your fingers slid through his soft hair, slow and affectionate.

“I was a Normie once myself. So I cannot hate them, though I don't understand them either. Still, I'm grateful to be an Outcast, even if it is both a blessing and a curse,” you replied in a soft voice filled with nothing but gentleness. Isaac’s lips brushed against the center of your stomach, now framed by stitches that were both white and red in color.

“You were probably always destined to be an Outcast.” His words were muffled against your skin, yet they still reached your ears. You continued to comb through his hair, which seemed to calm him immensely, for the ticking of his clockwork heart was rhythmic and peaceful.

“But you loved me even when I wasn't one yet. In fact, you died without knowing what I would eventually become,” you confessed honestly. You no longer cared that you were standing in the small bathroom of some stranger’s apartment, or that people were likely waiting for you. You focused only on him and the sensation of his warm breath against your bare skin.

“And now? Do I love you now? What do you think?” He looked up at you again and, as your eyes met, you saw that the question hadn't been mischievous or teasing. No, it was the opposite. He truly wanted your answer.

“Yes… Yes, I think you might,” you whispered, your fingers pausing in your hair. Slowly, he rose from the hard floor and came to stand before you. Your lower back pressed against the edge of the porcelain sink as Isaac stood right in front of you, looking down with those endlessly dark eyes. His answer didn't come in words, but rather through an unexpected gesture: he extended his right arm toward you and rolled up the sleeve a few inches, letting the fabric rest just above his elbow.

“Here, you need to drink. You lost blood yesterday, and I’d hate for you to lose consciousness again anytime soon.” Isaac’s voice wrapped around you like a blanket on a cold winter day. His honesty and willingness to do this took you by surprise. Your pupils dilated as you gazed at the fine veins in his arm that seemed to draw you in closer and closer, almost against your will. Your tongue darted out to wet your lips.

“But I don’t want to hurt you,” you argued weakly, yet he simply held his arm even closer to your face— a gesture that felt like both a confession and a choice.

“Think of it as an apology. Quid pro quo.” He turned his pale wrist toward you; the blue and faint green veins seemed to call out your name.

“But you need your blood?” you questioned, shaking your head.

“Take it,” he insisted.

“What if I can’t stop? I could turn you by accident.” Your concern outweighed your hunger, for the last thing you wanted was to condemn him to an eternity he hadn’t asked for.

“I don’t care. Take it.”

Your sharp fangs sank into the delicate flesh of his wrist, and you couldn't suppress the moan that escaped you the moment his blood touched your tongue. He tasted delicious. You pressed your face even closer to his arm and sank your teeth deeper into his skin. He groaned deeply and let his head fall back against the white-tiled wall behind him. His eyes closed, and suddenly the world blurred before his vision. He saw towers, though they weren't the ones at Nevermore Academy. Instead, these were made of solid brick with red roofs, and they lacked the central clock face displaying the time. He heard the murmur of a stream in the distance, the swaying of leafy branches in the wind, and the clanging of metal against metal that occasionally broke the peaceful silence. A girl’s laughter was carried on the breeze, the rustling of cloth, buttons hastily undone, and the creaking of wood. A pair of eyes appeared before him. Eyes that had become terribly familiar to Isaac over the past few months.

His other hand found its place at the back of your head while you took what you needed from him. You drank with neither patience nor restraint, but with all the more reverence. Every now and then, your tongue slid over the two small puncture marks to soothe him, before your fangs sank back into his flesh to taste the blood flowing through his veins.

Your delighted moans, whines for more, and little whimpers clouded his rational mind, making it impossible for Isaac to think clearly. He pressed you closer against him, biting the inside of his cheek to stifle the sounds he might otherwise make. Yet the beating of his heart betrayed just how captivated he was by the sight before him.

He couldn't explain it, but for a moment, the tiles behind his back felt like the trunk of an ancient tree; instead of soap, he smelled something floral in the air, as if suddenly surrounded by nature; and you were more beautiful than any experiment he had ever conducted.

It was another one of those visions from the past. He had no other name for them, though he was deeply interested in them— both scientifically and personally. Certainly not just because the sight of you with his blood on your lips turned him on more than anything else in the world.

Only when a wave of dizziness washed over him did he give your hair a gentle tug: “That’s enough for today, Princess.”

A wide grin lit up your face as you leaned back and looked up at him. His chest heaved deeply, as if he had just run a marathon, and your breathing was rapid, too. Your tongue darted out, sweeping across the corner of your mouth and the upper half of your chin so as not to waste a single drop. You had already had more than enough of him, yet you craved more. Now that you’d had a taste, it would be hard to hold back in the future, especially when he was always as close as he was right now.

“You missed a spot,” he remarked. But before you could ask where— intending to wipe it away with your finger— he suddenly leaned down and licked away the remaining blood smeared on your chin. It took two flicks of his tongue before he leaned back with a confident smile, swallowing the traces of his own blood and the taste of your skin.

Your mouth fell open, your throat went dry, and your stomach did a funny little flip. You were certain you had never felt such heat coursing through your body before.

A sudden, loud knocking stopped you from making a very spontaneous, very wild decision, and something you’d likely be grateful for later. Or maybe not.

“Are you two done in there yet? We need to get going!” Gomez shouted through the wooden door, leaving you blinking in confusion.

"Uh, yeah! Yes, we’re done. Where are we going?" you asked Addams, quickly pulling your shirt back down so the wound could heal undisturbed. The fabric felt foreign on your skin.

“Home.” Gomez’s answer was brief and told you little. Your confusion remained.

“Home? You mean Nevermore? I don't know if that is such a smart idea. After all, we've just—“

“Not our home,” Isaac interrupted, calmly pulling his sleeve down to cover the bite mark you’d left on him. “Your home. Am I right, Gomez?”

“Precisely!” his roommate exclaimed, clapping his hands once. “I’ve always wanted to go to Romania. I can’t imagine a better way to spend the holidays.”

You looked up at Isaac. He merely shrugged.

It seemed you would be traveling home not only with your beloved but also with new friends, new problems, and an old longing that would never fade for the very man, whose blood you just consumed.

The dividers were made by @uzmacchiato !

Series Taglist: @ashleygryffindor @raquelyoyo @beaul-full-of-ieu @musicmanagerial @jarofghostss @iv4n-ali3n @notyourfuckingbusinesss @dxrkheavensworld @taylorwelever @minttea07 @athenalesage @mrsnukola @mcufan2031 @stranger-chan @wringmyfaithfulheart

1. Lyra Harlow doesn’t own a single pair of matching socks.

Yes, actually, I don’t! I love to match different colors and patterns with each other. On one foot I can wear a green sock and on the other one with a heart pattern. I think it’s cute personally. I like the whimsy of it.

2. Lyra Harlow sleeps in until noon.

Well… yes, I love to, when I can. Obviously at Nevermore you have classes at eight o’clock, but I love to sleep in during the weekends! I love to lay in bed, listen to the birds chirping and I love the feeling of laying underneath my blanket. The bed is comfortable, what can I say? But my pet bird— my beloved His Majesty— often wakes me by sitting in my hair or trying to bite into my cheeks haha

3. Lyra Harlow has a pet hamster.

No, I do not. I own a beautiful kestrel and his name is His Majesty. He is a little demanding and likes to mess with my hair or with that of my— uh, I mean Isaac’s hair. He likes to mess with that too. I prefer my bird to a hamster any day.

4. Lyra Harlow reads Wattpad.

What is a… Wattpad? Is that a book? A series? Oh, I do love a good book. Fantasy is my favorite genre. I like to escape into different worlds and getting lost in my fantasy. If it’s a book, I definitely will look into it!

5. Lyra Harlow has been to prison.

I have not and I don’t want to, ever. I don’t like the thought of being in prison and spending all day in a grim, dark cell… That sounds like nightmare to me. I love the freedom. I love watching the sky, feeling the breeze on my skin when I sit in a car and the window is down, I love smelling flowers and going for a walk in the rain. No, prison isn’t something I want. Besides, I have no reason to go there. I’m not a criminal. I don’t want to harm anyone.

6. Lyra Harlow desperately needs a hug but doesn’t know it and refuses to ask for one.

Now that you say it… I could use a hug. Francoise hugged me last week after I failed Professor Orloff‘s test, but I am hoping for another one. But they’d have to ask first. Or I will ask them first. I don’t like to be touched at random. But I do love hugs! I love the feeling of being held in the arms of another. I like to feel a person‘s warmth and figure out their scent. Perhaps that is creepy of me to say, but I just love the quiet intimacy of it.

7. Lyra Harlow cries while watching disney movies.

That statement is true and I won’t deny that. Hearing Bambi‘s mother get shot was always my worst nightmare, when I watched it as a child. I hate seeing animals get hurt. Bambi was such a sweet soul and his mother shouldn’t have been murdered like this. Oh and The Fox and the Hound! I will be sobbing at the end of that one, let me tell you that. Seeing two friends, who held each other so dearly, fall apart always makes my heart shatter. I do like the fox more, though.

8. Lyra Harlow listens to 80s music.

I do a lot! I love 80s music. Some of my all time favorites are from the 80s. I adore Every Breath You Take, West End Girls and Bigmouth Strikes Again. Although, I have to say that my favorite 80s song is probably Shout by Tears For Fears. His Majesty can’t hear that one anymore. Sometimes Morticia, Larissa, Francoise and I do karaoke evenings together. We sneak to Rotwood Cottage and spend the weekend there, because no one will miss us anyways. On rare occasions the boys will come along as well. Don’t tell anyone, but you do not want to sleep in the room next to the one Morticia and her beloved sleeps in. You won’t find sleep in there.

9. Lyra Harlow can kill you in an instant, but won’t.

I would never! I don’t want to hurt people. Why would I ever kill anyone? I don’t want to do that. That means I would have to take a gun or- or a knife and— No! I would not do that. I can’t and I won‘t.

10. Lyra Harlow has an incredible short-term memory, but an awful long-term memory.

I would not necessarily say so, no. It’s more the other way around for me personally. I remember things from ten years ago, but some parts of my childhood are also entirely gone. But the core things are there. I’m not sure, if my short-term memory is good though…

BONUS: (His Majesty also needs some)

1. His Majesty is a theater kid.

I am watching a lot of movies with my mother. I also listen to the terrible karaoke sessions she does with her so called „friends“. I don’t want to be there. She just takes me, because she wants me to cuddle her. I don’t even like to cuddle her. My feathers are sensitive. I want them to look shiny. What was the question? What is a theater? And where is my food? I HAVEN‘T EATEN! MOTHER! I WANT FOOD!!!

2. His Majesty has a pet bird.

What a ridiculous question, I AM the pet bird. I am Madame Lyra‘s bonded kestrel, since the girl does not have wings as a Harpy. She needs me to be her eyes and ears in the sky. Actually, I’m so much more than a pet, I should be her other half. But, no, she is waltzing around with that ticking skeleton of a boy! What a disgrace.

3. His Majesty has a roblox account.

What is a roblox? Can I eat it? About that— MOTHER, I AM STILL HUNGRY!

Confusion, followed by a profound sense of despair, washed over you in a split second. You were still wearing the champagne-colored dress from the ball; your mask was gone, and both sleeves were torn—the right one more so than the left—hanging in tatters. Your eyes suddenly widened when you felt something—or rather, the absence of something—around your neck.

Your hand flew to your collarbone, where your new amulet was missing once again. You hadn't been able to put it on at the ball, but, instead, you had kept it clutched tightly in your hand the entire time, ever since Stonehearst had ruined the evening. You remembered the police officer whose eye you had likely permanently damaged, the man who would now bear a scar for the rest of his life. Perhaps you had dropped the amulet in the chaos? Oh, you desperately hoped that was the case, for you wanted nothing more than to prevent Stonehearst’s slimy fingers from wrapping around the metal. That would have been tantamount to sacrilege.

A cold shiver ran down your spine at the thought of how Francoise— sweet, darling Francoise— had tried to protect you. She had been ready to turn herself in for Aleo’s murder and shoulder the blame. While that wouldn’t have saved you, since you were still guilty of killing the siren boy, the mere thought that she had wanted to rescue you made your heart break. That was how important you had become to her. And Isaac... naturally, you understood his decision to silence her and stop her from speaking. She was his little sister, slowly wasting away because of her Hyde, and it was obvious he wanted to save her life. He couldn't do that if she were rotting in a cell.

The very kind of cell you were sitting in now. Heavy iron chains hung from your wrists and neck, anchored to the bare walls at several points. The chains clanked loudly whenever you so much as moved your arms to reach for the chain around your neck. You tugged at the iron, trying to force it open, but only a key could release the mechanism. A key you didn't have. Your breathing came in quick, shallow gasps as you finally looked down at your hands. Even these chains required a key to open. You were trapped.

The last time you had found yourself in a situation like this was two hundred years ago. After you had lost control in Versailles and attacked and bitten Aleo, before you had properly met and grew to like him, you’d been thrown into a cell and nearly executed. The gallows had already been waiting for you, but then Alejandro freed you. Yet he was dead, and you were being held responsible for a murder you hadn't committed. A standard prison cell anywhere in in the world would surely have been better than the madness you had woken up to.

Carefully, you sank to your knees and kept tugging at the iron chains, desperately hoping they might somehow come undone, but they didn't. Of course not. That would have been a miracle, and miracles were terribly scarce in this dark world. Yours had already been claimed, and your prayers answered, when fate gave Isaac Night back to you.

Oh, Isaac... he had looked so beautiful at the ball. You could still feel his warm breath on your neck, his cool hands wandering down your arms, and his rough voice whispering into your ear. A wave of heat spread through your stomach at the mere thought of it and of what else might have happened at the ball, or afterwards, had you not been interrupted. You could have waltzed together; perhaps you might even have been allowed to kiss him, and then held him in your arms once more. The kiss might have triggered his memory, and in the end, you could have returned to Transylvania together to live happily ever after. But life was no fairy tale. You had wished for such an ending, yet you suspected it would never come to pass. Not while Stonehearst had his claws sunk into Isaac, while Francoise needed rescuing, and while you remained a wanted murderess.

A loud creaking sound drew your attention, and you watched as a guard opened the iron door to your cell. His uniform was stark white and clinical, like everything else in this place, and he carried a silver tray holding some food. A Taser and a baton hung from his belt, the mere sight of them being reason enough not to step out of line. You remained seated calmly on the floor, watching as the man leaned down for a brief moment and carelessly tossed the tray onto the ground in front of you. A loud clatter echoed through the empty room as the tray struck the stone floor. Your breakfast consisted of a meager piece of toast topped with something that smelled like cheese, and a glass of water.

"You know that isn't the drink my body craves. The one I need," you said, nodding down at the glass. It was made of plastic rather than glass, which was no doubt a precaution to ensure you wouldn't get the idea to attack the guard with it. As if you were so primitive. If you were to kill someone, you would do it with your teeth.

"You won't get it here, vampire," he replied before turning and walking out of your cell. You managed to catch a quick glimpse of what lay beyond the cell: more cells. A cold, bleak corridor and a cell opposite yours that stood open and empty.

"Wait!" you called after him, at which he rolled his eyes in annoyance but turned back to face you. He raised his eyebrows as if waiting for you to beg for a drop of blood, but you weren't about to do that. You were already chained up and forced to settle on the floor like an abandoned dog. You certainly weren't going to start begging on top of that.

"Is your boss too afraid to come here himself?" you asked, a faint smirk playing at the corners of your mouth. You could still feel the makeup from the night before on your skin, even though it was likely smudged by now and didn't look as lovely as it had when Francoise applied it.

He took two steps back before his large, veiny hand closed around the doorknob, which was accessible only from the outside. From the inside, the door looked as though it had simply been set into the wall, and evidently, it could only be opened from the outside. Even if you managed to somehow undo your shackles, you wouldn't be able to escape the room; there were no windows, and you couldn't force that door open with brute strength. You had sharp nails and teeth capable of tearing flesh, but you weren't omnipotent. You were just a vampire desperate to return to her beloved.

"Eat. Professor Doctor Stonehearst will be with you shortly," he said before slamming the door in your face. The floor was still cold beneath your knees as you looked at the tray. The loud clanking of chains as you moved your hands toward the cup of water made you briefly close your eyes, as you had always had an aversion to such harsh noises. That didn’t apply to music, but to that grating sound that pained your ears. Your fingers wrapped around the middle of the cup, and you brought the rim to your lips; the cool water moistened your parched throat. Your lips were dry, and you craved more. You placed your other hand at the base of the cup and downed all the water in a single gulp. It wasn't cold, certainly, but at least it was clean and unpoisoned. Yet, you felt a deep hunger within. Something insatiable that licked at your insides like the flames of a burning house, eager to devour more and more now that it had tasted what it craved. You were hungry for blood. After all, it was essential for your survival. Without fresh blood at regular intervals, your body would slowly wither and age.

You had no appetite for the toast and left it sitting on the plastic plate as you leaned back on your elbows. Your gaze wandered up to the ceiling, where you slowly counted the cracks in the stone and noted how often the small lightbulb hanging right in the center flickered while you waited for your former physics professor. Former, indeed, because after the fiasco at the ball, you doubted you would ever be welcome at Nevermore again. A chaotic ball, two murders, an arrest, an injured officer, and an attempted attack on a professor— it would all be noted in your file. Without help, you would likely never escape this place, which you suspected was Willow Hill.

"There are two hundred and eighty-four cracks in the ceiling."

"Excuse me?" The door clicked shut as Professor Doctor Augustus Stonehearst entered the room. Just as he had at school, he wore a tailored suit that was this time in a dark shade of brown. Not a single wrinkle marred the pinstriped fabric, and even his tie sat perfectly around his neck. However, over his suit jacket, he wore a long white coat bearing the inscription "Prof. Dr. Stonehearst" on a small plate. Three pens were tucked into his breast pocket, tools he likely used all day long to grade exams or write medical reports. Yours would probably be the next one.

"Above us. The ceiling has cracks. Should I be worried that you’re hoping it collapses and the rubble buries me?" you asked, raising an eyebrow inquisitively, causing fine little lines to form on your forehead.

"This is an old building, Madame," he replied in a neutral tone, his hands clasped behind his back. "It underwent extensive renovation and restoration, and only opened as a psychiatric facility a few months ago."

"With a secret, hidden monster-basement?" you asked, sitting up straight again. The fabric of your dress fanned out over your legs and beneath you like a flower, as if you were sitting in its center, the petals unfurling just for you. The only thing ruining the image was the chains that coiled around you, holding you fast in place.

"Please," he scoffed, shaking his aged head. He must have been around fifty, yet he looked far older than most people you had known at that age and you had met many people during your travels across the centuries. He was balding, his hair graying at the temples, his forehead was lined, and his bones stood out prominently beneath his pale skin. He looked more like the stereotypical description of a vampire than you did. In fact, he reminded you of the silent film Nosferatu, which you had seen in Germany in 1922, and of its lead actor, Max Schreck, who had lent his acting talent to the creature. "A monster-basement? Don't make me laugh. That’s absurd."

"The cell opposite mine is empty, there’s one guard stationed just outside my own, and I hear nothing else. I have no windows. A 'state-of-the-art psychiatric facility', as you call it, would have better accommodations. The last dungeon I was in was nicer than this, and that was back in 1774." Your voice held no warmth or friendliness now, become you were no longer his student, but his prisoner. The time had come when you could openly hate him.

"1774, exactly," he replied, running a hand along the underside of his chin. "The Versailles incident back then triggered a veritable witch hunt against vampires, one that ultimately left all of Paris free of them. Thanks to you, I suppose."

"It was an accident,” you shot back without hesitation, passion flooding back into your eyes. What did he know about the Versailles incident? What did he know about you? Nothing at all. He couldn't possibly know anything.

"Oh, really? The reports say a distinguished lady, who had already drawn attention by sneaking into a ballroom restricted to Normies, acting as if she were looking for someone, met with rejection from a group of young men. She became hysterical, attacked a young Spaniard, and bit him to death.” You shook your head, barely breathing, but he quickly continued: “That young man turned out not to be fully dead after all. He fled the morgue that very night, freed the vampire who had turned him, and eventually vanished with her. I assume that was you and our now forever resting Alejandro correct?”

You remained silent. Your lips were pressed into a tight line, your gaze hardened, and you sat on the floor with your shoulders squared. Even though you had to look up at him like a chained beast you didn’t feel inferior. You still had free rein over your mind and your words, and that was something he couldn't take away from you.

“And the Prague incident, where a Hyde rampaged through the city and was subsequently shot. You were present for that too, weren't you?” Stonehearst asked, as if you were undergoing a police interrogation and he was the detective determined to crack the case. Except there was no case to solve. You were only here because he wanted it. Because he hated you and wanted to keep you away from his star pupil.

“How would you know that?” you countered, shaking your head as if to reject every one of his accusations, even though they were true. It had been you in Prague, but only for research purposes. You had honestly just wanted to do some research for your book. How were you supposed to know that a Hyde would fly into a frenzy just as you were trying to cross the Charles Bridge?

“Because on the day a young woman— a vampire— was granted permission to enter the autopsy room and examine the body. Oh, and we found this at Rotwood Cottage during our investigation.” The professor pulled one of your leather-bound notebooks from his jacket and tossed it into your lap. A book in which every detail of your travels had been meticulously documented by your own hand. Your eyes widened in shock. Rotwood Cottage had been searched? That meant…

“You are quite obsessed with my young Mr. Night,” he said, prompting you to bite furiously into the inside of your cheek until you could taste the first tang of blood on your tongue. You were furious that things had come to this. The fact that they had searched your house, locked you up here, and— above all— that he had dragged Isaac into this mess yet again now.

“You seem to have been watching him for quite some time. I suppose I’ll have to keep you here on charges of stalking, harassment, and insanity.”

“Insanity? I’m not insane, Doctor. You are,” you retorted. Strands of hair that had come loose during the commotion cast dark shadows over your eyes, instantly making your gaze look menacing.

“I am? Oh… interesting,” Augustus Stonehearst remarked, smiling down at you with an air of amused condescension. He likely didn't take you seriously at that moment, given that you were kneeling before him in chains. You couldn't hurt or attack him like this, unless you managed to get close enough to his legs to sink your teeth into the artery in his thigh, causing him to bleed out rapidly. Yet, something told you that if you killed the facility’s director, you would never leave the place alive. "Just because I don’t want my star student to be harassed, I’m the monster now?”

“That’s not why you’re doing this!” Your voice rose as you shouted the words right in his face. “You’re only using him for your own selfish ends.”

“And you are not?” he asked, tilting his head to the side ever so slightly. That made you go quiet for a moment. You simply stared at him for a few seconds that dragged by with agonizing slowness.

“Don't you want him for the sake of your own ego? To have him back after all this time? How long was it, exactly? Four hundred, five hundred years?”

A cold shiver ran down your spine as you realized just how much he seemed to know. He knew about your search for him, about your desire and longing, and about the vast amount of time you had spent looking for him. Apparently, he had actually looked through all your notebooks before coming to see you in your cell. The bastard.

"Love isn't selfish. Love is selfless," you answered him, and you truly believed those words. You believed that your love for Isaac was pure, gentle, and so full of love that there was no room for ego. You wanted him back in your life because you belonged together; after all, why else would fate bring him back to you if you weren't meant to be together?

"Did you even ask him if he wants you?" Stonehearst’s retort came sharp and without hesitation. He had planned this conversation and already had his answers ready. He wanted to unsettle you, to belittle you and paint you as insane, which, of course, you weren't. You were obsessed with your beloved, yes, but you had earned the right to be with him again after all this time. Why else had you waited all these centuries? You deserved this love, this destiny.

"To me, it looks like you’re distracting him from his true goal and just want him for yourself. What about his dreams? His future? Did you never stop to think about what Isaac wants?"

Your expression fell as you realized that he actually made you question your own actions. Your thoughts raced with the terrible fear that he might be right and that perhaps you had forced yourself upon Isaac. But you hadn’t… had you? No, you would never do that. You loved him! You loved him so much. So why did he manage to make you feel so dirty, as if you were the serpent handing Eve the apple in Paradise? Like you were temptation and sin, leading the genius away from the path he was truly fated to walk.

“No… No, he told me at the ball that he wants me too. That he wants to explore our connection further and that he is attracted to me!” With every word that left your lips, your voice grew louder and more desperate. Your undead heart pounded wildly in your chest. How did he manage to make you feel like a monster? You weren’t a monster! Or were you…?

“Oh, did he?” You immediately averted your gaze from his, looking down at your lap where your notebook lay, the one that had been with you for so many years. Now it was tainted, read by eyes that weren't yours and for whom those words were never intended. “The same ball where you called out to him, claiming you knew of a cure for his sick sister? Isn't that manipulation in your eyes? Night would do anything for his sister, and yet *you*of all people tell him you know of a cure? One that likely doesn't even exist. That, my dear, is cruelty.”

“No, I love him!” Your gaze was panicked, your eyes wide. You no longer knew what to believe. You only knew that you had to defend yourself.

“Do you love him, or do you love the idea of ​​him?”

"I love him! Isaac Night! My Isaac, who came back to me after all these years!" At that point, you were practically shouting at him; you sounded like a madwoman trying to convince herself she loved someone who didn't return her feelings. The only difference was that Isaac had actually started to reciprocate your feelings and show genuine interest.

"But why give him false hope when there is none? There is no cure for a Hyde. I’ve been trying to tell him that over and over for years, but he just won't listen. He’s blindly chasing a dream, and now you’re encouraging him, too," the professor hissed, adjusting his tie, even though it didn't need fixing. He simply seemed to need something to do with his hands while twisting your words around.

"You can't know that. Who says there’s no cure?" You raised your eyebrows in a silent challenge. You slowly calmed down and took a deep breath to avoid losing your temper and shouting at him again, because doing so would only play right into his hands.

"Science says so. Isaac is the smartest DaVinci I’ve ever met, and if he can’t figure it out, then there is no cure. Even if he claims he’s close to a cure, he’ll fail. You can’t tame a beast like that," he tried to explain, but you didn't believe a word of it. You had seen the blueprints and the machine hanging on the ceiling of in Iago Tower, and it looked magnificent. If Isaac firmly believed in his invention, it would work— provided he was determined to go through with it that way.

"Perhaps you should place more trust in him, Doctor," you replied with a small smile that made the corners of your lips twitch upward. "He is even smarter than you think."

Augustus Stonehearst nodded slowly before taking a few steps back toward the door he had entered through, which was the only way in or out of your bleak cell, which would presumably become your home now. As long as Isaac was safe, you didn't care.

"If you believe you know him better, then so be it. Your full psychological evaluation will have to wait a while, Madame. I have an appointment at two o'clock that I cannot miss." He turned his back on you and stepped across the threshold, but paused to look back. His hand was already resting on the doorframe, ready to lock you in again. "Oh, and you had better get used to the food. There won't be a drop of blood for the foreseeable future. A little experiment of mine."

A look of anger spread across your face, but Stonehearst closed the door, and you were alone once more.

You didn't know exactly how much time had passed. You had been lying on your back on the cold floor, staring up at the ceiling with your eyes closed, trying to get some sleep, which, of course, refused to come to you. Your slender hands were elegantly folded over your stomach. In the meantime, you had let your hair down, removed all the small accessories from it, which consisted of tiny beads and feathers, and taken off your corset. The champagne-colored garment now lay in a corner, leaving you in just your dress. It was nearly white, yet leaned more towards beige. Your sleeves were torn at the sides, and you could no longer distinguish between the red paint on your skirt and the blood of the police officer you had scarred.

Your eyes flew open in surprise when you suddenly heard the tray in your room being pushed aside. The same guard as before was standing in the doorway again. Only then did you notice that he had long hair, tied back at the nape of his neck in a man-bun. His hand rested on his belt, right over his baton, as if he always needed to be ready to defend himself when coming to your room.

"You have a visitor," he said in a gruff voice, causing you to raise an eyebrow. Over the years, that had become your way of expressing that you found something odd or surprising. The guard stepped aside, and a very familiar face appeared in the doorway.

His raven-black hair fell uncombed in wild curls across his forehead and his eyes looked tired, yet he still wore a polite smile. It looked like he hasn’t slept a minute during the night. He was wearing a long brown coat that reached his ankles; there were stitches on the right arm and shoulder, as if he had practiced suturing wounds on the coat itself. Beneath the coat, he wore a white button-up shirt with the black-and-purple striped Nevermore tie, hanging neatly centered against his chest. Simple black suit trousers covered his legs, and the boots he had laced up tight protected his feet from the bite of the cold floor. He had come. Your knight in shining armor.

In a split second, you sat up and managed to give him a genuine, delighted grin, one that even made your eyes sparkle. The chain on your left arm rattled as you reached your hand out toward him. "Isaac... Why are you here?"

The guard moved to the left corner of the room to watch you both with hawk-like eyes, while Isaac slowly approached and finally crouched down in front of you so you wouldn't have to look up so far. His chocolate-brown eyes were fixed entirely on you, as if the other man in the room didn't bother him at all. His gaze traveled along the chains they had bound you with, and a shadow crossed his face.

"Careful, mister. Don't get too close to her. She has a tendency to bite. She's a feisty one," the guard warned, but you merely hissed in his direction, giving him a good look at your fangs by grinning at him.

"Don't worry, I know her. She wouldn't hurt me," Isaac replied, without even turning his face toward the man. He looked only at you. "Right, Princess?"

You nodded. Naturally, you would never hurt him, which was something he was very much aware of. You had confessed your love to him just weeks ago, and yesterday— or perhaps another day had passed by then? it was hard to tell in your windowless cell— he had given you a gift at the ball by replacing your chain. It must have gotten lost in the commotion. Either it was still lying in the Nevermore Academy ballroom, or another student had spotted the beautiful piece of jewelry and pocketed it, claiming it as their own. You’d have to be truly insane to want to harm him now.

"Do you really have to ask why I came?" he replied to your question before shaking his head. His curls swayed gently with the movement, as if nudged by a breeze, though there was no wind in the room. "You call out to me saying you know a cure for my sister, something I’ve been searching for for years, and now you’re handing it to me on a silver platter. What is it?"

His brows were slightly furrowed, and a vein stood out prominently beneath his right eye, betraying his tension. You guessed it was the strain of finally discovering the cure that had been kept hidden from him all this time. His mouth was set in a thin line, and his nostrils were flaring slightly.

A lump formed in your throat, making breathing even harder than the heavy chain already did, and you gave a slight shrug: "It’s a secret, Isaac."

He scoffed, not seeming to believe it, and leaned his face a little closer to yours, until you could feel his warm breath kissing your cold skin. It felt different than the moment the day before, when he had let his nose and lips graze your bare shoulder. This gesture was more detached, and it seemed as though he were here solely for the sake of the answer.

"Are you serious?" His voice was low, more of a hiss than anything else. "Tell me."

"No," you insisted steadfastly. "Not like this. Not here."

Two fingers of his left hand closed around your chin, drawing you closer until the tip of your nose gently brushed against his. Your gaze drifted down to his lips for a moment, feeling how his thumb lightly traced your own lower lip. His eyes narrowed. "What does that mean? Tell me."

"Exactly what I said. I’ll tell you, but not here, because I don’t know it by heart. I read about a cure, but naturally, I never looked into it deeply enough. I’d never had a reason to," you admitted honestly. Your library was vast and packed to bursting with books from every era, containing everything from profound knowledge to mere entertainment.

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" he asked immediately, his fingernails pressing gently into the skin of your chin. "You had weeks. Why are you only telling me now, after you were torn away from me?"

Only then, hearing the tone of his voice, did you realize he wasn't angry with you; he simply wanted to understand. He was desperate for his sister's sake and needed answers to save her life and that was precisely where you came in. You were the person who apparently held all the answers he had ever wanted. And yet, you didn’t play your hand carelessly. You kept the most important cards between your fingers, laying them on the table only one by one. Isaac now knew of two cards that held special significance: your belief that he was the reincarnation of your former lover, and your knowledge of a potentially promising cure for his sister. However, you didn’t want to reveal that cure here, where every word was being overheard. He would have to take you somewhere else.

"Because I didn't want it to look like I was trying to blackmail you. If I had confessed my love and then offered the promise of a cure, you would have turned me away. You certainly wouldn't have believed me," you whispered softly, leaning a little closer. A surprised breath escaped his lips as yours nearly brushed against his, yet he didn't pull back. Instead, his fingers tilted your chin upward, your eyelids fluttering shut at the promise of a kiss. Night’s gaze rested on your mouth as he gently traced the soft plush of your mouth with his thumb. Though barely visible in the darkness of his eyes, his pupils were dilated, and the sound of his clockwork heart echoed through the empty cell.

"Never make assumptions about me that aren't true again," he whispered just before your lips could meet. A sudden clicking sound from three sides of the room made your eyes snap wide open in surprise— only to see Isaac smirking.

"And now... Bite."

You wasted no time. Pushing off the floor, you lunged at the guard in the corner of the room, who likely hadn't understood what had just happened. Your bonds came undone and slipped from your arms and neck the moment you sank your sharp fangs into the man's throat. He screamed in pain, but you simply pressed your hand against his mouth. In response, he sank his own less sharp teeth into the delicate flesh of your palm, yet you didn't even flinch. It hurt— after all, you weren't immune to pain— but you had endured worse before. Fresh, rich blood spurted from the carotid artery you had successfully severed, splashing directly onto your face. You drank as much as you could before a hand suddenly wrapped around your upper arm and yanked you back to your feet.

Isaac was towering over you, looking down at your face with an expression in his eyes the likes of which you hadn't seen in him for five hundred years. His hands found your cheeks, drenched in blood that ran down your neck, décolletage, and face, staining strands of your hair and the front of your dress crimson. Before you could speak, he pressed his forehead against yours, mingling your breaths and feeling the familiar coldness of your body against his own barely existing warmth.

Isaac whispered your name before adding, "Promise me you’ll tell me. Promise me."

"I promise," you murmured back, running your tongue over your mouth to catch the dripping blood before it went to waste; you’d rather have it on your tongue than on the floor.

Isaac narrowed his eyes for a moment, thinking hard, before nodding and brushing his lips against your right cheek. It was a promise on his part: if you kept your word, he would give you what you had longed for so desperately— the cure for his love. A fair trade.

"Come on."

His clean hand found your bloodied one and he pulled you into a sprint as fast as he could, and together you bolted from the cell. Small beads of blood were still dripping from your chin, and Isaac hadn't escaped unscathed either. The corners of his mouth were stained with that same thick, red fluid, as was the hand that held yours in a tight grip.

Together, you sprinted down a corridor that was unfamiliar to you, although you assumed Isaac had memorized the route when he was brought to your cell. As you ran, you noticed that most of the other cells were still open and unoccupied. On the wall, a word had just been painted in fresh black capital letters: LOIS. You didn't know what it meant, and there was no time to find out. Isaac kept pulling you along, even when shouts suddenly rang out from behind you and the lighting shifted from white to red. A loud bang against the wall beside you made your shoulders flinch. You turned your head just in time to see a guard aiming a weapon at the two of you. You were being shot at! Your rescuer, however, remained undeterred and pulled you toward a narrow spiral staircase that seemed to lead upward. More shots rang out. They all missed you, though a scream still escaped your lips. You hurried up the narrow stairs, Isaac dragging you along behind him, but even at the top, there was no respite.

You arrived in a small storage closet. There was no time to ask the whys or wherefores, but you simply had to trust him blindly. He slammed the door shut behind you with force and made a swift gesture with his right hand, snapping the handle right off with his ability. Whoever was down there, he had locked them in.

"Isaac, what—"

"Later." he interrupted immediately, pulling you straight toward the exit. He had never let go of your hand, not even for a split second. You were leaving a trail of blood on the marble floor behind you, which could easily be followed, if anyone cared to do so.

He ran through the doorway into another open corridor that branched left and right. His coat billowed behind him like a flag in the wind as he relentlessly dragged you along. You matched his pace, running as fast as you could beside him down the left-hand corridor. You didn't scan for "Exit" signs; instead, you chose to place your absolute trust in him. He knew the way. You didn't. Ahead, the path split again, and two security guards sprang out, handguns raised. Before Isaac could speak or either man could pull the trigger, you had already rushed the guard on the left, slamming him against the wall with all your might. He gasped. He tried to push you away, but you snapped your teeth at his throat. A hand was pressed against your face, and without hesitation, you bit down hard on his finger. He cried out as you sliced ​​through flesh and sinew, cutting right down to the bone.

Beside you, you heard the click of a trigger, but suddenly a loud clatter echoed through the corridor as the weapon fell to the floor. The other guard gasped, struggling for air. He was hovering about a meter off the ground, held by Isaac, whose right arm was raised and hand clenched into a fist, effectively cutting off the man's breath. Isaac tightened his fist, and an unpleasant crack rang out as he snapped the guard's neck. The man slumped to the floor. Isaac glanced at you just as the larger of the two guards finally managed to shove you away. You fell to the ground with a groan but quickly tried to prop yourself up on your elbows. The guard’s hand moved back toward his weapon, aiming it at you, but Isaac was faster and knocked it from his grasp. In less than a second, he had his hands around the man's throat and squeezed. Hard.

That gave you just enough time to get back on your feet and grab the other guard's weapon. "Out of the way!"

Isaac slammed the man's head against the hard wall, which was decorated with thick marble slabs, before he quickly stumbled aside. You pulled the trigger. A loud bang rang out, and the guard slumped against the wall— dead, shot. It was the first time you had ever killed someone with a firearm.

You let the gun drop to the floor, and Isaac immediately interlaced his fingers with yours again. You were both breathing heavily; the ticking of his heart was louder and faster than ever, and the facility’s alarm sirens blared so loudly in your head that they gave you a pounding headache. You kept running toward where you hoped the exit would be, even though you didn't know what would happen next. After all, he had broken you out of his mentor's institution and killed people for you. He had committed murder for your sake, and you for his.

Hand in hand and still covered in blood, you hurried on down the seemingly endless corridor. A green "Exit" sign shone ahead like a sun beckoning you toward it. It was the light drawing you in, your hope for freedom and escape. You were so close. Just four more meters, and then—

"Isaac!"

The voice made you both freeze in your tracks. Without letting go of each other, you turned toward the voice, only to see Augustus Stonehearst standing there, watching you. He was alone. The red flashing of the alarm cast deep shadows over him, making him look almost demonic. Although, the same could be said for you. You were drenched in blood, your dress torn and disheveled in places, and Isaac was bloodied too. Stonehearst was holding a gun as well, though he kept it lowered for the moment. Yet it seemed to have a longer barrel than the other two and appeared more refined, almost like a relic from a bygone era.

“Is this what you let her turn you into?” the professor asked his best student in a grave voice. Disappointment colored every syllable of every word that left his lips. “A murderer? A criminal? I am disappointed in you, my boy.”

“She knows of a cure for Francoise,” Isaac replied firmly. He refused to let his mentor’s disappointment sway him, or at least, he didn't let it show on the surface.

“You have your machine. You don’t need some obscure miracle cure she promised you. Wake up! You have everything you need right there in your head and in your laboratory!” Augustus kept harping on him, his voice rising in volume as his own frustration got the better of him.

“I lack a power source,” his student countered without a moment’s hesitation. “That, too, would require a sacrifice. One I’d rather avoid.”

“And you think you don’t have to make sacrifices for her? Look at everything you’ve lost here because of this. Your degree, your career, your future. Trading your life for your sister’s? Is it really worth it?”

“Yes.” Night’s answer came instantly. “If I had to give up my future to secure my sister’s, I would do it. Every day. Over and over again.”

He gestured toward you, gently squeezing your hand. “She can give me that. She can, and she will. I have her word.”

Stonehearst’s expression, already shrouded in shadow, became even more inscrutable than before. He tilted his head slightly to the side, as if deep in thought or making a calculation. Instinctively, you squeezed Isaac’s hand even tighter. Something was wrong. The silence of the man standing just a few meters away, watching you with aged eyes, left you feeling uneasy.

"What a pity."

Stonehearst’s hand, weapon raised, moved in a split second, and for a moment, you felt the world grind to a halt. You saw the professor, you sensed Isaac beside you, you heard the blaring alarm and yet your thoughts drifted back to the conversation you’d had earlier with the old man in the cell. He had accused you of loving Isaac selfishly, claiming you loved merely the idea of him. You had insisted your love was selfless.

So, which was it? Was your love tainted by selfishness, or was it true and honest, selfless in its very nature?

The trigger was pulled. A loud bang echoed off the walls of the hall. You made your choice.

You leapt in front of Isaac, forming a human shield, and the bullet struck you instead. All those years ago, an arrow had pierced his back, and he had died for you. Now, perhaps, it was your turn to return the favor—even if ordinary bullets couldn't kill you.

But, unfortunately, the bullet that had been resting in the magazine of his weapon was no ordinary one.

Your name escaped Isaac’s lips in a gasp as you slumped over, howling in pain and clutching your stomach where the strange bullet had entered. Without a second’s hesitation, Isaac thrust his right hand toward his former mentor and snapped the man's arm. The older man screamed, dropped his weapon, and collapsed to his knees. Night then used his abilities once more to slam the facility’s director against the wall, knocking him unconscious.

Two strong hands hooked under your armpits and hauled you upward as best he could, even though he wasn't physically strong. He breathed heavily, his endless brown eyes searching your face, but he saw only pain and tears mingling with the blood on your cheeks.

"Come on, Princess, we just need to get outside. It’s not much further," Isaac said, dragging you toward the exit with all his might. If more guards showed up now, you’d be done for. He couldn't let that happen. A wave of despair washed over him as beads of sweat ran down his forehead, causing the curls there to stick to his skin. He was at the end of his strength.

"It hurts so much, Isaac," you wailed, pressing your hands against the gunshot wound. It wasn't supposed to hurt like this. A bullet shouldn't be able to kill you— at least, not if what the other vampires you’d met had told you was true. "It burns! Make it stop, please!"

There were few moments in Isaac Night’s life when he felt truly, utterly helpless. The first was the day, back when he was a child, that he was told he didn't have long to live. The second was when he watched his sweet little sister transform into a monster right before his eyes for the very first time, realizing she likely wouldn't outlive him. The third moment was right now. You had jumped in front of him, taken the bullet, and— without a second thought— most likely saved his life. Now you were injured, in terrible pain, and he didn't know how to help you.

"The parking lot is right out there, love," he murmured against your hairline as he carried you toward the door as best he could. "Just a little further. Hang in there. Don't you dare close your eyes. Do you hear me? Don't you dare."

You groaned in response and nodded as best you could. Isaac shifted you upward so your back pressed against his chest, allowing him to open the door to the parking lot with his left hand. With the door open, soft twilight light falling over you and the cool evening air blowing against your faces, Isaac scooped you up into his arms, bridal-style, knowing that position would cause you the least pain. Tiny black spots kept flickering in his vision, since a heavy exhaustion was setting in in his body, and his knees felt unsteady. He could hear the rush of blood in his ears and feel his racing pulse pounding against his neck. You just whimpered. He pushed forward.

Just as Isaac was on the verge of giving out and collapsing in the parking lot with you in his arms, he suddenly heard the sound of rapid footsteps approaching him across the cold asphalt. For a moment, he braced himself for the worst, but then—

"Isaac! Dios mio, what the hell happened in there?! Here, let me take her!" Gomez Addams wrapped his arms around you, taking your pain-wracked form into his own embrace, while Isaac stumbled aside, exhausted, and had to steady himself against a car he didn't recognize.

It was Morticia Frump who finally wrapped her arms around his middle for support and helped him to the vehicle— the black limousine belonging to her mother, Hester Frump, which they had all stolen together to get here in the first place— and assisted him into the back seat. Gomez sat in the driver's seat with his beloved Morticia beside him. In the four remaining seats in the back sat Isaac and Fran, who held your unconscious body pressed tightly against her chest. She was weeping, murmuring pleas for you to please, please wake up.

His vision went black, his clockwork heart stuttered erratically, and the world suddenly fell silent. Isaac, too, lost consciousness.

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"Francoise! ​​I had no idea you missed me that much," you murmured into her shoulder while she kept her arms wrapped around your torso.

"Of course I did," she said without hesitation, finally leaning back, although her slender fingers remained clasped around your arms. "I am so incredibly sorry about what happened. I know I should have told you, but the opportunity never came up, and you never asked, and I thought—"

"Fran," you said, repeating her name, at which she looked at you with wide eyes. Her attention was now entirely focused on you and the words you were about to speak next. The only thing was, you hadn’t prepared any words. You had come here simply because Isaac told you to and because you didn’t want to spend any more time in Stonehearst’s presence. The old man made you feel sick and on edge. Part of you wanted to know how long he’d known Isaac and how long their partnership had lasted, yet another part of you didn’t want to know at all.

“Yes?” she asked after you’d spent a few seconds lost in thought. She blinked, her soft eyelashes fluttering against her soft cheeks like butterfly wings.

“I… I’m sorry, too,” you finally said, and you were being completely sincere. “It wasn’t your fault what happened. Of course, you could have told me or Aleo, but you couldn’t help transforming that day, at that exact moment. It was out of your control. And I’m sorry I called you a monster. Aleo’s death just left me emotionally shaken.”

“I never held that against you,” she replied immediately, offering a gentle smile. “That whole day by the lake… it started out so beautifully, but now I just wish I could forget it. Do you?”

Did you wish that? You weren’t entirely sure. You would have loved to forget everything that happened in the woods— Alejandro’s dead body and the aftermath— but everything leading up to that had been wonderful. You wanted to hold onto everything that happened at the lake forever. The pleasant conversation with Isaac, watching your friends play together in the water, and the jokes you shared once everyone was back on the shore. It had all been wonderful. That wasn’t something you wanted to forget. "No, I really loved that day. Watching how in love Gomez and Morticia are, seeing how happy you were just playing in the water like a normal person, seeing Aleo wanting to stay close to you the whole time, and Isaac just sitting on the shore. That is something I never want to forget. I just wish we’d had more moments like that," you confessed honestly, shrugging your shoulders.

Francoise nodded in agreement and closed the door behind you before you took a few steps into the room you used to share. She hadn’t replaced you. The bed opposite hers was empty, your desk was unoccupied, and one side of the dresser was completely bare, too. She had hoped you would come back. The thought warmed your heart, and for a brief moment, you regretted the decision to make Rotwood Cottage your home. Then again, Rotwood Cottage was a whole house with two floors and a master bedroom, which wasn't exactly a bad thing. But perhaps that was something you two needed. It might actually help.

"Maybe we can still have them?" she suggested, before quickly walking past you to show you something. Francoise reached for a couple of notebooks and opened one, a proud smile playing on her rosy lips. Spread across two pages were notes and small pictures she had drawn and pasted in, like in a simple scrapbook. At the top, centered across the two pages, the words "Rave‘N Ball 1991" were written in large letters.

"Morticia, Larissa, and I are on the Rave‘N Ball committee; we’re helping to plan the dance. Would you like to join us? There’s still some room, and we know that, as a vampire, you surely have plenty of experience with balls and dances." She looked at you with a wide grin, her brown eyes shining. The evening sun streamed through the window, making her irises look like amber. Had you been in Alejandro’s shoes instead of your own, you might well have fallen for her, too. She was sweet, kind, affectionate, pretty— simply everything a man could want.

You blinked and quickly shook your head to break free from your own thoughts before finally returning her smile. "Of course! That’s a wonderful idea. I love balls, dances, beautiful dresses, and the decorations and oh! I’ll most likely help fund the ball."

"What?" she asked immediately, surprised. "How? How do you already know about it?"

"I spoke with Headmaster Sinclair earlier, before I went to see Isaac. Sinclair told me the budget was very tight, and I said I wouldn't let that happen. I’m going to help finance the ball and make sure you all have the best school dance experience ever." Every word you spoke to her was sincere. You hadn't been to a ball yourself in a long time, and you wanted their first one to be the most beautiful of all. Your mind’s eye was flooded with a kaleidoscope of images from past celebrations you had once experienced. Memories that might inspire you here. A masquerade ball like the ones at Versailles? A dance floor with live music, just like the one you’d known in Ireland eighty years ago? Or perhaps a long banquet table followed by dancing like in the days before you became who you are now.

"That sounds perfect!" she exclaimed excitedly, clutching her notebook to her chest. "I have to call Morticia! Oh, and Larissa. We can have a pajama party here tonight and plan the ball together."

Francoise was already turning around, tossing the purple notebook onto her bed, where the linens lay in a jumble at the foot, and hurrying toward the door. You, however, had come up with a better idea. After all, what was the point of having such a big house if you couldn't actually use it?

"Wait!" you called out quickly, just before she could lay her hand on the doorknob.

"What is it?" she asked, looking back and forth between you and the door in confusion. She was raring to go, practically vibrating with eagerness, but you managed to hold her back just in time. Her room was lovely, of course, but not exactly spacious. Sure, you and the other three girls could have made yourselves comfortable on the rug or the facing beds, but the idea you’d had was far more appealing.

"I’m staying at Rotwood Cottage now, you know? It’s not just much bigger than this room, but it’s also got a cozy fireplace, plenty of sofas and cushions, and all the snacks you could possibly want," you suggested, a conspiratorial glint in your eyes.

The brunette girl looked at you in surprise for a moment, as if she couldn't believe you were making such an offer after everything that had happened. A glimmer of hope returned followed by the thought that your friendship might still have a chance. You wouldn't just be working together tonight; you could grow close again. You, her, Morticia, Larissa, and— what was it you’d mentioned earlier? You had been with Isaac? She wondered why...

"I- yes. Yes, that sounds perfect!" she agreed enthusiastically. "Will you come with me, then? We can gather the others and head straight to the cottage?"

You nodded and gave her a genuine smile. "Yes, of course. The sooner we start planning, the more we’ll get done today."

Your shoes made soft sounds against the floor as you hurried across the fringed rug to join her at the door. She opened it for you with mock courtesy and gave a little curtsy: "After you, my lady."

"Oh, why thank you, my dear," you replied with equal courtesy before stepping past her, which made her laugh. Her laughter was music to your ears, and you couldn't help but link your arm through hers so that you both walked side by side down the corridor.

For a moment, it felt as though nothing bad had ever happened. That was what Alejandro would have wanted, too, for your friendship to endure rather than shatter over a tragedy, no matter how terrible it might have been.

“So, what were you and my brother doing earlier?” she asked curiously, nudging your side gently with her elbow.

“Just talking,” you replied, even though it wasn’t the whole truth. Your cheeks burned at the thought of how your lips had almost brushed against each other... how he had looked at you in that one tiny, fleeting moment when he seemed lost in a trance. When he apparently saw you again just as you had been back then: his princess, his love, his life.

“Oh yeah? And what about?” she persisted, wiggling her eyebrows as if you had another big secret to share.

“I’m afraid that’s private,” you answered with a mischievous smile, causing her to pout. You couldn't help but laugh, and a second later, she joined in.

“I’m so glad you’re back.”

“Me too.”

Rotwood Cottage smelled of fresh food, the pleasant scent of firewood, and a faint hint of wine. Outside, the sky was pitch black and the moon a crescent half-obscured by clouds, while inside, golden lamplight and a flickering fire illuminated the room. Only a day ago, the house had been dark, cold, and lonely, but now it was alive with genuine camaraderie and the laughter of four girls.

Morticia Frump and Larissa Weems sat on the couch to the right of the fireplace. The dark-haired girl held a half-finished glass of wine as she leaned toward her best friend and roommate to look over her shoulder. Larissa held a sheet of notes in her left hand, while her right hand repeatedly twirled a ballpoint pen between her fingers. She wore a thoughtful expression, and a few strands of silver hair fell across her pale face. Even though there were only four of you and no one else around to see, she wore her makeup as if she were about to attend a formal dinner. Morticia, clad in a long black silk nightgown, rested her chin on her friend’s shoulder. Weems turned the paper so Morticia could see it.

On the opposite side, settled comfortably on the other sofa with fluffy cushions at your backs, were Francoise Night and you. A bowl of spaghetti Bolognese still sat in Francoise’s lap; she was absently poking at it with her fork. You had all finished eating half an hour ago— the remaining plates sat on the central table— yet she still held her bowl tightly in her hands. Beside the leftovers and the open bottle of 1945 vintage wine lay an array of sketches, notes, and mind maps. You hadn’t been involved in most of the planning, having only joined the ball committee today, yet you had already contributed several ideas of your own this evening, even though you’d only started an hour ago. Before that, you had spent a long time preparing food and listening to that newfangled music they had sold to you as a "masterpiece."

You were sitting right next to Morticia, jotting down various ideas on a notepad with a pencil. Your handwriting was ornate, beautiful, and old-fashioned, the letters alone revealing that you hailed from a bygone era. You sat cross-legged, your back straight and your hair still tousled from the earlier dancing. Unlike Morticia’s, your nightgown was white with laces at the front, which you had tied into small bows, and the soft fabric draped all the way to your ankles.

The tip of your pencil moved across the paper. Moonlight Ball? No, too kitschy, and it had surely been done before. Remember History? No, too on the nose. Even though you would love for everyone to arrive in Victorian attire, you couldn't force anyone to do so. Gilded Palace? That wasn't bad, but how could one transform Nevermore into a golden palace? It was simply impossible, even if the Academy’s interior was quite impressive. Although it resembled a cool castle more than a lavish palace. You could decorate the ballroom, of course, but it wouldn't be gold.

A deep sigh escaped you, and your shoulders slumped as you leaned back against the cushion behind you.

"Are you sure you don't want any wine?" Morticia asked suddenly, waving her glass. A deep red lipstick stain marked the spot where she had been drinking.

“No, the taste is too sickly-sweet for me,” you answered her honestly, though you still gave her a smile. On your first night at Rotwood Cottage, you had looked around as best you could and found an entire shelf of old wine bottles in the cellar. Of course, they didn’t quite suit your taste.

“Do you prefer it more metallic?” Larissa teased playfully, causing you to simply shake your head and laugh.

“You know me too well.” Larissa laughed too and leaned closer to her best friend, who watched as small ripples formed in the dark red contents of the glass while she swirled it back and forth. A tiny whirlpool amidst the cloyingly sweet alcohol.

“I’ve got it!” Fran suddenly exclaimed, making you jump violently beside her. You hadn’t expected her to suddenly shout right into your ear. Yet her eyes were wide and bright, which immediately piqued your interest. You were curious about the idea she seemed to have, given how radiant she looked.

“Creatures of the Night. That’s our theme. An 18th-century style masquerade ball, where we all dress up and wear masks!"

You tilted your head slightly to the side. You hadn't attended many masquerade balls in the past, since, after all, you had been searching for Isaac and needed to see his face, but you had always enjoyed their aesthetic and grandeur. "A Versailles-style ball under Louis XIV, or an Italian Renaissance-style ball?"

Francoise hesitated for a few seconds, glancing appealingly at Morticia and Larissa, who exchanged puzzled looks. They, too, seemed to be weighing their preferences carefully. You definitely leaned toward Italy. A Versailles-style ball would remind you too much of your visit to the palace where you’d first met Alejandro. Right now, you wanted to suppress the memory of what had happened to your best friend.

"Venice?" Francoise finally suggested, giving you an uncertain grin that was instantly contagious. You smiled back and nodded.

"A Venetian masquerade ball with a 'Creatures of the Night' theme... sounds good," you replied, glancing over at the other two girls from your house who had made themselves comfortable on your second sofa.

"And there will be classical music played by Nevermore’s own orchestra," Larissa added. Her bright eyes shone with enthusiasm and renewed energy.

"Masks are mandatory. No one is allowed in modern clothing— it has to look historical! —and we need a chandelier," Frump continued, sitting up straighter. The wine glass in her hand was forgotten now that the conversation was finally in full swing. The planning continued.

"Someone has to sing The Phantom of the Opera!" Francoise squealed, grabbing your hand and squeezing it tight. Part of you wanted to roll your eyes. A masquerade ball with Phantom of the Opera undertones and a giant chandelier hanging from the ceiling felt a bit too cliché, but it was their prom. If that was what they wanted, you weren't going to stand in their way; you just wanted to make sure it was perfect.

"Who, though? Who can sing?" Weems asked, tilting her head. A lock of white hair fell across her left cheek, framing the striking line of her jaw.

"Morticia would make a great Christine," you suggested, elegantly crossing one leg over the other. "And Gomez could be the Phantom."

"No, no— you, my dear, are Christine," Morticia replied without hesitation, wagging her index finger. "And Isaac is the Phantom who yearns for you."

"Shouldn't it be the other way around?" you asked before you could even think about your words. Heat rose in your cheeks, and you quickly cleared your throat, hoping they wouldn't catch the implication. You might as well have confessed your love for him right then and there, for it amounted to the same thing. They would know.

Six pairs of eyes bored into you, sending heat rushing to your cheeks and a lump forming in your throat. The fireplace warmed the room significantly, yet the heat flushing your face was even more intense than the flames flickering nearby.

"I knew it!" Françoise exclaimed, causing you to flinch for the second time that evening at her almost childlike, yet endearing, enthusiasm. "You have a crush on my brother! You want him! I knew it all along!"

Before you could reply, whether with a half-hearted defense or an admission, Morticia spoke up again, her gentle voice wrapping around you like the scent of roses on a warm spring day: "I knew it, too. I saw it in one of my visions."

Fran’s wide smile faltered slightly, and her brows drew together. "But aren't you a raven? Was it a bad vision? Won't they end up together? Oh, man… I could already picture the wedding."

"A dove, darling. I am a dove. But no, I... I can barely describe my vision. All I know is that I saw you and him together," Morticia told her, her onyx-colored eyes fixed solely on you. Goosebumps spread across your arms, and a shiver made the fine hairs on the back of your neck stand up. You had a very bad feeling about this, even though she was a dove blessed with positive visions of the future.

"At the ball?" you asked, sitting up a little straighter. You wanted to know more about what she had seen, so that you would know what was coming and what to expect in the near future. Would you get the kiss you so longed for? The love you had waited five hundred long years for and for which you could have waited another thousand? Although you had truly known each other intimately for only a week back then, and had only been able to live out your love during that time, that brief period changed nothing about your feelings for him. Your love had been real and deep, and it still was even now.

"No, sometime after that, I suppose. Like I said, I don't know for sure. I can't quite interpret it, but Isaac was lying in your arms, and he looked happy."

"What did his hair look like?" you asked. Larissa giggled, and Fran looked at you with raised eyebrows, as if she didn't understand you at all anymore. Why would you need to know his hair color? Of course it was black— just as it was now— and curly.

"Not quite black," Frump replied, and you immediately understood what her vision as a dove had alluded to. "It was lighter, looking more like caramel. But it was wild, as always."

"What you saw wasn't our future, but our past. Isaac and I once loved each other, though it was an eternity ago," you explained gently to the three girls.

"I don't understand," Francoise said, shaking her head. Her dark brown curls swayed gently back and forth. Her hair was wavy too, but her older brother definitely had curlier hair than she did. Perhaps she was trying to straighten it, because you seemed to recall seeing one of those modern straighteners tucked away in her closet. "We've only known each other for a few months, haven't we?"

“Yes, we do, but I actually knew him five hundred years ago,” you replied with a gentle smile playing on your lips. There was no backing out now. It was better to simply confess the truth to them. You had told Isaac the story just a few hours ago, and now you would share it with them, too. It was only right, given that they were your friends and held a special place in your heart.

So you told them everything. From the moment you met Isaac beneath the willow tree to your first kiss and the decision to marry. You told them about his terrible father, who forced him onto the battlefield even though he didn't know how to fight. You spoke of your final morning together, when you painted his portrait and he refused to let you go. Of course, you also had to share the darker moments: holding him in your arms as he died, and murdering your castle’s priest after a stranger had turned you into a vampire. To this day, you didn't know who had turned you and, in truth, you didn't need to know. Morticia even had to wipe a tear from the corner of her eye as you described the centuries of loneliness you had endured, followed by the immense joy of discovering he had been reborn.

As you finished your story, Francoise placed a hand on your shoulder, but you quickly shook your head and sniffled, blinking rapidly in hopes that they wouldn't notice your sorrow. You had spent so much time grieving that it was a miracle you had any tears left to shed.

“I- I have a picture I can show you,” you said, rising from the sofa to look for the amulet you had set on a chest of drawers earlier. You usually wore it around your neck, but given recent events, you could no longer do so. “I painted it myself back then. It shows him as he was at the time.”

Your nightgown fluttered behind you like a wedding veil as you prepared to face the search, but a hand suddenly wrapping tenderly around your wrist stopped you. Wide-eyed, you looked down at Francoise; her gaze was gentler than the kiss of warm sunlight on your skin.

“We believe you anyway.” She offered you a friendly smile that was something that took you by surprise. They believed your story? Without proof? That was a new experience for you, especially after Isaac, who had refused to believe you right away.

“She’s right, dear Countess. You don’t have to prove anything to us,” Frump agreed, setting her wine glass back on the table beside the opened bottle, which, in all likelihood, would not be finished tonight. Larissa nodded in agreement as well.

After Isaac’s mistrust and, above all, the questions that had been placed on you in the past, it was uncharted territory to have someone place blind trust in you without questioning you. Whether it was your nature, your motives, or simply the fact that you were an Outcast. But here, among a group of misfits and people you would genuinely call friends, that wasn't the case. They didn't want proof, they didn't grill you, and they ignored the faint trail of blood on the rug in front of the fireplace. A trail that only you could have left behind. And wasn't that exactly what true friendship was all about?

Oh, how you wished Isaac would place that same kind of trust in you— or at least lend you an ear.

You cleared your throat softly, not wanting to show just how deeply that gesture had touched you, and finally replied, "You know... actually, I’m not a countess at all."

"What? But Aleo said—"

"I’m a princess," you interrupted Francoise. For a moment, there was silence, until Morticia let out a small giggle. Larissa followed with a snort, and finally, Francoise pressed a hand over her mouth. You started laughing too, struck by the absurdity of the situation, even though it was the truth. The giggling grew louder, and soon you were all laughing together, looking like a coven of witches about to perform a dark ritual to summon a demon.

And so it went on for hours. The moon moved across the sky, clouds came and went, and rain fell for an hour before stopping again. Yet there you all sat, on the same sofas in your house near the Academy, talking about the upcoming Rave’N Ball. You planned out all the important details together: the theme, the dress code, the decorations, the dominant color scheme, as well as the music and the food. You were only finished once you had written everything down and your mind map was completely full, leaving no space left. You collapsed, exhausted, onto the large bed in the master bedroom and fell asleep within a second. The others spread out across the rest of the house. There were two additional guest rooms, and the sofas were perfectly comfortable for sleeping, too. That night, you grew closer, got to know one another even better, laughed, and shared everything; this time, no murder spoiled the evening. For once, it had truly been a wonderful night.

Summer in Jericho was slowly drawing to a close. The pristine Green Mountains and deciduous forests, which surrounded Jericho and Nevermore for miles, effectively shielding them somewhat from the outside world, were gradually turning shades of deep orange and red. Leaves carpeted the streets and rooftops; even in the Nevermore courtyard, the caretaker was kept busy sweeping fallen leaves into piles— a task that seemed to nearly kill him. In the woods, the morning birdsong faded as the flocks began their migration to other regions, and the loud calls of elk fell silent at night.

The first school year you had experienced at Nevermore Academy, which would likely be your only one, was slowly coming to an end. The Rave’N Ball was the year’s final event, one the students were eagerly anticipating, and the date was drawing closer by the day. Boutiques in Jericho were packed with Outcast students searching for the perfect outfit. Beaming girls raced down the hallways after being asked to the ball by their crushes, while tears streamed down the faces of others who had been turned down.

You had never seen such a sense of unity at a school before. DaVincis helped hang decorations that would normally have been too heavy for a human to manage, especially the diamond-encrusted chandelier Morticia had insisted upon; Gorgons crafted magnificent stone statues to adorn the hall; Pyromaniacs practiced circus-style tricks with fire batons and hoops they would set ablaze for the big show; and Sirens provided beautiful vocals that instantly brought a smile to everyone's face.

A large stack of crates smelling of books and fabric blocked your view as you tried to navigate the chaos inside the ballroom. You hadn't even known this enormous room existed until now. Nevermore seemed to be full of surprises, even after you’d been there for three months. Three whole weeks had passed since your friend’s death, your confession to Isaac, and Stonehearst’s growing mistrust of you. You had spent most of that time helping Morticia manage the committee’s workload. You could barely see a thing as you tentatively made your way past a group of werewolves who were collaborating on a massive banner bearing the ball’s theme. The fabric was a deep ruby ​​red, with the words embroidered in gold silk. You nearly slipped on a bolt of silk, and the crates in your arms wobbled so violently that, for a split second, you thought you were about to drop them. Fortunately, you managed to steady yourself at the last moment.

Above you, the delicate diamond crystals of the chandelier clinked and swayed as a team of DaVincis tried— yet again— to secure it to the ceiling. It had crashed down in the middle of the night the day before yesterday, however, since it wasn't made of glass, it had survived largely intact. A boy slammed into you from the side, jostling you, while several people tried to push past you from behind. Heat rose in your cheeks, and you could feel a thin film of sweat forming on your forehead. It was too warm in the ballroom, and the blazer you were wearing over a wool sweater wasn't helping to keep you cool. Just as you were on the verge of feeling overwhelmed, as you were already able to hear the pounding of your own pulse in your ears, someone bumped into your side, causing the tower of boxes in your arms to tip over. Your eyes widened and a shocked gasp escaped your lips, but before the brown boxes could hit the floor, they suddenly came to a halt in mid-air.

The pulse of an invisible force hung in the air as the six boxes stacked themselves back up, one by one. Your gaze quickly scanned the hall for your rescuer before settling on the grand staircase at the far end of the room. Isaac Night stood on the top step with his right hand extended toward you, methodically realigning the boxes before they flew back into your arms. Had he been watching you? How had he known you were there in the crowd?

A grateful smile spread across your face, but before you could even mouth a simple "thank you," you were jostled further along in the opposite direction. Isaac turned away from the crowd and refocused on the chandelier’s suspension mechanism. Normally, he would never attend an event like this, but Headmaster Sinclair had asked him to at least oversee the setup and lend a hand whenever help was needed. He was the school’s best DaVinci, and his talents were in high demand right then.

The boxes found their place at Gomez and Morticia’s table in a small alcove in the back corner. Gomez sat on a chair with Morticia on his lap as they both reviewed the prom committee’s notes. They offered you grateful smiles, and you smiled back. It felt like… home.

But not everything was well. Due to the alleged murder that had taken place and the two missing students— one lying at the bottom of the lake and the other in an unmarked pit— the Jericho Police Department was watching your every move. Deputies stood in pairs at every school entrance and exit, questioning students who had stayed out past the imposed curfew and occasionally searching bags. Even the teachers weren't happy about it, but Principal Sinclair insisted that without these security measures, there would be no Rave’N dance. Students protested day after day, pranks were pulled, and there were occasional altercations requiring the use of "anti-outcast spray" (aka bear spray). Even though you enjoyed those days, they still had their downsides.

"I want to try on the blue one!" squealed Francoise beside you, pressing a finger against the shop window. The six of you were standing in front of a boutique in Jericho, waiting for it to open. A cold wind rushed past you, sending fallen leaves skittering down the street, where the occasional car drove by. A thick scarf was wrapped around your neck, and you had turned up your coat collar to protect your ears. It felt colder in Jericho than in the woods around Nevermore, even if the thought wasn't logical.

"I want to see you in the blood-red dress, cara mia," Gomez whispered into Morticia’s ear, his arm wrapped around her waist. Beside him, Isaac rolled his eyes. He had only come along because Gomez had asked him to.

Francoise squeezed your hand excitedly as her caramel-brown eyes roamed over the selection in the window. She loved looking at the beautiful dresses. Even though she was a year below you, she would be attending the Rave’N Ball this year, since every invitee was allowed to bring a guest. Naturally, she was Isaac’s guest— being his little sister— since he hadn't bothered to find a date for the ball himself.

"Personally, I think that ivory one over in the corner is stunning," remarked Larissa, who was standing next to Morticia, leaning close to the glass.

Amidst the colorful dresses made of tulle, silk, velvet, or other fabrics, there were also suits for male customers that were available either off-the-rack or made-to-measure. Ties were neatly folded on shelves, and small boxes held an assortment of tie clips, buttons, and other small accessories.

"Which dress do you have your eye on?" Fran asked, nudging you lightly in the side with her elbow. The truth was, you simply didn't know. Ever since you’d arrived and spent the last half-hour standing in front of the shop window you’d been gazing into the boutique, yet none of the dresses really caught your eye. Perhaps it was the modern cuts, or the excessive glitter that hurt your eyes, or maybe it was the mostly solid-color nature of the dresses that simply bored you.

"I’m not really sure," you replied, giving a slight shrug. "Nothing really stands out to me."

"Perhaps the violet dress in the corner?" Morticia suggested, her voice smooth and elegant as ever. "I’m certain it would suit you beautifully."

Your gaze found the violet garment she was referring to, but your lips immediately curled downward. You already had an idea of ​​what you wanted to portray at the ball— the theme was "Creatures of the Night," after all— and the color violet didn't fit that concept. You shook your head and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, where the wind made it dance.

"I don't think that will go with what I want to portray."

"Oh! How do you like the gold one over there?" Larissa asked, tapping the glass several times with one of her sharp fingernails. The fact that she wanted to help you too, even though you hadn't spent much time with her yet, warmed your heart, but that suggestion didn't quite fit your idea either. "Gold would really make your eyes stand out."

You shook your head again, and Fran let out a sigh. You would understand if they were all getting annoyed with you. They probably assumed you were a bit high-maintenance given your past, having worn stunning gowns hundreds of times, many of them custom-made just for you. Well, if none of the dresses appealed to you, you still had the one you’d brought from Transylvania, tucked away in one of your suitcases. You hadn’t had a reason to wear it until now, but the moment had finally arrived. It was always good to have a Plan B.

Gomez spoke your name, his accent thick as the words rolled off his lips: "The pink one in the corner? It’s silk, and I’m certain it would look marvelous paired with— Ouch!"

Isaac effectively silenced him by ramming his shoulder into him, shooting a fierce glare at his best friend and roommate. Morticia immediately began rubbing her lover’s shoulder and planted a soothing kiss over the fabric of his suit.

"What was that all about, mi amigo?" Addams grumbled, instinctively leaning closer to his beloved Morticia Frump.

"Does she seriously strike you as someone who likes wearing pink?" Isaac countered, gesturing toward you. Your gaze darted back and forth between the two men, and you furrowed your brows in confusion, your forehead creasing slightly. How did Isaac know you had an aversion to pink? There was no way he could have known that, unless—

The sudden turning of a key in the lock stopped you from getting lost in your thoughts. The shopkeeper, who turned out to be a young woman in her thirties, opened the door for you. She wore a neat updo with a hairpin securing the bun and smelled of cat hair and fennel tea.

"I don't usually open until nine, but I don't want you catching your deaths out here. Come in quickly before it gets cold," she greeted you. Her tone was neither entirely friendly nor was it completely dismissive. She stepped aside then, allowing the six of you to hurry into the warm interior of the clothing shop. It smelled faintly of mothballs, though the most prominent scent was likely the incense sticks standing in a small, inkwell-style holder on a chest of drawers next to the register.

You quickly rubbed your hands, which were even colder than usual, and blew warm air onto your palms, while Morticia let Gomez help her slip her coat off her shoulders, Larissa slid the white gloves from her fingers, and Francoise whispered quietly with her older brother.

"Feel free to hang your belongings on the rack over there. Have a look around and let me know if the ladies see a dress they like or if the gentlemen wish to discuss any of the suits." The shopkeeper gave you a smile that, this time, seemed genuinely friendly. She took Morticia’s coat and folded it with careful hands. A brief look of admiration flitted across her features, as if she hadn’t expected to handle such high-quality fabric.

One by one, you handed your coats, scarves, and bags to the older woman before dispersing throughout the shop. It wasn’t huge, yet spacious enough that you were several meters apart from one another. Morticia and Larissa whispered together, excitedly holding dresses up against themselves to see if their ideas would work. Francoise had paused by the hairpins, admiring one shaped like a crescent moon. Your eyes lit up for a moment when you realized that the headmaster’s tie pin— the one featuring a wolf’s head howling at the moon— most likely came from this very shop. That knowledge was of absolutely no practical use, yet you liked having connected those two pieces of the puzzle.

You were standing in a back corner of the shop, your hands gliding gently through fine dresses in search of one that matched your vision. You bit your lower lip and let out a deep sigh. Two minutes turned into five, and five suddenly turned into ten, yet you had found absolutely nothing. In the background, you heard Morticia disappear into the changing room. Gomez was already rushing over to help her dress when the shopkeeper, whose name you didn’t know, stopped him with a stern word: even though they were a couple, he wasn’t allowed inside the changing room with her.

A small giggle escaped you, lifting your spirits, and you shook your head in amusement— only to be suddenly startled. Isaac was standing right beside you. You hadn’t even noticed him approach! How could that happen? Lately, it had felt as though your concentration was slipping.

“Isaac!” His name escaped you in surprise, and you pressed a hand to your heart. He raised his hands in response, as if silently apologizing.

“My apologies, I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, his hands still raised before he slowly let them drop after a few seconds.

“No, it’s fine,” you replied immediately, glancing back at the fabrics. You hadn’t spoken to each other in weeks. Not since that awkward moment in the Iago Tower when the professor had interrupted you. Of course, you had seen each other a few times in the classroom, in the cafeteria, or simply in the school corridors. The urge to speak to him was always there, but you had held back. After all, the last time you’d spoken, you had confessed your undying love for him and you were certain he would need time to process that.

“I just didn’t see you coming.”

“Hmm,” he murmured with a nod, before his right hand moved the sleeve of a dress with his telekinesis. He made the sleeve rise and wave in your direction, bringing a gentle smile to his face. Even though you knew it was him, you waved back, and the dress made a gesture as if smoothing down its own skirt. It reminded you of a puppet show, which was also something you hadn't enjoyed in hundreds of years, as the art form had increasingly fallen out of fashion.

"It seems to me that the dress has taken a liking to you," he murmured softly. The mere sound of his voice made your heart race, and you suddenly felt much warmer beneath your sweater.

"Oh, really?" you asked in return, a small smile playing on your lips. It was the first time he had spoken to you so playfully. He hadn't done that before. "Why do you think it likes me?"

Heat crept up the back of your neck as he took another step toward you, the slender fingers of his right hand continuing to move subtly like a puppeteer making a marionette dance. The dress’s skirt swayed from side to side, and its sleeves moved as if it were dancing a slow, solitary waltz.

"It likes the way you look at it. The aura of mystery that constantly wraps around you like a cloak. The patience with which you treat things." His voice was barely a whisper as he gave his answer; it sounded almost as if he had rehearsed the words beforehand. His left shoulder gently brushed against yours.

"How would the dress know that, considering we’ve only known each other for such a short time?" you asked him. This wasn't really about dancing dresses— not even close.

“Perhaps it has known all along. Perhaps it has known you longer than you think?” A lump formed in your throat, and you had to restrain yourself from turning to him immediately to search for the truth in his dark, almost black eyes.

“I thought it didn’t remember me?” Your question came out soft and uncertain as your fingers traced the soft fabric of his sleeve. It seemed to wrap itself around your fingers as if by magic, as though it didn’t want you to stop touching it.

“It doesn’t. Not really, anyway. Yet it seems to me that there is a deep need to learn more about what connects the two of you.”

Those words finally made you turn toward him, his name slipping softly from your lips; but instead of looking you in the eye and actually speaking to you, he turned away in a split second and strode quickly toward the changing rooms, where Francoise was waiting with a heavy dress in her arms for Morticia to finally finish. Your heart pounded in your chest, and you didn’t quite know how to categorize what had just passed between you, when suddenly something bright on the floor caught your eye. You blinked and knelt down to where a small, folded slip of paper lay.

A gentle expression softened your features, and you let out a quiet breath. You would recognize those yellowed corners anywhere. Slowly, you unfolded the paper to reveal the picture that meant so much to you. You hadn’t even realized you’d lost it. It must have fallen out of the locket when you showed it to him weeks ago, and he had kept it with him all this time. You pressed the small slip of paper against your chest, as if you could absorb its meaning and weight back into yourself, before quickly tucking it away in your skirt pocket. A skirt with pockets was far more practical than you had initially thought.

As you stood up and brushed the dust from your knees, Weems looked at you, half her face hidden behind a fan she had evidently found in some corner. She was wiggling her eyebrows teasingly, having closely observed what had just passed between you and Isaac: a tender moment of connection, a quiet understanding, the acknowledgment of a past he barely knew anything about.

You quickly shook your head and hurried toward the shop door. You needed fresh air to properly reflect on Isaac's words.

The mirror in front of you was blank, reflecting only the room behind you and the girl sitting beside you. Morticia and Larissa were already fully dressed and sat on the sofa, playfully fanning each other with their large fans. Morticia was portraying a bat; she wore a long black dress that clung to her body, featuring long sleeves that resembled wing membranes whenever she spread her arms, while her hair cascaded over her shoulders in long waves, flowing down her back like a river at night. Her mask, a shade of brown, lay beside her on the sofa. It didn't look exactly like a bat, though she had certainly tried to make it look that way. Larissa had chosen a barn owl costume, her gown being snow-white with beige accents along the sides and neckline, complete with a mask to which she had sewn real owl feathers for authenticity. She had tied her silver hair into a bun, from which beige feathers also protruded.

Francoise, who was sitting behind you and styling your hair just as she had done several times before was also already dressed. She had chosen a whale shark, even though it was only partially a nocturnal creature. When you asked why she had picked that particular shark, she said she liked the idea of ​​it being a gentle giant. That it might look large and dangerous, but in reality, it wouldn't hurt a soul. Consequently, her dress was light blue with vertical white stripes running down her body. Towards the hem, the dress deepened into a darker blue, making it look just like the ocean. The nails of her pale fingers, which she had painted a striking blue, ran slowly through your hair as she tied it up just the way she saw fit. You hadn't given her a specific style to follow. You had simply said you wanted the final result to look pretty.

"Done," she whispered to you, resting her chin on your bare shoulder. Her brown curls tickled your skin, and you saw her smiling in the mirror, though you yourself remained invisible. The last time you had actually seen your own reflection was five hundred years ago. You no longer knew exactly what you looked like. The only reason you could still picture it at times was the collection of paintings hanging on the walls of your castle’s dining room. Of course, beauty always lay in the eye of the artist, and you had yet to meet one who didn't like to deviate from the subject just to make their client look "prettier." No, you no longer knew what your own face looked like. But you had studied every inch of Isaac’s.

"How do I look?" you asked, leaning your cheek against hers.

"Hauntingly beautiful," she murmured into your ear before turning away and standing up. She gathered the fabric of her blue dress and hurried over to the other two girls, who were sitting on the sofa like Yin and Yang. "Look, she’s ready! Well? Did I do a good job?"

Frump and Weems looked up at you in unison as you rose from the vanity chair and turned toward them. Morticia’s dark-painted mouth fell open, and Larissa placed a hand against her cheek.

"Oh, he’s going to love it," Larissa said, fanning herself even more vigorously. Of course, you knew who she meant; after all, she was the only one who had witnessed what happened in the boutique. Your cheek suddenly felt much warmer than before, and you quickly glanced down at the carpet, where a bloodstain was still visible. Even after weeks and multiple cleanings, the blood simply wouldn't come out. "I don't think he'll be interested."

"Who are you two talking about?" asked Morticia, reaching for her bag and walking toward the hallway with a sway of her hips. She reminded you of a proud raven, even though her psychic power was that of a dove. Perhaps fate had intended to make her a raven at first, but her kind-hearted nature had gotten in the way— for Morticia Frump was nothing if not friendly.

"Isaac, of course!" laughed Larissa, quickly following her. Together, they formed a contrast that— confusingly enough— fit together perfectly. Morticia’s eyebrows shot up, and she immediately looked back at her, wearing an expression for the history books.

Francoise grabbed her mask and walked over to the pair as well, a splash of colorful paint between two extremes. "I told you so from the start. I’m getting a milkshake out of this later."

Now you were the one looking confused: "Wait, does that mean you guys made a bet on whether Isaac and I would become a couple?"

"He’s basically your soulmate, so... yeah," Fran answered before quickly rushing out the door, leaving before you could even get a word in. Morticia and Larissa followed her immediately, so you hurriedly grabbed your own feather-adorned mask and rushed after them as fast as your outfit would allow.

Nevermore Academy was illuminated in red and gold as the four of you walked across the courtyard, where other students in fine attire were mingling. A few heads turned your way, but your focus remained on the police officers stationed at every corner like guard dogs just waiting for the chance to bare their teeth, held back only by a tight leash. Francoise’s gaze, too, seemed drawn to one of the officers, someone who appeared younger than the rest, closer to your own age, or perhaps just a year older. Banners of red and gold silk draped from the rooftops and balconies, and a path of rose petals led into the Great Hall, which was serving as the ballroom for the evening.

Your mask sat loosely on your nose and nearly slipped off when the black-haired girl grabbed your hand, quickly pulling you and the others inside. A rush of warmth flooded your face, accompanied by the mingled scents of perfume from the crowd packed into the confined space. The chandelier overhead scattered golden light in every direction, while rows of candles lined the banisters and tables, illuminating the way to the center of the room where the dance floor lay. The Nevermore Orchestra wasn't ready yet; instead, 80s music blared so loudly that conversation was nearly impossible, but that wasn't all. Several hoops— reminiscent of a circus— hung from the ceiling, along with a long rope where a girl was performing graceful, languid movements some nine meters above the crystal-clear floor. Inside the hoops sat several Pyromaniacs, using their fire-manipulation abilities to hurl flames from one side of the room to the other. It was a breathtaking sight.

Your eyes widened and a smile graced your lips as you marveled at the beauty you had helped plan alongside the others. Yet, not even in your wildest dreams could you have imagined the final result would turn out so perfect.

Beside you, Gomez swept Morticia into a dance, extravagant as ever, and completely out of sync with the music. A red rose was clamped between Gomez’s teeth, which you couldn't help but shake your head at, though Morticia seemed to love it, throwing her arms around his neck and letting him pull her onto the dance floor. Larissa simply shook her head and vanished into the crowd, heading toward the bar, where, unfortunately, only non-alcoholic drinks were being served. A glance to the left revealed that Francoise had disappeared as well. Instinctively, you reached for your neck to feel the familiar weight of the locket, only to find nothing there. Right... it still hadn't been repaired.

You pouted slightly and looked around as sparks from the flaming rings rained down upon you. The ball was a riot of colors and creatures, all subtly represented. What struck you, however, was that some groups seemed to lack creativity: most werewolves had dressed as wolves, vampires as bats, sirens as various sea creatures, and— naturally— gorgons as reptiles. You paused at an easel in the corner near the bar, watching something that made your eyes light up: a psychic with the rare gift of bringing drawings to life was sketching whatever people requested, coaxing all manner of images right off the canvas. Half of a king cobra emerged from the canvas, snapping at onlookers; a swarm of moths came to life and flew upward toward the ceiling, though they ventured too close to the fiery rings and vanished in small puffs of smoke. The crowd burst into applause, and you enthusiastically joined in. The artist took a bow, and you moved on to see what else the ball had to offer.

A group of Faceless Ones was milling about in one corner, which was a group you deliberately avoided. They still frightened you after all these years and all your travels, even if that fear was irrational. Some things simply never change.

Beside the raised stage, where the orchestra would later perform and where the instruments were already being set up, stood several terrariums, some of them open. Nearby, Swarmers were having their insects perform little tricks: a spider wearing a hat waved to the audience, while a girl guided a flock of butterflies to form letters or shapes in the air. For a moment, the letter A hung in the air, making you think of Aleo for a moment. It had been weeks since his death, yet you still thought of him sometimes and occasionally lit a candle in his memory. He likely would have dressed like a colorful peacock. The sort of outfit that would have led most people to mistake him for being gay. The thought made you chuckle, and you walked on.

A red carpet was laid out right in front of the orchestra steps, and to its right, a young DaVinci had set out to become the star of the evening. He was dressed like a ringmaster— missing the night's theme entirely— but he performed tricks that seemed impossible to the naked eye. Cards would vanish in a flash only to reappear elsewhere; suddenly, it looked as though an invisible force were hoisting him into the air before slamming him back onto his chair, yet he maintained his professional composure. He balanced a girl, who was dressed like a chinchilla, with gray fur draped over her shoulders, on his arm, despite looking completely slight of build himself. And finally, for his last trick. The girl climbed onto his shoulders, then stood on one leg atop his head without falling. She stood barefoot and perfectly upright on the boy's head, spread her arms wide, and then suddenly— she was gone! She vanished into thin air, and the onlookers erupted into thunderous applause that you immediately joined in with enthusiasm.

Everyone was still gazing up at the spot where the girl had disappeared, a balcony where people milling about on the second floor could look down into the area. You didn't recognize most of the faces behind the masks, but one... oh, one was unmistakable. Your breath hitched, and your hand instinctively went back to your collarbone, where your necklace usually rested. Skin as pale as freshly fallen snow, eyes as dark as the night itself, curly hair combed neatly back for the evening, and a gaze so intense it left you speechless. Isaac Night stood leaning against the balcony railing, looking down at the bustle in the hall below, yet his eyes didn't wander left or right. They were focused on one specific point. They were focused on you.

Someone walked past, blocking your view of Night. By the time they had pushed on by, Isaac was gone. Your eyes widened, and you quickly scanned the room from left to right beneath your mask, but he was no longer standing at the balcony railing. His suit had been a brilliant red with black details on the mask and the front, which was something that would have been hard to miss. Now, you were the one trying to push through the crowd of laughing students. You could barely breathe, yet you darted your gaze from side to side, searching for the man who had stolen your heart and who would keep it forever.

Not far away, boots and heels stomped onto the dance floor, and voices sang loudly and ff-key along to the song blasting from the speakers. Listening closely to the lyrics, you could tell it was sung in German and seemed to be about Amadeus Mozart and rock music. You didn't know how the two went together, but it was one of the better songs you’d heard in months. Unfortunately, you couldn't really enjoy it, as you were neither on the dance floor nor did you have a dance partner. All you wanted was to find Isaac. You came to a sudden halt at the marble staircase leading up to the second floor that were strewn with rose petals, mirroring those outside, with candles lining the railing.

“A nightingale, I presume?” Isaac’s voice was music to your ears, and for a brief moment, the world around you ceased its spinning. All was quiet for an instant. You saw only Isaac Night before you, clad in a black suit jacket that fell to his knees. Beneath it, a lace shirt offered occasional glimpses of the pale skin he kept concealed most of the time. A black-and-red cravat hung around his neck, fanning out at the bottom, while an elegant red-and-black mask framed his sharp cheekbones. At the bridge of the nose, it was shaped like a beak, tinged with a touch of gold at the tip.

“Indeed,” you said after a few seconds spent composing yourself. “And you are a Red Cardinal.”

He descended the steps one by one, his eyes scanning your champagne-colored ensemble, whose skirt were streaked with light shades of red. "Will you sing for us tonight, little bird?"

His polished black dress shoes moved down another step toward you, while your hand rested on the banister. It felt cold beneath your fingertips and smoother than the skin of an eel.

"I hate to spoil the fun, but female nightingale do not sing. They much prefer to let the males impress them in order to find a potential mate," you explained carefully. You would have preferred to keep your voice low, but the music and the chatter of the others were so loud that you practically had to shout at him. Years ago— in another lifetime— you had loved watching birds, but eventually, you stopped replacing the dead ones in their golden cage, focusing instead on finding your beloved.

"So, the question should really be..." you began, a conspiratorial smile playing on your lips. "Will you sing for me?"

"Oh, I cannot sing. You shouldn't expect that from me," countered Isaac, who had by now reached the bottom of the stairs and was standing right in front of you. You had to tilt your head back slightly to keep looking into his eyes. The two almost black orbs were framed by red and black, making them appear even deeper. Like two pools of endless darkness, yet it was not emptiness. His eyes were never once empty.

"A dance, perhaps?" you asked, summoning all your courage. For a split second, the girl you had buried deep within yourself and locked away resurfaced. The girl who had been nervous when Isaac admired her, who couldn't imagine ever having to spend a single day without him. For the first time in a long while, the girl saw the light of day. Or rather, the red-and-gold glow of the ballroom.

"I don't dance." Isaac shook his head and looked past you at the crowd of teenagers wildly moving their bodies to the song blasting through the hall. They spun around, bobbed their shoulders, let their partners twirl them, or performed movements that actually resembled the dance of a bird. You tilted your head in curiosity.

"Me neither," you agreed with a shrug. "Not to this kind of music, anyway. I can manage a decent waltz, though."

The corner of his thin lips quirked into a barely perceptible grin before he glanced quickly over his shoulder, as if he’d felt a breath against his neck. In truth, he simply wanted to hide the genuine amusement in his eyes. Amusement you had stirred up in him. He’d had plenty of time to wrestle with his own thoughts over the past few weeks. He had dissected and reinterpreted your words over and over again, yet he always arrived at the same conclusion: reincarnated or not, you believed your feelings for him were real. Isaac Night didn’t do love. It was a complete waste of time, and he couldn't afford to get distracted— and consequently fail— during the final stages of his project. But you were… different. He couldn't explain it to himself. Whenever his thoughts wandered, they always ended up circling back to you. To the striking, mysterious vampire who had appeared out of nowhere and, in no time at all, coiled herself around his clockwork heart like a serpent. That serpent had infected him with its venom. To the poison of madness that clouded his mind until he could think of nothing but you, you, you.

He turned his head back toward you, while a single lock of black hair curling over his forehead, as he caught sight of movement on the stage. He leaned to the side, and you followed his gaze in confusion, only to see the Nevermore Academy orchestra taking the stage. The loud speakers fell silent, and the pop music faded away. Some students groaned in annoyance, while others shouted "Finally!" across the room. You belonged to the latter group, knowing full well that a waltz was on the agenda.

The dance floor cleared quickly as more people moved to the sidelines, once again obstructing your view. But before you could dwell on your disappointment, cool fingers gently wrapped around your wrist and pulled you up a few steps. This gave you a perfect view of the stage, sparing you from having to peer over the shoulder of someone taller. Even though you could see clearly again, his fingers remained wrapped around your wrist, his index finger rested lightly against your pulse point.

And you knew instantly that he could sense exactly how fast your undead heart was beating because of him.

While the music teacher gave a short speech, you found you couldn't focus on her words at all. There was the sound of the clockwork heartbeat behind you, his subtle warmth nearly brushing against your back, and his hand slowly sliding down a few inches to interlace his fingers with yours.

Your breath hitched. "What are you doing?" Your voice was low. You didn't want to disturb the Outcasts standing in front of you.

"I'm trying to remember," Isaac murmured in an equally quiet tone.

You shook your head, even though he was standing behind you, he could still see the gesture. "Don't play games with me, Isaac, please. I know you don't believe a word I say."

"And yet, I'm curious," he replied without hesitation. His other hand grasped yours again, and a look of confusion crossed your features as you suddenly felt something cold and metallic, which he was pressing from his palm into yours. "Besides, I have a gift for you. Take a look."

You lowered your head and slowly opened your fingers, revealing something extraordinary: a locket. It clearly wasn't made of gold, nor were there any small gemstones adorning the inside, yet it was a locket he had crafted himself. It was small, assembled from copper and iron, with tiny gears and wires as decorations. You wouldn't call it beautiful in the conventional sense, but it held a unique charm that made it breathtaking nonetheless. The silver chain swayed gently in the air.

You couldn't believe it. "Isaac, I... I don't know what to say." A grin spread across his handsome face, and he rested his chin on your shoulder, burying his nose in your hair for a brief moment. He traced the two small bite marks on your neck, and your shoulders tensed. Not out of fear or nervousness, but because intimacy had become so foreign to you over time. Resting one’s head on a shoulder seemed to be something members of the Night family enjoyed, as Francoise liked to do that gesture too.

"How about a 'thank you'?" he murmured, his lips grazing the sensitive skin beneath your ear. His hands slowly stroked up your arms, as if he wanted to map every inch of your skin.

A lump formed in your throat, one you could barely swallow down. "Are you still searching for memories, Isaac? Or what are you doing here?"

"What do you think, Princess?" he whispered. Goosebumps raced down your neck and spread across your arms, which he could almost certainly feel. You felt as though you might faint at any moment.

On stage, the school’s vocal and music teacher stepped back after receiving lukewarm applause, and several students raised their instruments: strings, flutes, and a harp off to the far right. The string quartet set their bows aside, couples began to form, hands resting on shoulders or wrapping around a partner's waist.

You wanted to join in. You wanted to dance.

His lips ghosted over the curve of your shoulder, and you instinctively leaned against his chest before tilting your head to the side, your cheeks lightly brushing against each other. His skin was cool, yet yours was even cooler, even if it didn't feel that way to you. “Would you like to dance with me?” you asked him softly and yet more gently than the sun’s warm kiss upon your skin in the first light of spring.

His lips parted to answer; anticipation bubbled within you that felt almost like lava in an active volcano, ready to erupt, and you could already picture the two of you gliding across the dance floor when suddenly... a loud bang! Several of the police officers you had seen outside earlier rushed into the hall, and Professor Stonehearst stepped onto the orchestra’s stage. The music fell silent again instantly, before they had even managed to play for a full minute. Isaac’s hands tightened around your arm, and you instinctively gripped the new medallion in your right hand more firmly, as if it could offer you some sense of stability.

“Forgive the interruption, it won’t take long,” began the professor of applied sciences and physics. The officers— six of them, though you knew there were more— pushed their way past the students, as if searching for someone to arrest. A sickening feeling churned in your stomach, and you pressed yourself closer to Night, as if seeking protection.

“It appears that several murders took place here some time ago. We assumed these were merely missing persons cases, but now we know better," announced Augustus Stonehearst, standing before the microphone with his back straight and shoulders squared. "Georgie Loyd and our newcomer, Alejandro Cervantes, were both found dead in the woods surrounding Nevermore. Mauled, drained of blood, and clearly murdered."

You shook your head in shock and disbelief, murmuring a protest under your breath: "No, no, that’s not how it happened. He isn’t… I didn’t…"

A collective gasp of shock rippled through the hall. It was so quiet that if a darning needle had dropped, you would have heard it hit the floor. The Jericho Police Department pushed their way through the crowd, as if searching for someone specific.

"We found Georgie submerged in a lake, his body weighted down with stones, and Alejandro was discovered in an unmarked grave about two kilometers from here," he continued. Isaac’s fingers dug more firmly into your shoulders.

"The person responsible is here tonight." The professor scanned the crowd, searching. Your heart pounded so hard you could feel it hammering against your ribs. You had to get out of there. You had to run, and Isaac would come with you— whether he wanted to or not, because— Suddenly, your name was called out across the crowd, loud and clear. "Does anyone know where she is right now?"

"I have to go!" You tore yourself away from Isaac as fast as you could, grabbed the hem of your dress, and hurried up the marble stairs, hoping to find another exit. You loved Isaac, and that was why you had to protect him. No, he could not come with you. Not when he was Stonehearst’s favorite and already on the verge of falling out of favor. You would still be able to see him again, but right now, letting him go was the best decision you could make. Not forever— you hadn't waited half a millennium for that— but at least until you escaped this situation.

Reaching the top step, you saw another police officer running toward you. You had no choice but to turn around and try to run back down, even though that meant heading into the belly of the beast, where you would likely be caught quickly. Your shoes clattered loudly against the steps before Isaac’s hand grabbed your arm once more, his eyes wide as he looked at you.

"But you didn't do anything? You didn't kill him," he hissed under his breath, so only the two of you could hear. Rapid footsteps approached, and the crowd in front of you parted like the Red Sea.

"Not him..." you whispered back, shame casting a shadow over your lovely face. "But the other boy, yes."

His expression shifted instantly, but before you could offer an explanation, hands grabbed your shoulders and yanked you backward by the sleeves of your dress. Two police officers stood beside you, pulling you away from Isaac— away from happiness— and into a situation you had no desire to face. The instinct to fight back took over before you could even think, and you struggled to tear yourself free from their grip with all your might.

"Fuck, she's strong!" one of the men groaned as his fingers dug even deeper into your skin. The sudden, violent jerk to the side was accompanied by a loud sound, the tearing of fabric, as the sleeve of your dress ripped. You bared your sharp fangs at him and hissed like an animal ready to strike and draw first blood.

A panicked glance to the side shattered your heart. So many of the students you had come to know over the past few months were simply watching. They stared wide-eyed at the scene, as if they didn't know you or as if they simply didn't care. To your left, on the raised stage, stood Professor Stonehearst, and you couldn't hold back the rage boiling in your veins. You weren't just angry. You were furious.

With a surge of strength and despite the pain, you managed to wrench one hand free from the older officer's grip and raked your sharp nails across the face of the man who had been tugging at your sleeve. He screamed in agony and clapped a hand over his eye, from which bloody tears started streaming, before you bolted past him toward the stage. Your mask had long since slipped from your face and was caught in a strand of your hair. Stonehearst recoiled; your eyes were fixed on his neck and on his pulsating carotid artery, which you needed only to sever, but there were more than just two officers in the hall. Two strong arms grabbed you around the waist from behind and hauled you back before you could put up any kind of fight. You tried to kick and scratch at him, but the police officer carried you back as if you were a weightless doll.

"Let her go!" a female voice suddenly screamed, and out of the corner of your eye, you saw a blue dress break free from the crowd. "Let her go, she didn't do anything! It wasn't her, it was—"

"Francoise!" Isaac shouted, rushing toward her. In less than a second, he had wrapped his arms around her and pressed her head against his shoulder. That way, she couldn't speak. The truth had to be kept hidden, or else they would take Francoise away from him, and he wouldn't be able to cure her.

Isaac. Francoise. A cure.

A saving idea struck you, and your eyes lit up as you were forcibly dragged toward the exit, where, presumably, you would be put into a straitjacket without hesitation and taken to Willow Hill— Stonehearst’s little paradise that operated by its own rules.

You didn't want to say it. You didn't want to play that card, but it might have been your only way out. Your secret weapon, the one you knew would work:

"Isaac! I know a remedy! I know a cure! I can help her, I can save her from—"

A heavy blow to the back of your head silenced you in an instant, and the world around you suddenly went black.

The dividers were made by @uzmacchiato !

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