#meanvamps

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You wake three times that night. The first time, to pressure; hands on your hands, pinning them to the pillows. A body astride yours. Someone humming under their breath. The eyes of a beast glint in the dark.

“Calm,” the nightmare says, so you are calm. Screaming doesn’t even occur to you. 

Someone inhales and exhales against your neck and noses along your jaw, nuzzling, taking in your scent. You feel a rumbling animal noise like a wolf growling, considering, and then a sharp huff. You sense acceptance. Primal and pragmatic approval. You are part of the flock now. Sharp teeth nip at your pulse with shallow bites, prodding but never breaking the skin. 

Someone else’s fearful reluctance pricks your heart like a thorn. You are of the flock, yes, but you are still dangerous. The hands holding yours down push harder, growing sharp at the ends.

“Someone,” the nightmare hisses, “should clip your wings.”

You wake up the second time gasping and flailing, thrashing your body until you’ve kicked away the blankets and knocked everything off the bedside table. Scrunched up against the headboard, you scan the room once, twice, a third time before your panicked heartbeat slows and starts to settle. You’re alone. One of Athanasius’ ornate lamps has been reduced to colorful shrapnel, shards of stained glass scattered across the wood floor.

Someone knocks. The sound makes you flinch. “Sacrament?” you hear. Athanasius doesn’t wait for an answer. His silhouette fills your doorway, haloed by another lamp in the hall. “Oh dear,” he says. “Stay where you are. I will retrieve a dustpan.”

“I thought you told him to stay out of my room,” you say. 

“I did. Another discussion is in order, it seems.” 

“A discussion?” The sharpness in your tone takes him by surprise. Athanasius pauses, half-melded into shadows, and turns back towards you. “What if he hurts me next time?” you ask.

“He will not.” 

“How do you know that?” 

You hear a soft sigh but Athanasius is quiet a moment longer. He steps through the doorway and comes to kneel at your bedside. Glass crunches beneath his feet. He holds out his hand, palm up, waiting, silently asking for yours. You don’t move. “My apologies, sacrament. For you to be so fearful here, in my care, is unacceptable. Permit me another chance to prove my sincerity and the safety of my convenire.” 

“You say that like I have a choice,” you mutter.

You can’t really see him. He’s just another shadow, a graceful outline drawn in the gold spilling in from the hall. But he’s smiling. You can sense it. There’s a subtle shift in the connection between you, blooming warmth and delight.

“I seem to recall offering you a lesson in self-defense,” he says.

You ignore the needling sensation of his satisfaction when you sit up straighter. “Yeah. You did.”

“I believe there will be an opportunity this evening, should you wish to take it.”

You don’t agree right away. He doesn’t push and he doesn’t leave, either. You find yourself studying him in the dark and feel scrutinized in return. This is no different than his plea for another chance. He presents the inevitable as something you can enjoy and hopes you mistake that for a choice. 

The silence stretches on and your pulse hammers in your ears. You’re struck by the terrifying thought that he might be content to stay there, knelt at your side, for hours or days or however long it takes to get what he wants. Elders measure time differently. Their patience is unfathomable. Your plan has been to play along, wait him out, and seize your moment, whenever it comes. He has to get frustrated or bored eventually.

Athanasius tilts his head slightly, a smile stretching across his face like he’s listening along to your turbulent thoughts. Your moment, you realize, is never coming. The sun will die before he loses focus and lets you slip away.

“I really would like to let you roam beyond the convenire,” he says gently, like you need convincing. “And I know you would like more independence. The freedom to go where you please without a chaperone. It would put my mind at ease if I knew you could protect yourself.”

You search his face for a lie but you have no idea what to look for. For something as old as him, deception might be second-nature. “Don’t let Mihai come in here again,” you say. 

“I will not allow him to disturb you. I give you my word,” he says. He holds his hand out again. This time, reluctantly, you take it. He doesn’t pull you out of bed. His fingers curl around yours and he brings your wrist to his mouth. He shuts his eyes and kisses your pulse three times, pausing between each with a soft inhale. The air in the room feels unbearably heavy when he opens his eyes again, gazing up at you through his dark lashes. 

He’s not smiling. His breath comes quick and shallow, his gaze somehow both intently focused and distant, looking through and beyond you. His hand wraps tightly around yours and squeezes until it starts to hurt. Your wince and the small, discomforted noise you make snaps him out of it, whatever it is. He lets you go and smiles easily like nothing happened. He says something about tidying the floor and taking your time getting ready, and then he’s gone, dissipating as shadows.

That was important, you understand. Meaningful to him somehow. Your wrist still tingles.

Athanasius comes and goes with a dustpan and garbage bag, sweeping up what remains of the lamp. You dress for a workout and slip out of your room, but you don’t make it halfway down the hall before someone pulls you to a stop and corners you against the wall.

You’re expecting Mihai. You’re absolutely not expecting Orion, his chest heaving under a clinging tank top and his smile terse. “Hey there,” he says. He sounds winded. When you try to slip around him, he cages you in, resting his hand on the wall beside you. “Hey, so, I’m just wondering. Where were you the other night?”

You try going the other way and he stops you with a hand on your shoulder. “Athanasius made Renaud take me to work,” you say, hoping he’ll back off if he gets an answer.

He doesn’t. You see his jaw clench, a slow swallow working down his throat. “Oh, yeah? So that tattoo place, right? What’d you do there?” 

“Can you back off a little?” you ask, pushing his chest. He doesn’t budge. 

“You let him fuck you,” Orion says. It sounds like an accusation. You sputter an excuse, a casual deflection, but his thumb brushes back and forth on your shoulder and you feel him slip into your mind like a stone thrown into a lake, disrupting your conscious thoughts with a ripple of sudden intrusion. Shock flickers across his face but then he plasters on his usual easy grin and leans in closer. “Hey, hey, no worries. I don’t judge. It’s just, y’know, I hope you’re not too attached. He sleeps around a lot and, like, between you and me, he only fucks people he hates.” He slides his fingers along the side of your neck. “Messy bite, too,” he murmurs. “You liked mine better. Right?” 

You try to say no but the word won’t come out. You’re lightheaded and the hallway starts to look hazy, the light dimmer, the colors all running together the way they do when you’re slipping under someone’s mesmerism. You make a quiet, frightened noise in your throat because your mouth won’t open.

“Don’t be embarrassed. That’s normal, y’know.” He strokes your arm from your shoulder to your wrist and back up again, caressing your neck. It’s getting harder to stand up straight. You have to lean back against the wall and that just makes Orion press even closer, his breath warming your lips. “You’ve been thinking about it, too, yeah? You want me to bite you again. Right?” 

You want it. You shake your head frantically and you make a muted, miserable sound, but you’re turning your head and craning your neck, giving him everything he wants. It feels like a nightmare. He keeps you from bolting with a slow, steady stroke up and down your arm, but you’re still conscious, too aware for his mesmerism to dull the terror you feel at losing control. Your body obeys and your mind riots. 

Something crackles like small branches snapping. The subtle wintry scent of magic fills the air.

Orion lurches back from your neck and takes you by the shoulders, squeezing. He’s trying to talk to you. His mouth moves but you can’t hear him over the ringing in your ears, and the voice of his mesmerism is like a meaningless murmur coming from another room. He turns, still gripping your shoulders, and yells something down the hall. You’ve never seen him so afraid. 

The shadows around him stir. Renaud slips from the dark on his right and then he freezes, wide-eyed and shrinking back like a frightened animal at the sight of you. Athanasius surges out of the dark already reaching for you, curling his hand beneath your chin and wrenching your gaze upwards, away from the hatchlings. It happens too quickly for you to see him clearly but you feel flickering embers in your connection, pinpricks of surprise that flare into a conflagration of conflicted emotion. Excitement and wariness, hope and dread, eagerness and resignation; it all comes at once, all inextricably tangled together. Before you can make sense of it, the full force of his mesmerism comes in a drowning wave and you are gone again.

*

The third time, you wake in slow motion. Coming back to yourself is a gentle process under Athanasius’ precise control. He releases your senses one at a time, keeping everything foggy and dreamlike as long as he can. You smell the rust and spices of hot, fragrant blood-tea. You feel the plush warmth of a heavy blanket stretched over your body. You’re woozy and sore, feeling like one big bruise. The room is a blur at first but it sharpens, the shapes and shadows within becoming recognizable silhouettes.

Table and armchair. Ornate picture frames. The gray stone of the fireplace and the sleek black screen of a TV above it. You’re in the parlor, on the couch. Someone is nearby, next to you, petting your head. Someone is in the armchair. A conversation is happening without you.

“…would not be opposed to an official inquiry?”

“Your travels have taken you through Envred before. I need not tell you how they are likely to respond to such accusations.”

“Pride is for the bird whose nest is well-tended. What right do they have to refuse?”

“We must do this quietly.”

A long pause. A soft sigh. Athanasius speaks with a quiet viciousness you’ve never heard from him before. “You show restraint when it vexes me most. They do not deserve our respect or our discretion. They deserve nothing. Do you know how many witches a single compound murders in the span of a month? A year? When I think of that filth trespassing into other territories—”

“Athanasius.”

The hand on your head stops for a moment and then resumes its ministrations, even more gently than before. “Good evening, sacrament,” Athanasius says, honey-sweet once again. You squirm out of his lap and curl up on the far end of the couch, and he smiles patiently. The only light in the room flickers in a faint glow from tealights on the coffee table, glinting in the eyes of the nightbound watching you. 

You don’t recognize the one in the armchair. It’s not one of the hatchlings. Half-lit, you only see part of a stern, solemn face and pensive frown. His hair is long and dark like Athanasius’, falling over one shoulder in glossy waves. You can just make out a black vest and a pinstriped shirt underneath. Legs crossed, stiff and upright posture like he’s posing for a portrait. He leans forward to set a saucer and teacup on the table and as he nears the light, the shadows peeling back from the rest of his face, you realize it’s not a stranger after all.

It’s Lord Regent Avudim.

“My, you look surprised,” he says, chuckling at the unabashed horror on your face. 

“What are you doing here?” you say.

“I am visiting an old friend and confidant whose opinion I hold in high regard.” He shares a look with Athanasius that you can’t even begin to interpret. They’re smiling, but it doesn’t reach their eyes. Athanasius exhales wearily but he brightens again when he turns back to you.

“How are you feeling, sacrament?” he asks. He looks you over briefly. His gaze lingers somewhere below your face. “I apologize if there is any lingering discomfort.”

The question isn’t fully formed in your mouth before you realize what he’s looking at. Everything hurts, but your arm is the worst. The pain is deep and dull, an ache buried in your muscles that throbs when they flex or move in particular ways. You find a bandage plastered to your shoulder when you push up your sleeve. You look to Athanasius for answers and find him staring back at you with uncomfortably intense curiosity. 

“Do you recall the incident at the Council meeting when you were sentenced to sacramental service?” he asks. He’s watching you carefully as he speaks, paying attention to your defensive posture, the way your hands clutch at the blanket and your shoulders draw further inward. “You attempted to use your magic in a haphazard manner and lost control of it.”

“I never really had control of it. Since, you know, I never had the chance to learn,” you remind him. 

He continues calmly like you never spoke. “You had a similar incident once again this evening. I was unable to completely subdue your magic even after rendering you unconscious, and saw fit to administer antiarcanic injections.” He pauses. It doesn’t matter how well you maintain a stoic facade. You know he’s catching the scent of sweat and hearing your pulse pick up from a saunter to a nervous gallop. “You received three times the recommended dose. I was reluctant to continue but your magic would not respond to anything less. Any witch in your position would be incapacitated for some time and feel quite unwell upon waking. Unless…”

He trails off and tilts his head, as if inviting you to finish the thought. The silence stretches on uncomfortably. Is there any point in stalling or trying to lie? You know how nightbound interrogations work. You wonder what they’re even fishing for. They probably know already. You know Edmund found every little sentimental trinket you had stashed away back home because they’ve all quietly appeared in bags and boxes, delivered to your room by Athanasius with a coy smile. He must’ve found your stash of antiarcanics stuffed under the mattress, too. You’d kept them in an innocuous plastic case, packed them between sheets of painkillers and stacks of bandages so it looked like a first aid kit, but you’re sure that didn’t stop him from rifling through it anyway.

“No, it did not. We teach our agents to be thorough,” Avudim says. He chuckles at your withering expression. You shouldn’t be surprised. You feel him in the same place you feel Athanasius, a gentle, squeezing pressure on your mind. Maybe fledglings like Edmund need to put you under completely, but elders only need connection to get a foothold in your thoughts. He hums in approval and smiles condescendingly. You remember, as vividly as you can, the night you climbed onto the Council meeting stage. You imagine the Lord Regent dead beneath you with a dagger through the heart.

In retaliation, Avudim imagines you at his mercy instead. Not as it truly happened; worse. He thinks of you stretched sensually across that table, your arms above your head, your neck bared, chest heaving with quick breaths and heart racing in both fear and desire. You are dressed in nothing but a translucent robe that drapes heavily like silk, so thin and sheer that your skin shows wherever it settles against your body. It is white for now, but you know it’ll bloom scarlet wherever they feed. Avudim’s fingers curl beneath your chin, tilting your face to look up at his sharp, hungry smile as the Council descends like wolves upon a trembling deer—

And then it’s gone, the vision wiped from your mind. You’re still trembling. You feel hot and tingling as though still shaking off the euphoria of being fed upon. Avudim sips his blood-tea with his eyes shut as though nothing happened. 

“Enough,” Athanasius says. “Do not test the Lord Regent, sacrament. It concerns me greatly that you have used antiarcanics so recklessly in the past.” He raises his hand just as you open your mouth, anticipating an argument. “Yes, I know, you did so out of necessity, and so we must ensure it is no longer necessary. It is clear to me now that what I considered ‘rewards’ are, in fact, rather urgent matters that must be attended to sooner rather than later. Your magic lessons will begin once I have finished developing a lesson plan and will continue until you are no longer a danger to yourself or others. The Lord Regent has generously offered to teach you self-defense—”

“No,” you say.

Avudim doesn’t even look surprised. He does a poor job disguising his smile behind his hand, feigning a thoughtful expression. Athanasius tilts his head and looks at you patiently, as though waiting for you to explain yourself. 

“I don’t want to learn from him,” you say, watching the Lord Regent out of the corner of your eye. “I’m already sore.”

“It will not be like last time. He will teach you, not simply seek to exhaust and humiliate you,” Athanasius insists. 

You look at Avudim again. He looks at you, smiling innocently. “Then you have to stay,” you tell Athanasius.

“Of course. I will escort him from the premises myself if he does not conduct himself appropriately.” 

They look at each other again and this time you notice subtle movements. Narrowed eyes. The twitch of an almost-smile. They must be talking telepathically. The conversation moves even faster than the ones you’ve seen between the hatchlings and they’re better at hiding it. You wonder how long they’ve known each other and how much power Athanasius truly holds in Skelveross. 

“We will begin with a lesson on predation,” the Lord Regent announces. 

He stands gracefully and Athanasius follows, the two of them pushing the furniture towards the walls and making a wide open space in the middle of the parlor. The light leaves with the candles and you find yourself swarmed by shadows. The nightbound are just outlines and glinting eyes again, swift shapes that make you flinch whenever they move. You can’t tell them apart anymore. You can only assume that the one that comes closer is Avudim and the other, drifting over to the fireplace, is Athanasius.

“Let us pretend that you are alone in the night, somewhere beyond the convenire,” Avudim says. “It is dark. You cannot see well. But you know you are being followed. And then…” He starts pacing around you in a slow circle. It doesn’t matter that this is just a lesson, that he’s in Athanasius’ convenire and you know he won’t hurt you. Your heart is in your throat. “You should always keep an eye on that which preys upon you,” he chides. You find his eyes in the dark and hear a chuckle. “Good. Maintain eye contact. We are ambush predators by nature. A traditionalist will always prefer to take you by surprise. Now, you will move towards safety.” 

“What does that mean?” you ask. You glance away for just a moment, searching for Athanasius, and the air stirs around you. You feel breath warming the back of your neck and a hand clutching your shoulder. 

“Do not lose sight of me,” Avudim murmurs, so close you can feel his words against your skin. “But yes, your instincts are correct. Go where you are protected. Try again.”

He vanishes, his touch and his breath suddenly absent. You turn back and forth, spinning in place trying to find him again, but he never reappears. Athanasius watches, unmoving. Should you go to him? Is it safe? You take a step closer but it doesn’t feel right. Wasn’t Athanasius next to the fireplace? That’s the other side of the room. At least, you think it is. You’ve stumbled around too much to know for sure. A wall. That’s what you need. A way to get your bearings. You move with your hands outstretched, searching for something familiar. 

“Very good,” you hear. “If you are denied one sense, use another.” 

There are two sets of eyes in the room again and you watch them both, backing away slowly. Which way is safety? Neither one moves. Your shoulder knocks into the wall and a rush of dread pulls your gaze away for barely a second, not even a blink, but that’s all a nightbound needs. All you see is more darkness, the lights in front of you vanishing, but you feel movement, sense the sudden oppressive presence of something standing too close and caging you in. An arm rests against the wall beside your head. A hand cups your jaw. You jolt in surprise but there’s nowhere to go, and he tightens his grip to keep you there.

“Fear leads you astray. Look at me. Look carefully.”

You move purely on instinct when he leans in, trying to push him away. He’s too close. You feel his hand gripping your shoulder to keep you still and his breath warming your neck. There’s nothing to see. You don’t know what he wants from you. He’s just another shadow in a room full of them but there, in the far corner--points of light. Athanasius. His eyes shift slightly as though he’s raised his head in pride.

“You are accustomed to fleeing at the first sign of danger. But you must know where a predator lurks before you choose which way to run.” Avudim grazes his thumb over your pulse and then he tugs you away from the wall by the shoulder. “Once more. Find what hunts you first. Find safety second.” 

Movement churns in the dark, shadows rearranging. You steady yourself and scan the room carefully. The first set of eyes you find is distant and closing in, pacing just as he did the first time. You follow with your eyes, never letting him see your back. You move when he does, a step back for each he takes forward. Suddenly, you feel warmth. Fondness. The connection between you floods with cloying affection, the same sensation you always get when the Lord Regent smiles at you like a cute, mischievous animal. Angry and flustered, you almost look away. 

You can’t see it, but you can tell by feel that he’s grinning. “Good. Very good,” he says.

“That’s not fair,” you mutter, your face burning. 

“We are never fair when we hunt.”

Another slow turn around the room and you finally spot a second pair of eyes. The relief you feel is almost embarrassing. You resist the urge to bolt. Patience. That’s what he’s trying to teach you. Don’t rush and don’t give yourself away. You mirror his movements, pacing the room again, until you know Athanasius is behind you. You step backward without looking until you run into something.

A hand gently clasps your shoulder. You nearly collapse in relief. Their touch is different. You know even before you hear a pleased hum over your head and a soft, “Well done, sacrament.”

“Yes, well done. You are very trainable,” Avudim says, sounding far too happy about it for your liking. “My apologies, but the rest of your lessons must occur another night. There is an urgent matter that requires my attention. I recommend the exercise we practiced this evening in the meantime. I have no doubt the hatchlings would be eager to assist you.” 

“I bet they would,” you mutter. You’d rather not get within reach of Orion or Mihai right now. Maybe you could talk Renaud into it. Athanasius rubs your shoulder in reassurance and then brushes past you. “Hey, wait, uh…” 

“Yes, sacrament?” He stands beneath the archway where the parlor ends and a meandering hallway begins, the Lord Regent just beyond it. 

The cold light of their eyes fixed upon you makes your heart race all over again. It was just a game, you think. That lesson just now, stumbling around in the dark, was never going to hurt you. But the danger felt so real. Even now, knowing it’s over, you want to bolt. It’s only Athanasius’ presence that gives you the strength to stand still. That’s safety, after all. Him and the convenire--that’s where you run.

“Where, um. Where are you going?” you ask. The dread is back. Not the same immediate sense of danger as when Avudim hunted you. A subtler, creeping thing. A bad feeling. 

“I always see guests to the door. It is polite,” he says simply. You nod. The lights shift; he’s tilted his head. He doesn’t say anything when you follow them both down the hall, staying close to Athanasius’ side. He doesn’t have to. Through the connection, he can feel your nerves and your wariness, your unwillingness to be alone in the dark and something else. Something bitter and disappointed.

Athanasius’ hand settles on your lower back. He means to be reassuring but it just makes everything worse. Tonight’s lesson was not about self-defense the way you hoped but the way they understand it. They’re nightbound. You’ll never have the upper hand, and why would they want you to? The best thing they can do is train you to seek protection from the proper places. To love and rely upon the bars of your cage.At the front of the manor, Athanasius and Avudim exchange shallow bowing gestures. The Lord Regent bids you goodnight and Athanasius locks the door behind him.

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Marshal keeps a bowl of candy at the counter. Just in case.

It looks like a joke. Big metal mixing bowl with a paper sign saying “help yourself,” perched innocuously at the quiet end where people don’t like to sit? That’s a punchline to something if not the setup, especially here. Southbound is a gnarly little dive bar with the ambience of a factory assembly line and the sophistication of a truck stop. It’s loud and shoulder-to-shoulder crowded, the wood floor’s scuffed to hell and the walls are covered in so much shit—vintage beer ads, license plates, foggy polaroids, forgotten hats, an atrocious garland of plastic leaves in a violently neon shade of green—that Marshal can’t remember what they even look like anymore. The mixing bowl’s a strange touch but he insists on it, keeps an eye on it, swings by now and then to refill it. 

“Stop looking at it,” Tommy reminds him, because they’re swamped tonight and Marshal’s acting like there’s a tripwire in the corner and he has to be there to see it go off. Complaining for the sake of it, honestly. They’re both too quick at this to get overwhelmed. The back of the bar is a narrow lane barely wide enough for one of them but they move like two halves of a perfectly synchronized whole, timing their movements, tossing bottles back and forth. 

It’s a typical night. They’ve got the regulars, the tourists, the just-passing-throughs. The blood mix in the fridge barely gets used because most of their customers are human. Southbound wasn’t a kin bar until Marshal took the reins and nightbound are creatures of habit. He only gets hatchlings in here. The elders and fledglings already have their favorite watering holes elsewhere. It doesn’t bother him much. Humans feel safer when they aren’t outnumbered. He gets to see things most nightbound will never see.

Where are you? he wonders. All his life, he’s been waiting for you. A stranger. Someone whose face he doesn’t know. Someone who has no idea how important they are to him. He’s done the research, studied patterns. He’s learned all the signs and how to parse them, teasing apart the real thing from accidental imitation. But some of the elders he’s talked to tell him instinct is a part of it, too. A gut feeling. He wants to believe that. He wants to know it’s you at a glance even though it’s never that simple.

“Are you twins?” a woman asks. She and her friends cluster around the middle of the bar, enjoying the spectacle. Tommy’s showing off and that goads Marshal into doing it, too, slicing fruit mid-air, tossing ice cubes at each other and catching them behind their backs.

“Us? No,” they say at the same time, grinning. That always gets a laugh. 

It’s strange how clutch-siblings grow to resemble each other. They couldn’t be more different—slim, sweet-faced Tommy who knows what colors go together and how a suit should fit, and big-armed, broad-shouldered Marshal with his faded tattoos and car restoration habit. Habit, Tommy likes to say rather than hobby. It just happens if his hands aren’t busy. Their paths never would’ve crossed in the ordinary way of things, but here they are bleeding into each other out of fondness, sharing the same mannerisms and turns of phrase, the same set of expressions. They don’t even need telepathy to communicate, knowing instinctively what the other thinks and feels with only a glance. They’re close because they had to be once. 

It had been a clutch of six; a combat team of twenty. They’re all that’s left. 

“Are you single?” one of the other women asks, glancing back and forth between them. “Either of you?” 

“Sure. But I think we’re a bit too old for you,” Marshal says, but he winks and that makes them giggle excitedly.

“Is it rude to ask how old you are?” 

“Oh, not really. But it’s complicated, and we like to be cryptic,” Tommy says. He slides a cocktail across the counter and smiles wide enough to flash his fangs. “Why don’t you guess? How old do you think we are?” 

They start throwing out numbers; too low sometimes, trying to be flattering, and sometimes outrageously high. Marshal smiles but his attention is split. He’s been keeping an eye on one of their number in particular, a woman at the edge of the group who keeps looking at the bowl.

A redhead. Freckles dotting her cheeks. Black shirt with mesh sleeves; a necklace with a small ruby pendant. She walked in the middle of the pack when they came in like she was trying not to be seen. He sees her read the sign, her lips scrunching into a frown.

Is that you? he thinks. Are you out with your friends tonight? Are you close or are they just a cover? He wouldn’t blame you for that kind of pragmatism. He wants you to know this is a safe place to land.

“Is, um. Is it okay? To take one?” she asks shyly, not quite meeting his eyes. Nervous; her pulse would give her away even if nothing else did. The glint like a wolf in the dark scares humans sometimes because they forget who and what they’re talking to. Sometimes they don’t forget at all and they’re scared for other reasons.

“Of course,” Marshal says. He doesn’t rush over even though he’d like to. He pretends he’s busy, more focused on her friends and exchanging banter with Tommy. She reaches for the bowl and hesitates, glancing at him like it might be a trap, but she won’t catch him staring. Years of practice allows him to hone his senses, filtering out conversation, laughter, the floor creaking, drinks sloshing, heat purring through the vents, cars rumbling in and out of the parking lot outside. She takes one finally. Plucks a shiny gold wrapper out of the bowl and turns it over in her palm.

“What are these?” she asks.

Marshal smiles. “Hard candy. I don’t care for the flavor, but I’m hoping someone else will. Take as many as you’d like.”

She looks intrigued and picks out a few more, passing them down the line to her friends. Marshal spins a longer version of the same lie about a holiday party, a well-meaning human friend and a bag of candy he’s trying to get rid of without letting it go to waste. Tommy’s giving him an exasperated look and playing along, and they’re both taking their time on these cocktails just so they have an excuse to linger.

Probably not, Marshal thinks. He’s not disappointed because he never lets his hopes get too high. They’re all too alert and too talkative, too eager to share with each other. He watches them for a little longer anyway. Just in case.

The night goes on. People come and go. The candy bowl gets a few curious and inebriated visitors, but never the kind Marshal is looking for. “So,” Tommy says. He slides the grenadine down the counter and Marshal passes him the lemon sour. “I had Soiree in mind for this weekend.”

“Soiree?” Marshal says.

“That place near the pier, you know the one. We drive by there all the time—”

“That tourist trap? Come on.” 

Tommy clicks his tongue and shrugs in a way that means he’s about to die on this hill. “They just added a kin menu.”

“And everything will cost three times what it should.”

“And?” Tommy says.

Marshal rolls his eyes. “And that’s ridiculous.”

“And it’s our birthday, the last one that matters. Let’s be ridiculous. Do you really think Elspeth would let us go somewhere less extravagant?”

No, of course not. It would go against her sensibilities as their sire. Adoptive, in official documentation, not that it means a thing to either of them. She’s the light who showed them a way through the dark.

“I can hear it now,” Tommy says, then makes his voice soft, low and elegantly lilting. “Why, anything for my ducklings!’”

“She has to stop calling us that, right? It must be against kin law to embarrass elders,” Marshal says. 

“It’s certainly not. You’ve heard the way they bicker. That’ll be us soon, old and never happy about anything.”

Marshal’s smile wanes, humor souring to an awful empty feeling. In just a few days, they’ll have lived through a full century as nightbound. It’s nothing to scoff at. Conscripts are lucky to see the seasons change and here they are staring down the end of their fledgling years. He’s worked through his survivor’s guilt but disappointment lingers. Being an elder is about more than age. There was something he’d hoped to accomplish by now.

The door squeals open, then shuts. Small group; lots of footsteps. Marshal keeps tabs on them by sound alone, paying attention to gait, pulse and perspiration. The new voices he can pick out of the din are raucous in a shrill, juvenile way. He smells lowered inhibitions and alcohol he doesn’t stock. Bar crawl night for a local fraternity, he guesses, based on their age and how they dress. One of them wanders off in search of a bathroom, passes the counter, and slows to a stop next to the candy bowl.

Marshal looks over, senses focused. Young twenty-something. Sandy blond. White t-shirt and stone wash jeans. A tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth when he reads the sign and then he stares at the candy, indecisive. 

Is that you? he thinks. Are you enrolled in school right here, right under his nose? You wouldn’t have to quit. There’s so much you could do, so much you could have, if you tell him you’re here. Just give him a sign.

“There isn’t a single dedicated kin restaurant anywhere on that side of town,” Tommy mentions. 

“Ah, so this is espionage. You want to see what it’s like, try to tempt the same clientele.” 

Tommy shrugs but he’s grinning as he rinses a glass. “Would you disown me if that’s where I decided to open my restaurant? I’ll keep the dress code lax, I promise.” 

“You’d sooner step into the sun,” Marshal says.

“I’m going to put a bar in there, you know. A nice one. I’m thinking a black marble countertop and arched shelves at the back, like Gothic windows. I’ll need someone who knows what they’re doing.”

Marshal sighs. “This place means a lot to me.”

“I know, I know,” Tommy says, shaking his head.

He doesn’t quite believe Marshal and that’s alright. He dreams of succulent blood-stuffed entrees worthy of Michelin stars and plating techniques that require an art degree. Southbound has never been his passion but working the bar has been the trial by fire he didn’t know he needed, a crash course in navigating peak hours and pleasing strong personalities. Marshal will miss him when he’s gone and he might not hire a replacement. No one else would be good enough.

“You know phalenes better than I do. What’s a must-have for the menu?” Tommy asks. A peace offering; Marshal can talk shop all day. 

“You really can’t go wrong with Heartwater. It’s got that strong, rich taste and it looks lovely in a glass.”

The guy at the end of the bar is still staring at the bowl, brows furrowed, like it’s confusing him. He reaches inside, brushes his fingertips against a wrapper, but he doesn’t take it. Marshal imagines walking over there. He imagines saying something. “Would you like to sit down?” with all the softness he’s got in him, like he’s trying to coax a feral cat out of hiding. He imagines guiding him into the back room, bringing the bowl with him, and locking the door. 

No, he thinks, probably not. He still can’t bring himself to look away.

“What about Poppy Cream? Too much? I suppose elders don’t usually like sweeter drinks. But I want hatchlings to feel welcome, too. Remember when we were coming up? Not a single decent bar in this whole town, just grimy basements and old warehouses. Ugh. I don’t miss Prohibition.”

“Mhm,” Marshal says. 

Tommy sighs audibly. He nods to the end of the bar and the man standing there, gazing into the bowl with drowsy fascination. “Marshal. That boy is high as a kite. You don’t smell it on him?”

Of course he does. He couldn’t possibly miss the rancid stench of cheap weed in a small space, even with his focus filtered. “I’m just making sure he’s alright,” Marshal says.

They’re too busy to waste time staring each other down so Tommy turns his back on him for a while. He’s mad, and probably mad that he’s mad, because they’ve argued and agonized and made peace about this a million times before. 

They’re living through a drought. No witch blood to be had because they’re out of witches and haven’t had one as long as Marshal and Tommy have lived here. Mostly, it’s bad luck. Surahem is a tiny territory sandwiched between larger, more established neighbors, the offspring of a bloody dispute between old nightbound dynasties. That kind of history lends itself to problems, like lemure infestations and opportunistic hunters, and their relationship with the human government is tenuous at best. It’s exactly the kind of chaos some witches like to disappear into, but that doesn’t mean anything if nobody can spot them. 

The young man at the end of the bar moves on eventually. New strangers drift in and out of Marshal’s crosshairs like mice scurrying around a baited trap meant for something bigger. He always looks, always checks, always exhales slowly and goes back to work in the end. No, no, no, he thinks. It’s never you, but he never gives up.

Tommy’s no good at the silent treatment. “I worry about you sometimes, that’s all,” he says after a while. “You take it so personally.”

Marshal wants to say he doesn’t but they know each other’s tells too well. So what if he does? It matters to him. Elspeth raised them to think of the big picture. They need projects, she’d say. Decades-long endeavors. Generation-spanning fixations. Worthy elders dedicate themselves to challenging vocations, an art form or two or five, an all-consuming field of study. That was the honorable way to spend their eternity. Their predecessors, those hedonistic beasts who walked the earth before the Treaty of Aneptyra, thought only of their former glory and heeded only their own destructive whims. There was nothing good in that, Elspeth claimed, nothing that they would be able to look back on with pride. She would know. She’d been one of them once.

Marshal’s project is finding witches. Finding that first witch in particular. Finding you. There’s only one major highway cutting through Surahem and it’s so close he can see it out the window, lit up with sparse midnight traffic. It’s been fifteen years since he bought the place and he still hasn’t seen you but he knows he’s onto something. It doesn’t matter how many false alarms he gets. He’s going to be ready when it happens.

The women leave, their designated driver taking one last candy for the road and leaving her number behind on a crumpled napkin. The bar crawlers move on a little later. Someone comes in for directions, trying to find a hotel. The bikers they see every weekend come in for beers and a game of pool. Tommy tries again, mostly in jest, to poach him for his posh restaurant, claiming he’ll even let Marshal put a steering wheel or something equally hideous on the wall to make it homey.

Marshal is thinking of a rebuttal when they both hear a commotion outside. Raised voices. Tempers flaring. Someone gets shoved into the brick exterior of the bar and someone else gets shoved harder to the pavement. 

“I’ve got it,” Tommy says. Marshal lets him go. Fights are usually his territory—one look and humans tend to slink off without complaining—but he knows Tommy’s restless and needs a distraction. They exchange looks briefly; appreciation and acknowledgement. Marshal likes to keep the chaos controlled. A bit of rowdiness is alright but he breaks things up even if they’re happening outside. Southbound came with a nasty reputation that he’s trying to smooth out just a little. The city’s wary of him as it is, snatching up a previously human-owned business. He’s aiming for less rumors and fewer visits from the cops.

Tommy rolls up his sleeves and heads out. Marshal lets his mind drift, releasing his constricted focus. He smells alcohol and all the syrups and bitters. Leather boots and jackets. Nicotine, rust, somebody’s perfume, the nerves and lust of a hookup-to-be. Humans are such fervent, messy creatures. He’s loved and loathed them in equal measure, always cycling back to fondness in the end. How could he not? That’s where he came from, where he got all his goodness. That’s what you’ll be pretending you are.

The door opens again; clatters shut again. A loner comes in with a weary, dragging gait, lugging a backpack on one shoulder. Dressed right for winter but maybe overkill for tonight, the cold a milder sort. Coat hanging open, jacket half-zipped, scarf looped around the neck. Traveling, almost certainly. Not a local. Tired eyes. Shaking hands. They step forward and then they stop, looking around blearily. That foggy sleepwalker look on their face makes something in Marshal bolt upright and pay attention.

It’s you, he thinks. He shouldn’t feel so certain. It’s too early to tell. But he feels something he can’t explain, something that tells him he has to stay close and make sure you don’t leave before he’s gotten a closer look. It’s you. He knows it is. Knows this is what he’s been waiting for.

You’re out of it, that much he can tell. Definitely sleep-deprived. You blink rapidly, shake your head like you’re trying to keep yourself awake. Another hesitant step and it’s like a switch flips. Your head snaps up and you find the bar. You start moving again, a little faster. Marshal pretends he needs something off the shelf behind him and turns away, but he tracks you. Coming closer. On his right. Now his left. Your pulse is going haywire and he smells the salt of tears that dried to your cheeks before you came in.

He hears one of the bar stools scrape back. You sit down. Drop your backpack to the floor. Breathe shakily. More salt in the air. “What the fuck am I doing?” he hears, barely a whisper. He looks discreetly over his shoulder. 

There you are at the quiet end of the bar, away from everyone, next to the bowl. You’ve got your elbows on the counter, your head in your hands, but you’re staring at the bowl with wide eyes and dilated pupils. Could be sick. Could be on something. Could be a runaway. Could be a very particular kind of runaway. 

It’s you. It’s you. It’s you. He has to remind himself to breathe. Relax. Speak calmly and casually. He doesn’t want to sound like an elder.

“You alright?” Marshal asks. He’s facing away, not letting you see his eyes shine. 

He hears a sniffle. A swallow. “Yeah,” a hoarse croak. “Sorry, yeah, just. Need a minute.”

“Take your time,” he says. 

A wordless hum in response. Your breathing evens out a little. He wanders off to the other end of the bar. Gives you space. Keeps watch. He has to be absolutely sure. He waits until you start nodding off to come back. You’re here, you’re right here, and he can’t even touch you yet. It’s killing him. You look like you’ll collapse at any moment. 

“You want some water?” he asks.

“Wh…uh. Yeah. Please.” You tap your fingers on the counter nervously. He fills a glass and slides it over. 

“Could make you something on the house?” he offers. “Looks like you could use it. No offense.”  

You laugh, quiet and humorless. “No, I get it. Oh, but, uh. Is…” You pause, glancing behind you. “Um, is this a ki—a, uh, a vampire bar?”

Marshal maintains his stoic, faintly interested facade but inside, he’s thrilled. Almost said it, didn’t you? he thinks. It’s not damning. Plenty of people know the term “kin” now. Still. “No such thing as vampires. Anymore,” he says.

You look up and he sees the moment it hits you. If this isn’t all a torturous coincidence, you’re good. Careful with your reactions. There’s a flash of fear in your eyes but no more than he’d expect from a human who’s simply never been this close to a nightbound before. “Oh,” you say. 

He smiles. Keeps it small, fangs hidden. “Everyone’s welcome here, but it’s a human crowd tonight. That’s how it is every night, truth be told. Must be all the noise.” 

You nod and visibly relax, sagging against the counter. Your forearm brushes against the bowl and you look at it again but you don’t reach for it. Marshal wonders if he’s wrong; hopes he isn’t. You keep glancing at the door and he needs you a little less wary.

“So? What am I making you?” he says.

You blink up at him like you already forgot the offer. “Oh, uh. No, that’s okay.” And that could be innocent. Could mean you drove here and this is just a quick pit stop to clear your head. It could be that. Could also be that you think he’s going to slip some nectar into the glass. He might push a little harder if you didn’t look ready to bolt, but there’s no need. He’s got other tricks up his sleeve.

“If you change your mind, just say so,” he says.

It’s getting harder to walk away but he manages. This is part of the process. He knows that. He’s practiced. Gone through it in his mind, rehearsed it with Tommy over and over again, planned for every possible outcome. He needs to leave you alone so you can relax and let instinct take over. You’re still too guarded and that means your self-control is better than some elders he knows or you’ve only depleted most of your magic rather than all of it. Maybe both.

Or he’s wrong. It could be that, too. But he really doesn’t think he is.

Someone leaves. Someone else wants a refill. Another car pulls up outside. Everything is muffled, relegated to the edge of his senses. Everything but you.

“Hey, um.” You give a hesitant wave. Marshal makes himself move at a leisurely pace as if no part of him is screaming with urgency. “Are these, uh. What are these?” You point at the bowl. 

Marshal puts on a smile, more aware of it than ever. Small. Approachable. Like he’s thinking fondly of a friend but not too fondly, a subtle kind of amusement. “Hard candy. I don’t care for—”

“What kind?”

Sharp, aren’t you? Trying to throw him off or catch him in a lie. But he’s been preparing for this longer than you’ve been alive. “Butterscotch or something. Not my thing.” 

You curl your fingers over the edge of the bowl and leave them there. Your hands are still shaking. It’s a fine tremor, worse in the index and middle fingers. The “guide fingers,” they call those, for most forms of magic, easily strained if someone’s overextended. You’re examining the wrappers, considering reaching in, which means you’re still thinking too hard. He has to redirect. Make sure you don’t think he’s herding you towards it. 

“Not to get in your business, but if you need to call someone, you can use my phone,” he says.

One. Two. Three. Four whole seconds before you blink and look up at him. It’s uncanny how much you remind him of a hatchling who just scented spilled blood. “Oh. Um. No, that’s. I mean, thanks, but. I’m alright,” you say, looking away quickly.

“Alright, well. Same deal as before. Offer’s still on the table.”

“You’re being awfully nice,” you say.

He chuckles. Sounds like somebody’s had it up to here with pushy, overly friendly nightbound, which means he’s not the first one to take notice. Could be a problem. Might mean you’re savvy to all the usual tricks. You’re retreating, pulling your hand away from the bowl, and he wrestles with a spike of frustration. Slow, he reminds himself. Slow and steady now. “You want me to be a jackass? You look like you’ve had a hard day.”

You study his expression for an uncomfortably long time and then you look away again. “Yeah. I did,” you say.

“You wanna talk about it?” he asks. You look at the door again and Marshal consciously steadies his breathing. “Certainly don’t have to.” He’s purposefully careless with a spoon, lets it clatter on the counter, and your gaze darts back to him. That’s it, he thinks, eyes on me, sweetheart. Times like this make him wish he’d gotten the hang of aural mesmerism. His auditory is too slow and his visual is too weak, the gradual creeping fog too dangerous in case you’re familiar with the feeling, and if tries making physical contact, he’s sure you’ll run. He could really use Tommy right about now. 

Marshal takes a quick peek towards the door. Is he still out there? How long does it take to peel a couple of humans off each other and convince them to leave in opposite directions? 

He extends his mind, tentatively offering connection. It's hard; his aural is clumsy. But his clutch-brother is familiar, easy to find and reach, and Tommy’s aural mesmerism is incredible. He answers instantly, latches on and leaves himself open. “Tommy,” Marshal sends, “you’re not going to believe this.” Then he feels heat, prickling, and tightly-wound tension. Anger and worry.

“CTF’s here,” Tommy tells him over the connection. Quietly, more a subtle thrum than fully-formed words, like somebody else is trying to read him. “Not ours. Skelveross.”

Marshal's pulse kicks into overdrive but he keeps up an air of nonchalance. Fuck. He was right. He was right, it is you, and you’re here because another territory’s overzealous CTF chased you across the border. He doesn’t have time to slowly wear you down. You’ll panic if you realize what’s waiting for you outside and you’ll panic if you realize he knows what you are, and if you step out that door…

“How many?” he asks Tommy. 

Tommy sends a quiver of defiance, then resignation. “Just one, but he called for backup. The rest of his squad must be in the area. He tried pulling rank. Didn’t realize I was older. This is bad, Marshal. They’re risking a lot with a stunt like this and I don’t think they care.”

Of course they don’t care, there’s a witch on the line. Fucking Skelveross. Like he needed this to be any harder than it already was. “Does he have probable cause?” he asks.

“The alleged witch allegedly drove here and their alleged car is parked out front. If there’s anything else, he’s playing it close to the chest. How sure are you?”

“Completely. I need you to stall, please. Long as you can,” he says.

“Obviously,” Tommy scoffs. “I told him someone just sprinted out the back door and into the woods, and he took off. I’ll stay here to intercept when he gets back but I can’t promise you’ll have much time.” Admiration blooms across the connection. “I can’t believe it. The first witch in a hundred years, and they show up on your doorstep.”

Marshal’s satisfaction is short-lived. He’s still got work to do. He starts making the rounds, checking on people. He grazes their back or their shoulder with his hand and nudges gently into their minds, helping them decide it’s time to go. Just a few to start, staggered so they don’t all leave at once. A thinner herd is easier to manage. He sees Tommy duck inside just long enough to flick off their “open” sign. Marshal sends a few formal texts but emphasizes he doesn’t want anyone showing up yet. He doesn’t want this to escalate unless it absolutely has to. Standby, he stresses. He gets pushback. He’s asking for a tremendous amount of trust. Skelveross is ruled by a sadistic cutthroat who will gladly risk war over the witches he pursues. Can they afford to call his bluff? Is he even bluffing? 

“Requesting ten minutes. If I am unable to resolve the situation in that time, I will gladly accept CTF intervention,” he writes. 

Praetor Iestyn tries calling him and he winces sending it to voicemail, but he can’t afford to be overheard. A minute passes. He gets a text back. “Granted. Territorial Defense unit holding position,” comes Iestyn’s curt response. He’s going to hear about this later but it’ll be worth it.  

Clock’s ticking. Time to make some tough decisions. He takes up a spot across from you and rests his forearms on the counter. “Where are you headed?” he asks.

Predictably, that earns a suspicious look. “Darrow Hills.” 

He hums. “Long drive.”

You nod. Marshal knows you’ve got one foot on the bars of the stool, the other resting against your backpack. He wonders what you’ve got in there. You shrug. “It’s, you know. For work. New job.”

“Yeah?” he says.

“What do you care?” you snap, and then you rub your face with your hands and sigh. “Sorry, I—sorry. I’m tired. Too much driving.”

“No worries,” he says. He could never be mad at you. He backs off for now. He’ll give it a minute or two, send off a few more customers. He feels for Tommy and gets a warning pulse in answer. Their unwanted visitor must be back. 

Marshal goes for the bikers, gives them conflicting impulses. Some want to leave now and some want to stay a while. They bicker lightheartedly and start for the door in slow motion. He catches you tilting the bowl, scrutinizing the candy. His gums throb around his fangs. He swallows the saliva pooling in his mouth. He wonders if this is how spiders feel watching something free and fluttering right beside their web. He gets a few more people out the door and suddenly the bar is nearly quiet. The last couple stragglers head out and all that’s left is him and his witch.

His witch? God, he’d be embarrassed if anyone could hear his thoughts but Tommy. Whatever comes after this is for the Council to decide. He has to stay focused. He hears a car pull in. And then another. And then another.

“Squad’s here,” Tommy warns him. “Speed things up if you can.”

You’re hunched over the counter, head resting face-down on your folded arms. Not asleep. Faking it. Making your breathing slow while your pulse is still hammering away. Marshal weighs his options. He stays on his side of the bar but he gets closer, moves across from you. “You alright?” he says quietly.

No answer. He can’t be sure what you’re trying to pull but he knows he has to be careful. He rests his hand on the counter and leans over. You’re so close. A little further and he could touch you, easily. Are you expecting it? Is that what you’re waiting for? He wishes he had more time. He takes a risk and leans in a little further, reaching for you.

A strange scent blooms in the air. It confuses his senses. Overpowering, yet he can’t identify any specific qualities. It’s damp, he thinks, or at least it reminds him of rainy days and the pier. There’s a sharpness to it, a frigid quality. He thinks of mint and pine but it’s not quite either. Magic, he realizes. That’s what this is. He’s heard people try to describe it and only now does he understand why it was such a struggle. He puzzles over it only briefly, shorter than a heartbeat. It’s still too late.

In the same second Marshal catches the scent of magic, it sparks, streaks downward, and skewers him through the hand. If he wasn’t nightbound, he wouldn’t have seen it happen at all. He hasn’t even taken a breath when you lunge for him with a pocket knife. He recoils on instinct but he doesn’t get far, the magic spearing his hand keeping him anchored to the counter. The blade slices into his shoulder with sickening ease and he feels magic crackling under his skin, a spell unfurling. It’s enchanted. His muscles lock up and he can’t fucking move. You slide back with a shaky exhale and leave the handle sticking out of him. 

“Keys,” you say.

“What?” Marshal grunts, straining against the spell. The hand you pinned to the counter throbs painfully. The magic running through it is a construct, a solid projection of your will. It’s shimmering, iridescent blue and sleekly vicious, a cross between a spear tip and a hummingbird. It yanks its sharpened end out of his hand, sending blood spattering across the counter, and buzzes around his head in frenzied circles like an angry hornet. 

Smart, he thinks. Sucker-punch with a construct, then close in with the real threat. 

“Your car keys,” you demand. You sling your backpack over your shoulder and then you push yourself up and over the bar counter, dropping down beside him. Marshal watches in disbelief as you fiddle with the cash register, grabbing fistfuls of bills. You’re robbing him. He coughs out a laugh and you give him a venomous look. “Where are your car keys?” you ask again. Your construct sizzles threateningly, jabbing the air in front of his face.

“You’re not leaving. There’s a whole CTF squad outside,” he says. You look towards the door and curse under your breath, then start rummaging through the shelves. “It’s the Skelveross CTF,” he clarifies. “They followed you here.”

“You’re lying. They don’t cross territory lines,” you mutter. You snatch his bottle of nectar from the very back and your tremors get worse until you stuff it into your bag. 

“They’re not supposed to. But Skelveross is infamous for playing fast and loose with the rules when they want something.” 

Your construct wavers like a mirage, briefly losing cohesion. That tells him you’re terrified. “How many exits does this building have?” you ask.

“Just two. Front door and back. By now, though, they’ve got the place surrounded.” He breathes. Stays calm. Tunes out the pain and focuses on you. You’re crouching behind the bar now, losing your nerve. This was impulsive, he realizes. You didn’t plan to do this before you got here. “Hey. Listen to me,” he says quietly. Your construct trembles again. “Listen. You’re going to be fine. But you have to stay put. I can’t help you if you go out there.”

“You can’t help me at all,” you say, your voice cracking.

Marshal watches you unwind from a tight, uncomfortable crouch to sit on the floor. He wishes he could sit with you. He always fantasized about having this conversation looking you in the eye, maybe with a hand on your shoulder to keep you calm. He would’ve had Tommy whip up a little plate of something comforting and easy to digest. He’d answer all of your questions and ask some of his own. He’d take his time.

But he doesn’t have time. Headlights shine through the front windows. When he opens up his senses, he catches pacing and muttering outside. They’re threatening to get their Council involved and Tommy’s holding his ground, offering to return the favor. He’s sure his ten minutes are running out. He tries flexing his arm but it feels like his limb’s fossilized, heavy and frozen. He tries subtle transfiguration next, beneath the skin where you can’t see. Not much luck rearranging soft tissue but if he hardens instead, turning his muscles to stone, there’s some give. The knife shifts, sliding outward an inch. It burns but the pain is nothing to him when you’re so, so close.

“I can make sure they don’t take you,” Marshal says.

“Because you’ll take me instead,” you argue.

“We’re better. You’ll like it here.” 

You roll your eyes. He’s fond of you already.

“Really,” he insists. “Surahem is beautiful. We’ve got the city if you want it, but lots of parks and wilderness, too. There’s a lake not far from here and a bunch of awful tourist shit on the coast, but only on the southwestern side. Up north, it’s gorgeous.”

“I don’t care,” you mutter.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He’ll have to make it up to you somehow. Later, when everything’s in writing and he knows you’re here to stay. He takes another steadying breath and changes his flesh a little further, tenses, pushes harder. The knife burns when it moves. The moment is no longer delicate and he tells you things he didn’t plan to tell you for a while. “You know, you’re the first witch we’ve had in a hundred years.” 

Your expression scrunches up in bewilderment. You must think he’s lying. “How?” you say.

“Council doesn’t have its shit together.” The tiniest, slightest hint of a smile twitches at the corner of your mouth and it makes Marshal a little giddy. “I studied it. Seriously. I spent a while traveling, trying to figure out what we were doing wrong. Kin bars have the highest catch rate of any building or business type in a territory, and kin bars at the city’s outskirts and along major roads do even better. Surahem’s kin establishments are all clustered together and none of them were anywhere near the highway, so I bought this place and fixed it up.” 

You look around, unimpressed. “Fixed it up, huh?” 

“Sure. The flooring’s new. So’s the counter. Barstools, too. Didn’t make it more than a few weeks unscathed, but that’s not the point.” 

He sees you think about it, staring at the ceiling in silent contemplation. “They’re all wood,” you say slowly. “All the new stuff. It’s wood.” 

“Bingo. Because you like wood.” He grins at the perturbed look you give him. “It’s true. You might not even realize it, but your instincts gravitate towards certain things. Natural materials. Earth tones. Gentle lighting. It pulls you in, makes you stay longer than you would otherwise.”

You’re looking around again, noticing things your subconscious mind spotted already. The wood, of course, but also the colored shades on the lights that mute them and that ugly plastic garland and how all the photos crammed on the wall are of trees and landscapes. “You’re kidding,” you say.

“It got you, didn’t it?” he says. 

You laugh. Then you lean your head back against the bar and sigh. You’re crashing. The enchantment holds but your construct starts sinking, steadily losing form. You beckon it into your hands and it curls up, vanishing into your palms. You watch it fade with a listless expression. If he could, he would let you stay there until you drift off to sleep. But he can’t. One more pulse of transfiguration and the knife squelches out of the wound and clatters to the floor. By the time you’ve even registered the noise and moved to look at him, he has you. 

“It’s alright,” he says, even though you’re screaming too much to hear him, even though you don’t care and you don’t believe him. He gives a testing push with his mesmerism, brushing against your mind, and magic thrums in the air. Sharp pain lances his side and Marshal grits his teeth. He can’t believe you have anything left.

“I hate you. I hate you,” you spit. 

He hauls you to your feet and drags you to the end of the bar, right next to the shattered, blood-spattered countertop. You fight but you’re not going to win. It’s easy for him to pin you in place with nothing but his body. You swing for him and he catches one hand, then the other, twisting them behind you. Your hands twitch in his grasp and another needle-bird construct pierces his thigh. They’re smaller and flimsier, translucent like colored glass, but they still hurt like hell. When you can’t keep them solid, you let them burst and the magic feels like shrapnel sizzling in his wounds.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Give me everything you’ve got. Let it all out.” He squeezes your nape and tries to get a foothold in your mind again. You thrash, inside and out. You fling another construct at him but your aim’s off and it skitters off the counter, not sharp enough to lodge in the surface. You’re running on empty and you still won’t give up. He swears to himself that you will want for nothing as long as you live. He’ll never let Surahem feel like a cage. All you have to do is let go.

Rage cools to fear and your screams turn to sobs. Marshal sees a construct simmer in and out of existence before it evaporates, never fully coalescing. It’s the sign he’s been waiting for. He leans over you, reaching across the counter. Undisturbed by the chaos, the bowl sits right where he left it. He picks out a piece of candy. You squirm a little but he’s wrung you dry. He can use both hands for this. He tears off the wrapping. Sloping and uneven, thicker on one side than the other, it looks like a lump of amber. It’s the good stuff. High concentrate. All the grit filtered out, golden and sparkling like honey. He knows you could smell it all the way out in the parking lot. Nectar is even more potent when it’s not smothered in liquid.

“Know what this is?” he asks. He holds it in front of you. You give a violent jolt that gets you nowhere and then you lay there, panting. “Yeah, I know you do. You’ve been looking at it all night, holding yourself back. Go on. It’s for you.” You try reaching for it and he pulls it away. He can’t let you do it yourself. You’re a Surahem witch now. You’re going to be cared for and he’s going to prove it. “No hands. Open your mouth.”

“Fuck you. Just put me under,” you say hoarsely. There’s no bite to it. You know it’s over. 

“After the night you’ve had, I don’t want to take this from you. Open for me.” His fingers trace your lips. He knows you think about biting him. He feels your jaw tense. But he sticks the candy in your mouth with his fingers and the second you taste it, you’re gone. Your feed instinct takes over and all that matters is the nectar. “That’s it, sweetheart,” he murmurs. He eases up, still draped across your back but not leaning so much of his weight against you. One of his hands strokes your jaw and the other feeds you. He keeps your teeth apart with his fingers and rubs his thumb against your tongue. Drool coats his fingers and drips down your chin. “Don’t bite down. Let it melt in your mouth. You like it?”

You moan. Marshal strokes the side of your face and draws his hand down, caressing your neck. He tugs off your scarf and peels the collar of your coat out of the way, burying his face against your skin. Venom pools in his mouth and he swabs it over your pulse with his tongue. You probably won’t feel it anyway but you deserve every kindness he can give. He pulls back and the sound you make is almost wounded. 

“Not taking it from you, I promise,” he says. 

He helps you turn around and then he lifts you onto the counter, sliding into the space between your parted legs. This is better. This is how he always thought it would go. He brings the nectar to your lips again and you open without hesitation, sucking the candy and his fingers around it. He tilts your chin. Turns your head higher, then away. You make a questioning sound but otherwise you barely react. It feels like the most natural thing in the world to hold you close, lean in and breathe your scent from your throat. He cradles the back of your neck to keep you steady. He trails his lips from your ear to your shoulder, finding just the right spot. He licks and sucks at it. He nips, light and playful. Then he opens his mouth wider, sets his fangs into place, and shuts his eyes.

Southbound’s door slams open, banging against the wall. The parking lot is swarming with CTF agents, some Marshal recognizes and some he doesn’t. A handful push their way inside and then they stop, frozen in helpless rage. Marshal stares back at them over your shoulder with his teeth in your neck. He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have to. No matter the territory, every nightbound speaks this same primal language. 

“You can see yourselves out,” Tommy says from the doorway. The Skelveross CTF are furious but they’re outnumbered. Half the Surahem Council is outside, Archpraetor Elspeth among them. Marshal hears muttered insults, curses and threats that the Lord Regent will be informed, and the swift departure of several vehicles. He should say something, he thinks. Should greet them, at least. But he can’t let go. He’s not sure he’ll ever be able to let you go. Is this what witches feel when they feed on nectar? You taste like nothing else on earth. He can’t believe so many territories give their witches to hatchlings. How can they possibly appreciate this?

“Elspeth says good job, by the way,” Tommy whispers into his mind. “She said they’re ours if we want, but it wouldn’t feel right to me. This is your dream.” 

They’ve talked about it before, at least in the abstract. Marshal can be possessive with his donors. He’s not sure he could share a witch with his clutch-brother, as guilty as that makes him feel. Tommy never seemed bothered, but he never seemed to believe they’d see a witch, either. That’s alright, Marshal thinks. Now they know it’s possible. If he can find one, he can find another. Tommy deserves that, and so does the next witch who passes through, but that’s a worry for another night. Right now, you’re all there is.

.

.

.

“Be wary of that one, my friend.”

You sit up straighter, startled out of your lazy lean against the wall. Door Thing sounds different today. Maybe the change has been gradual and you just haven’t noticed, but its voice seems a little bit smoother and stronger. It doesn’t wheeze as much as it used to. It still gets quiet sometimes, still speaks haltingly, pausing to breathe like all the talking tires it out, and in the quiet you hear chains rattling, but your conversations are longer and easier now. You tell it about the last few nights and it has more to say than thoughtful hums and unsettling laughter. 

“Lost. Oh, yes, he’s lost. And lost children don’t know how to behave,” it chitters when you complain about Orion.

“What a waste. What a shame,” it sighs when you wonder where you stand with Renaud.

But when Mihai comes up, it gets stern with you. You’re so surprised you don’t answer right away, and the silence makes it caution you again, “That one. Young but old. Be wary.”

“Mihai?” you echo. That’s who you were talking about. Last night continues to haunt you. You had no idea there were two elders living in the convenire, and one of them has been right under your nose. “Yeah, I know. But he’s afraid of me, too. Like, really scared. I didn’t know elders felt fear.” 

“Hhhaaa. Haha. They don’t.” 

“How do you know?” you ask.

“Oh, my friend. You think I’m lying. But I’m not. I see. I see it all. Through the bars of my cage.” 

The dark plays tricks on your eyes. Sometimes, you think the shadows in the hallway are alive and squirming. The charred door with the butterfly looks the same whether you shine your flashlight at it or not, always wreathed in a smothering, smoky gloom. Sometimes you think it’s getting bigger, chafing against its hinges. You think about walking away but you’re afraid to turn your back on it. 

“Elders,” it hisses. “True elders. They don’t know fear. They know, hhhhh. They know. Birth by burial. We know it, too. Don’t we?” 

You push yourself to your feet and watch the door warily. It’s strange that you keep finding yourself here. You’ve tried to come up with reasons but they all seem flimsy when you’re looking right at it, gripped by fear again. You feel some sense of camaraderie and morbid curiosity, a vicious possessiveness over any secrets you can maintain, but none of that really matters. This thing is dangerous. It knows things it shouldn’t.

Like birth by burial. You trace the carvings in the wood with your eyes and wonder about it again, like you always do before you inevitably forget. “Who taught you that phrase?” you ask it.

“Those who came before us. Who taught you, my friend? ”

“Then what does it mean?” you press. 

“It means. Hhhh. It means that one. Elder who isn’t. It means he knows you. And your darkness. And your cruelty. Almost as well as I do.” It pauses to inhale, and then it laughs quietly. “No one knows you the way I do, friend.”

“My cruelty?” you echo incredulously. “What’s that supposed to mean? I’m not the one who—”

There’s a noise. A sudden, rhythmic click click click! It’s shockingly loud the way any small sound is at the edge of sleep, amplified by your groggy brain. You startle, knocking your head back against the wall and wincing at the bruise you feel forming there. There’s a hand in front of your face. Fingers snapping to get your attention.

It’s Mihai. He stepped between you and the—

the…

You blink a few times. Did he use mesmerism? Your mind is full of fog. You’re in the upstairs hallway again, for some reason. He’s watching you carefully through long, unruly bangs.

“Awake?” he asks. 

You blink again. “Was I asleep?” you say.

“Hm.” He frowns. You feel the passing sweep of psychic connection, and then an unpleasant scraping sensation like something’s licking the inside of your skull with a sandpaper tongue. You shudder. Mihai lets out a quiet huff of disappointment. “You were called. You didn’t respond.” 

“Oh. What does Athanasius want?”

“Not Athanasius,” Mihai says tersely. He crosses his arms over his chest but he looks more uncomfortable than angry, shoulders tense and jaw clenched in a grimace. “I called you.”

“Oh,” you say again. 

He doesn’t elaborate. For a solid minute, you stand in uncomfortable silence, shifting nervously as he stares you down. He’s wearing a plaid jacket and blue jeans, everything fitting noticeably better than his usual overly loose hand-me-downs from the other hatchlings. You wonder if he’s going somewhere. 

And he still hasn’t said anything. “Uh. Okay. So…?” you say.

He starts pacing. Your pulse skyrockets because you’re suddenly reminded that he’s got more in common with Athanasius than he does Orion or Renaud. There’s something about the way elders move, an animalistic grace that makes it seem like their human skin is just a thin, ill-fitting layer stretched over their hunting forms. You watch him stalk down the hall, wandering all the way to the dead end with one of his hands grazing the wall. Then he comes back along the other side. He pauses beside every single door, grazing his fingertips over the wood and leaning in to…

Is he sniffing them? You can just barely hear quick, little inhales whenever he angles his head towards the hinges. You have to cover your mouth or he might see you grinning. You have no idea what he’s doing but you’re reminded of a dog again, snuffling around in the bushes looking for squirrels. He returns to you looking even more frustrated. 

“We shouldn’t be here,” he says. “Follow.” 

“We shouldn’t—what? Why? What’s wrong with—”

He sighs and starts to hum softly. You remember what that means just a moment too late, your thoughts slipping away and your eyes fluttering shut.

You’re in the forest again. That soft, pretty, perfect place without hot, unpleasant concrete, without blinding headlights, without skyscrapers and city haze and humans or any kin at all. Just trees. Just streams and hills. Birdsong and skittering and the creak of branches. Soil below and the canopy above and the moon peering down from a velvet throne of night. You feel at peace here among the wildflowers and spiderwebbed hollows. The breeze is cool against your cheeks and sounds like a song. 

The grass rustles. Mihai makes himself known. You hold still and you sense that this intrigues him, his cautious curiosity reverberating through your emptied mind. But why would you do anything else? He asked for your stillness so you give it eagerly. Fingers ghost up your arm to your shoulder. A thumb strokes your pulse. He draws closer, wrapping his arms around you, and takes in your scent from the crook of your neck. You are fragile. Still tender. Fresh from your chrysalis. This worries him; entices him. You will only grow stronger with time. Will you also grow vengeful? Kin are not content to live in cages. 

But you are content, here, for now. He strokes your neck and you lean into the touch, expectant, baring your throat. Oh, you are tempting, but he will not have you like this. He nuzzles against your pulse and relishes your pleased shudder, how easily you yield to him. Poor, delicate thing, so weak to the sweet whispers of your hunter. It is good you are here where he can watch you. Better that you are here where the ancient can keep you from harm. All will be well a while longer. All will be well, if you let it be.

“…a particularly troublesome spot. It might be best to arrange another cleansing. Ah, welcome back, sacrament.” 

You blink the blurriness from your eyes, not that it does you any good. You’re in the dark. The parlor, you assume, from the vague angular shapes you can barely make out. All the light you get is from the hallway, one of innumerable lamps that glow like lighthouse beacons throughout the mansion, just enough to trace the edges of furniture and gleam in the eyes of the two nightbound leering at you. The taller one is Athanasius. You don’t have to see him clearly to recognize his quiet chuckle. The shorter one is definitely Mihai because the second you glare at him, he retreats several steps.

“You can’t just put me under mesmerism because I don’t do what you say fast enough,” you say.

He blinks. “Yes, I can,” he says.

“No, you can’t,” you insist. “I don’t like it, and—”

“Yes, you do.” The look on your face makes him shrink back further, half-hiding behind Athanasius. “You like the forest,” he says quietly. 

You’re not quite sure how to respond to that. Complete violation of your autonomy aside, the forest itself isn’t unpleasant. You wonder what makes Mihai’s mesmerism so different from the others. Can they all take you somewhere else rather than just drag you into a peaceful void?

“Mihai wanted to ask you something,” Athanasius says. They look at each other. Subtle movements and titled heads tell you they’re conferring telepathically. 

Mihai clears his throat. “I have business in the city. You can come with me.”

You’re awkwardly staring at each other. All this, just to ask if you want to go somewhere? He’s lucky you’re desperate to get away from the mansion every chance you get. “You can’t use mesmerism on me while we’re out there,” you say.

His eyes narrow. “Nevermind. You’ll stay here.” 

“Mihai,” Athanasius says, lightly chiding. They look at each other again, the silent exchange shorter this time. Mihai sighs like the world-weariest, most put upon nightbound that has ever lived and you think of a dog again; a dramatic puppy plopping down in the middle of the floor after a tiring day full of nothing in particular.

“Barring emergencies,” Mihai says begrudgingly, “I’ll try not to.” 

Your brows furrow. “What kind of emergency—”

“Forgive me, sacrament, but this is not negotiable.” Athanasius steps forward and rests a hand on your shoulder. “I cannot foresee every possible danger you might face beyond the estate, but I will not forbid Mihai from using every tool at his disposal to ensure your safety. Mesmerism is not only about control.”

Not negotiable, he says. So this is one of those inviolable limits he’ll let you poke and prod but never fully cross. Part of you wants to make more of a fuss, but this isn’t the right hill to die on. Before Edmund plucked you out of comfortable anonymity, nightbound were far from your only concern. 

“Fine,” you relent. “Emergencies only.”

Athanasius rewards you with an affectionate caress to both body and mind, rubbing your shoulder and sending a sensation of warmth and gratitude through your connection. He walks you both to the door and, to your surprise, lets you walk out with a collar. Only when you’re making the long trek down the hill do you realize you have no idea what you’re in for. You’d heard some of Orion’s unflattering secrets before he hunted you in the woods and Renaud opened up a bit after you came to an understanding, but Mihai is a complete mystery. 

You steal glances as the outdoor lights of the mansion dim with distance and the moon falls across his shoulders. He stays just out of arm’s reach. You can tell when his eyes glitter that he’s looking at you, too, trying to be discreet about it. The direct approach worked best with the hatchlings, but would it help here? You have no idea what he thinks of you, except that he’s even more afraid than the others. By now, Orion would’ve struck up a conversation. Renaud might’ve urged you to get all the questions out of your system so you could both move on with your night. You think Mihai is perfectly content to say nothing and stare.

“So,” you say. “Where’re we going?” 

He looks you over, a quick flick of his eyes down and then back up like he’s trying to find something you’re hiding. “Council headquarters,” he says.

“Because…?” 

“Because I have business there.” 

You stand on opposite ends of the bus shelter. He watches you for a while before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a cell phone—

A cell phone? You can’t help but stare. You haven’t seen one in a while. You were starting to think they weren’t allowed in the convenire for anyone, not just you. Mihai clearly isn’t used to it, holding it awkwardly in one hand and prodding at the screen with his index finger. You have no idea what he’s doing because the screen brightness is turned as low as it can possibly go, but whatever’s happening seems to be annoying him. 

“Do you need help?” you ask. 

His eyes dart to your face. You regret asking. Is he going to be mad? Does he think you’re insulting him? To your surprise, he grunts a low, “Hm,” and nods, then waves you over. He flinches when you move closer but he stays still and doesn’t turn into a pile of leaves, so you slowly slide into the space beside him. “I want to send a message,” he says.

You have to squint at the screen until you can brighten it. Mihai reels back in dismay but stays surprisingly close, peering over your shoulder to see what you’ll do. He’s texting someone, an unsaved number without any name listed. Whoever it is texts very formally, everything properly punctuated and capitalized. The most recent message says, “Yes, I am still available. You have a bit of a commute from the convenire, correct? What time should I expect you?”

“Tell him, ‘in about twenty minutes,’” Mihai says. He watches your fingers as you type it out. “Also tell him, ‘the sacrament will be there, too.’”

“This isn’t going to be weird, is it?” you ask, scrolling up in curiosity. “I haven’t been in that building in a while, and I didn’t like it much the first time.” The messages before are vague smalltalk. Something about the other nightbound’s schedule—

Mihai snatches the phone out of your hands with a sour expression. “You’ll be fine,” he says tersely.

Just like that, the truce is over and you’re back to silence. Mihai hears the bus coming long before you see it, head cocked, staring into the night a while before headlights come around the corner. He nods sharply, urging you to get on first. You don’t say anything to each other for the whole ride. 

Your stop lets you off across the street from your destination. It’s your first time seeing the Council’s administrative buildings clearly. Edmund herded you inside before you could get a proper look at these looming monuments of the nightbound’s authority. Every structure that shares this plaza is imperious and grandiose but the Council headquarters is in a league of its own. Both hulking and fortress-like yet elegant, it’s adorned with pointed arches and windows of intricate stone latticework.

The exterior is lit by lanterns nestled on railings and along buttresses, and that strikes you as particularly arrogant. They don’t need them. Those are for humans, to ensure they can properly see and admire what they’re looking at in the dark.

Winged figures are carved above the doors. These aren’t the angels that might be found upon a cathedral. They’re depicted sensuously, posed to entice the eye and evoke temptation. Smaller figures are depicted kneeling beneath them, arms raised in supplication. A chosen few are embraced with frozen expressions of bliss. 

What an eyesore. Who builds something like that? you think bitterly.

You hear a choked sound beside you, something like a cough, and catch Mihai staring. He’s covering his mouth but you can tell he’s smiling underneath it, his eyes arched in amusement. Was that a chuckle? Did you make him laugh? “You don’t hide your thoughts well,” he says.

You narrow your eyes at him. “Are you eavesdropping? I thought we agreed on no mesmerism.” 

“I don’t need to. What you’re thinking shows on your face.” He nods ahead, towards the doors. “Follow,” he says and starts walking. Maybe it’s your imagination, but he sounds slightly less guarded.

It looks just the way you remember inside. Your footsteps are loud on the stone floor and echo all the way up to the high, arched ceiling. There are no lights, no invitation for humans to gaze upon the majesty of the Council’s inner workings, just streetlights filtered through stained glass. You stick close to Mihai. The only people in here are nightbound and you’re getting a lot more looks than last time, gleaming eyes turning to follow as you pass by. 

You’re led to a heavy wooden door that groans when Mihai pushes it open. There are no windows inside. You can’t see anything but several pairs of nightbound eyes all looking up at the same time, only barely catching the light from the hallway.

“Be calm,” Mihai murmurs. 

It takes you a second to realize he’s talking to you; trying to reassure you. His hand settles on your lower back, the pressure not enough to push you forward, just enough to feel. You take a deep breath. You didn’t even realize your pulse had gotten so fast. He waits a moment longer before he moves and you move with him, his hand never leaving your back. You’re guided by his touch to what feels like a table. There’s a wooden scrape and then he taps your shoulder, urging you to sit in the chair he pulled out for you. Panic seizes you when he vanishes, but there’s another scrape, a creak, and then one of his bony knees presses against your leg.

“Good evening, sir,” says a nightbound seated across from you. “And hello again, sacrament.” You hear a smile in that voice. 

Of course it’s Edmund. 

“Hm. Evening,” Mihai says.

You hear a briefcase click open. Papers rustling. Clicks and clatters and something sliding across the table. “I’ve brought everything. Please do let me know if you have any questions, I’m more than happy to help however I can.” Another quiet click, and then the slow scratch of writing. Across the room, a chair creaks. Someone coughs. Pages flutter. You wonder if this is some kind of office space or a meeting room. “It’s very nice to see you again, sacrament. I hope you’ve been well,” Edmund says. 

You stare into the void. 

“I suppose I don’t need to ask if you’re still holding a grudge against me.” He chuckles. “That’s alright. We can’t rush these things. Did you have any questions while you’re here?” 

If you did, you wouldn’t ask him. You keep up your stubborn silence and hear him let out the softest sigh, shifting in his seat. There’s a pause in the scribbling beside you.

“This part,” Mihai murmurs. “Something about turning.”

“Ah. ‘Circumstances of turning,’” Edmund reads. “I would also indicate the time period, sir. That’s just as pertinent in your case.” 

“Hm.” A pause. Hesitant penstrokes. Then a chuckle. “You’re doing it again. Wearing your thoughts on your face.” His knee nudges your leg. The gesture feels almost playful.

“I’m just curious,” you admit.

“I’m probably around three hundred years old. Maybe a little less,” Mihai says absently.

Probably? Maybe? “You’re not sure?” you ask.

“It was the Century of Nightmares. The early part, but that’s just a guess. There’s no one left to—”

You’re engulfed in movement and noise. Mihai’s chair scrapes back so abruptly it topples over and the air around you shifts, something large streaking past with staggering speed and strength. There’s a heavy thud; something slamming into the wall. Dust kicked up. Stone cracking. An awful squelching wrench of flesh and blood gushing. A scream choked and silenced. Instinct makes you bolt out of your chair, needing to be on your feet and ready to run even without knowing where to go. 

“Sir!” Edmund exclaims. You hear more chairs moving. People leaving, muttering. Footsteps quickly cross the room. “Mihai, sir, stop. Put him down. He’s not a threat to your sacrament. He hasn’t done anything.” 

Something rumbles in the dark and you break out in a cold sweat. You’ve heard the cries of hunting forms before. Orion chitters when he’s excited. Renaud snarls and shrieks like an angry hawk. This is nothing like either of them. Not bird-like. Not the squeaks of echolocation. It’s a deep, guttural bellow. A venomous hiss and a vicious growl, a lower sound than you knew any animal could make. And it’s loud, filling the room and scraping unpleasantly against your eardrums. 

“Elder, please,” Edmund begs. He sounds afraid. You turn towards the direction all the noise is coming from. You can’t tell if your vision has adjusted or if the churning shadows are just your eyes playing tricks on you, struggling to make sense of anything in the dark. You can hear more people in the room now, a crowd gathered in front of you. Hurried footsteps race down the hallway. You get the feeling something bad is about to happen, one way or another.

“Mihai?” you call. 

The rumbling softens but doesn’t stop. You feel your way forward, sliding your hand across the surface of the table. The crowd parts for you, whispering nightbound backing away nervously.

“Stop, please, sacrament.” Edmund laces his voice with mesmerism but he doesn’t have a good grasp on you yet. It’s easy to push through it.

“Where is he? What’s happening?” you ask.

“A hatchling walked behind you. Please don’t move, please. I can’t restrain you. He’ll kill me if I try. Stay there. It’s alright. Someone should be here soon to subdue him.”

His mesmerism tugs at your thoughts but it’s his desperate insistence that makes you hesitate. You reach the edge of the table and stop. In the silence, you hear a frightened wheeze and flailing. The slow trickle of blood. The growl, rising again. 

“A hatchling walked by? And then what?” you ask.

“He looked at you and sniffed the air to catch your scent. He must’ve been too close. Mihai thought he meant you harm.”

You struggle to imagine what might be happening. Mihai is the smallest of everyone in the convenire. Shorter than Renaud, his build lean and narrow, it’s hard to imagine him posing much of a threat. Most nightbound, especially the young ones, take on their hunting form when they’re afraid but Mihai usually makes himself smaller and harmless around you. Retreating; turning into leaves. Yet here he is, throwing himself at a stranger for walking a little too close. There’s something you’re missing. 

“Mihai, were you protecting me?” you say. The growl softens again but he makes no other indication that hears or understands you. “You did it. I’m safe, I’m alright. But I think you’re in trouble, so stop doing…whatever you’re doing right now. Please?”

Nothing happens for a moment. You take a deep breath. Then something heavy drops and crumples on the floor and you hear someone—the unlucky hatchling, probably—gasping, coughing and moaning in pain. More movement. More frightened murmurs. There’s something big standing right in front of you. Its breath, reeking of blood, fans across your face.

“Sacrament, listen to me,” Edmund whispers. He sounds further away, behind you now. “Hold very still. He shouldn’t hurt you, but it wouldn’t be good to startle him right now.” 

The room falls utterly silent. All you hear is your own pounding heartbeat and the beast in front of you, its rumble changing. The hiss dies down. The growl gets rougher, less smooth, a rhythmic chuff that makes the air vibrate. Purring. You raise your hand, ignoring Edmund’s frantic begging to, “stop, stop, STOP!” You move slowly. You hear Mihai’s purr rise curiously in pitch. You reach up and out, into the dark, and find a snout.

It’s long. Dog-like, like so many other things about him. And it’s massive, you realize, stroking as far as you can reach. Teeth jut from either side even with his jaw closed. He feels like a cross between a borzoi and an alligator. There’s fur in mangy patches and tough hide beneath. Rough lines of scar tissue loop all the way around his snout like—

Like rope, you think. Like somebody wrapped it around and around and tied it so tightly it dug into his skin and left a permanent mark. You graze the edge of those crisscrossed marks with your thumb and he shudders, an uneasy exhale gusting across your face, but he doesn’t pull away. He nuzzles into your hands.

Then he collapses. You make a sound of surprise and clamor back but your reflexes aren’t fast enough. The only reason you’re not crushed beneath his weight is a hand wrapping around your forearm, yanking you out of the way. You’re hurriedly dragged out of the room.

Edmund stands beside you in the colorful shadow of the moon through stained glass. He’s in uniform but missing his coat. The sleeves of a white button-up are rolled up to his elbows and his tie is slightly askew. He looks frazzled in a way you’ve never seen before, running a hand through his hair with his gaze fixed on the room you just left. 

“I’m terribly sorry about that,” he says. “That was unprecedented. Mihai has exhibited that sort of extreme overprotective behavior before, but only for the hatchlings of your convenire. We should take this as a sign of progress.”

You spot a few elders coming down the hall. A couple are Councilmembers. You remember their faces. The Lord Regent isn’t with them. They slip into the room you just left, disappearing into the dark. A moment later, several younger nightbound leave. One of them is the hatchling Mihai attacked, leaning against the others for support. His sleeve is nothing but bloody shreds, his shoulder mangled. His arm hangs limp and crooked at his side.

Edmund sighs. “Well. Healing is much like a steep, difficult hike, I suppose. Some stumbling is to be expected.”

“That was a good thing, just now? Really? I think he tried to kill that guy.” 

“He would have gone for the throat. It was only a warning bite, although he did seem keen on escalation.” You feel him staring. Edmund studies your face in silence for a moment. “I must admit, I’m surprised that you’ve become so close. I like and respect Mihai, but he is difficult to get to know. And his feelings about witches are, ah…understandably complicated.”

You frown in confusion. “That’s news to me. I hadn’t had a full conversation with him until last night.” You don’t like how he worriedly glances towards the room again. “And, wait, what do you mean, ‘understandably complicated?’” 

Edmund looks around uncomfortably. You can tell he’s trying to decide what to say, and if he should say anything at all. “You should know,” he admits. “But I don’t know if I’m the one who should tell you. And really, I don’t have all the details. I know what his paperwork says and I’ve been present for several of his testimonies to the Council, but there are many things we simply do not know and can never know. Strategic turnings of his era went unrecorded because most conscripts were not expected to survive.”

“So he was turned to fight in a war?” 

“In a way,” Edmund says hesitantly. “Most of the Century of Nightmares was not a single, unified conflict. There were many skirmishes happening on many fronts. Territorial battles, for instance. Battles between nightbound as well as battles with humans. And, of course, lemure outbreaks the likes of which we’ve thankfully not seen since—”

“And witches,” you add.

Edmund clenches his jaw. You know you’ve caught him trying to change the subject. Begrudgingly, he admits, “Yes. There was bloodshed between kin, as well, though this was before we recognized you as such. They were perhaps the most grueling conflicts of the Century.” 

Mihai emerges into the hallway flanked by elders, no longer in hunting form. They’ve given him a coat but he’s naked otherwise. The scars you’ve spotted on his chest before don’t stop there. They’re everywhere. Even more extensive than Edmund’s and far more severe, they cover him from his collarbones to his toes. Small punctures and dragging scrapes, haphazard slashes and deliberate designs, nothing but his face is unmarked and you’ve never seen what’s behind his bangs. He walks right past you without looking up, plodding along like a sleepwalker.

He’s mesmerized, you realize. The elders on either side of him maintain physical contact, grasping his shoulders. You watch them lead him away.

“Athanasius has been notified. He’ll be here to retrieve you shortly,” Edmund says, sounding like you’re meant to be reassured. 

“What was Mihai turned to fight?” you ask.

He looks pained. “I really don’t think I should—” 

“It was witches, wasn’t it?” You feel that you already know the answer but you have to ask. It all makes sense. His fear of you, his insistence that you’re dangerous, the way he keeps constant watch but never comes too close. The only piece you can’t fit into the puzzle is what you saw here tonight. “He seems strong. He was probably good at it.” 

“He was just a hatchling,” Edmund says.

“So?”

Edmund glances at you and, for the first time you can ever recall, looks upset with you. Then he shakes his head. “Ah. Yes. I suppose you wouldn’t know. Suffice it to say that witches are capable of extraordinary destruction and even cruelty, when so inclined. Even more capable than most, considering the tools at your disposal.”

Cruelty. Why does that word make you feel queasy? “So he lost that fight, is what you’re saying?” 

“Are you familiar with the term ‘cloister-breaker?’” You’re not. Edmund looks dismayed that he has to explain. “A cloister is—or perhaps I should say, was—a particular type of witch community. One in which they live openly.” 

A cloister. You didn’t know there was a word for it. They’re urban legends. Every witch knows a witch who heard through the grapevine about a place where nobody has to hide. They find old, empty places, you’ve heard, abandoned farmhouses and rural towns left to rot. The moss and ivy move in and so do the witches, and they make it home. They’re not like you in cloisters. They know their magic. And swarmed together like that, gathered tens or dozens strong, they become untouchable. 

But he said cloister-breaker. “You used to attack those?” you say. You’re more incredulous than upset. If there’s one place that a witch doesn’t have to fear nightbound, it’s in a cloister. “That’s a stupid idea.”

“It was,” Edmund agrees. “It never ended well. At best, annihilation was mutual. The hatchlings rarely knew their true targets until it was too late.”

“That’s like shoving a bunch of kids into a wolf’s den. Why couldn’t you just leave them alone?” 

Edmund smiles sadly and then he looks away. He doesn’t say anything else, and your curiosity is extinguished by a sick feeling. You’re relieved to see Athanasius coming down the hall, but the sight of Mihai glassy-eyed and swaying lightly on his feet beside him makes you swallow a lump in your throat. 

“He didn’t mean it,” you insist. “He was just scared.” 

You can’t quite read the expression on Athanasius’ face. He’s smiling but it’s strained. “I know, sacrament. Come, I will not feel settled until you are both safe at home.” 

.

.

.

“He does not want your pity,” Athanasius says.

Water splashes in the sink. You hear the snap of cabbage leaves being peeled from the core and then crunching beneath a knife, a softer sound than the hiss of diced onions and rice sauteeing in a pan. 

“Then what does he want?” you ask.

“Time, for now. Losing control in the presence of much younger nightbound brings a unique sort of shame. Allow him a moment away from prying eyes.”

Several nights after your trip to Council headquarters, Mihai has started keeping his distance again. He’s not avoiding you completely. If anything, he never seems far away. You feel eyes on your back all the time. None of your things have gone missing but they seem to move on their own. Jackets you forget in the library reappear neatly folded just outside your room. Books left strewn across the parlor coffee table are neatly stacked the next time you walk by. Conspicuous leaf piles appear throughout the halls as you go about your business, as if he planned to say something, to show himself, and lost his nerve before you arrived.

Athanasius’ touch makes you flinch. You didn’t hear him move but he’s right beside you, peering over your shoulder at the pan you’re stirring. His hand settles on your back. “That looks ready,” he says, approving. “Here. Add it to the bowl.” 

You work surprisingly well together in the kitchen. Athanasius is faster at everything, more practiced and precise, but he doesn’t seem to mind when you take a little longer mincing parsley. He rolls up his sleeves and churns a mound of soft, seasoned and herb-speckled ground pork with his hands.

“And this’ll help? He’ll like it?” you ask.

“Yes. It is his favorite. I contacted someone more knowledgeable to ensure the accuracy of the recipe.”

According to Athanasius, food is closely entwined with positive memory for the nightbound. Feeding means peace and comfort. Blood flavors remind them of previous donors. Their favorite dishes from their human lives can spark the faintest impressions of beloved people and places, even in those who’ve lost their earliest decades to PPA. It didn’t take much for him to talk you into helping prepare a surprise for the hatchlings, especially since this part of the surprise is for Mihai.

“Where is he right now?” you ask.

“In the forest that borders the estate. Out of earshot, if that is what you meant.”

You work side by side at the counter, rolling fragrant pink clumps into cabbage leaves. You notice Athanasius slowing his movements to match your pace, taking his time and turning the rolls over in his hands before moving onto the next one. Prolonging the process, you think. Ensuring there will be plenty left for you.

“Do you know the phrase, ‘birth by burial?’ It refers to the practice of burying hatchlings alive. At times…” Athanasius stops, glancing at you. You know he saw you stiffen. He probably feels your growing unease through the connection. “You have heard of it,” he says, audibly surprised. “I admit, this is unexpected. I would not consider it common knowledge for witches of the modern age.”

“I’ve heard rumors,” you say. You’re unnecessarily aggressive with the next cabbage roll and it oozes on one end. You don’t like thinking about this. You wish he hadn’t brought it up. “I know it happens. I don’t know why.”

Athanasius hums in acknowledgement. Gently, he plucks the lumpy cabbage roll from your grasp and deftly smushes it into a more even shape. “The process and the reasons for it are different between us. Those concerned with the building of dynasties did not consider turning a sufficient measure of one’s strength, and so thinned their already meager clutches further. Some encouraged their progeny to fight to the death. Others believed the test must come sooner. Newborn and starving, hatchlings would fight the earth itself to earn their first feeding.”

“Was Mihai…I mean, did his sire…?”

He steps closer, his hands folding around yours to guide your fingers for the last cabbage roll. There’s food all over both of your hands but his warmth against your back and the sudden intimacy make your pulse pick up. “You care for him. More than I realized.”

“He got a raw deal, that’s all. It doesn’t seem fair.” 

Athanasius produces a cast iron pot from one of the cupboards, a battered antique that would look right at home hung over an open fire. Together, you line the inside with all the leftover scraps of cabbage and neatly arrange the rolls on top. You lean over to check the recipe scrawled on notebook paper in Athanasius’ elegant handwriting. Ingredients on the left, numbered steps on the right, starred notes at the bottom. Cut up some bacon. Pour in tomato juice. Start the polenta in half an hour. 

“To answer your question, no. Not quite,” he says absently. “His sire would not have done it. They could not afford needless waste during the Century of Nightmares. His birth by burial was performed in the witch tradition by those he was sent to kill.” 

You lean against the counter, watching Athanasius gracefully move around the kitchen. Somehow, you aren’t surprised to hear this. Mihai’s circumstances have been weighing on your mind for days now. Part of you had already guessed his fear of you must come from firsthand experience with witches, though you hesitated to guess at the specifics. 

“Why go to all that trouble? Why not just kill him?” you ask.

“Because for witches, birth by burial is a form of absolution. Mihai must have surrendered in order to have been given the opportunity. And yet, a wolf cub is still a wolf. Would you let an animal into your home without first testing its instincts? You do not know how readily it will bite.” 

The pot goes into the oven. Athanasius finds you still lingering at the sink when he brushes past to rinse his hands, staring into the basin. You feel restless with nothing else to do. 

“Sacrament?” he asks gently.

“Has he ever told you what happened in the cloister? He has all those scars,” you say.

“What he remembers, yes. Some of it has thankfully faded with time.” He pauses. You feel him staring but you don’t look at him. “What pains you? The thought that his wounds may have been inflicted by witches?” His hand drifts into your periphery. He reaches for you, his palm slipping under yours and lacing your fingers together. “Ah, yes. Understandably. But there is also something else weighing on your heart,” he murmurs.

You pull away from him but you don’t get far. He doesn’t let go. You’re so used to him indulging you, extending your cat-and-mouse chases for his own amusement, that his unyielding grip frightens you. Athanasius cages you against the kitchen counter with his own body, one hand splayed beside you, the other keeping your fingers connected. 

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” you say, looking anywhere but his eyes. It’s probably too late with your minds joined the way they are, all of your thoughts and feelings laid bare beneath his scrutiny. He must see the fire in your memory, that open pit in the ground and plumes of black smoke rising towards the sun. He must hear the screaming.

If he does, he pretends he doesn’t; a mercy for you both. “Very well,” he says gently. “Shall I distract you from these worries?” He lifts your hand to his lips. He brushes his mouth against your fingers along the knuckles, then your wrist. He doesn’t bite. He breathes in the scent of your skin and sighs softly against your quickening pulse.

“What are you doing?” you ask. Your voice is hushed in a nervous whisper, like you’re both doing something you shouldn’t.

“Do you dislike this?” he asks.

You want to lie but he’d know before the words left your mouth. Your face feels hot and your skin is tingling. He’s not really doing anything. He’s close enough that he could but everything is chaste, not tongue or teeth. You’re reminded of your encounter with Renaud at Cassowary Tattoo, the discovery of erogenous zones you didn’t know you had and the intimacy of a nightbound pressed close before the bite. They’re ruining you. You’re starting to associate the places they feed with pleasure. Warm breath fans over your veins and you clench in anticipation, waiting for what surely comes next.

Your eyes are drawn to Athanasius’ mouth; the plumpness of his lips and the curl of a teasing smile. What does his bite feel like? you wonder, and then feel a jolt of embarrassment at your wondering. 

“Yes, sacrament?” he says, his voice dipping to a low, pleased purr. “Is there something you would like to ask me?” He’s even closer. He relinquishes his grip on your hand so he can stroke your cheek instead, his fingers tracing along your jaw to the tense line of muscle in your throat. His lashes flutter along his cheek, his gaze half-lidded and hungry.

It’s mesmerism. It must be, you think. But mesmerism doesn’t usually let you tremble like this. Athanasius traces your lower lip with his thumb and leans in closer until he’s all that you see and all you can think of. He’s undeniably beautiful, luscious black hair and long-lashed, eyes a blend of dark oak and umber, golden-brown in the glow of the mansion’s dulled lamps. 

Maybe it’s the light you’re using in the kitchen, foregoing lamps for candles, but somehow, they seem closer to mahogany than they should be. Brighter. Redder. 

And then he draws back. Pulls away, lets you go. Your hands come away slick with sweat and your heart is racing. “I seem to recall a reluctance to be observed in moments of intimacy,” he says simply and rummages through the refrigerator as though nothing happened. The sound of footsteps and the voices of the hatchlings drift down the hallway, close enough that you should’ve heard them sooner, and you’re torn between gratitude and indignation. 

“Fuck you. Don’t act like you care,” you mutter. You’re overheated, flushed with shame and residual tinglings of arousal. You don’t need to rinse your hands again but you do, splashing cold water on your face in desperation. Athanasius acts busy and keeps his distance, rummaging leisurely through the cabinets as if he doesn’t know where everything is, and the whiplash of this nonchalant act fans the flames of your anger to new unreasonable heights. “Maybe I’m into that. You wouldn’t know. You have no idea what I like.”

“Oh? My apologies, sacrament. I should not make assumptions,” he says mildly. He turns just enough to glance at you in his periphery, but even that brief moment of attention feels like a brand on your skin. “Next time,” he murmurs, “I will not stop.”

Orion and Renaud find you staring resolutely into the refrigerator. “Ohhhh, I knew it! I knew there was a surprise. You had us buy each other’s homesickness meals,” Orion says smugly. He pulls one of the kitchen stools out of the corner to sit down and sets the paper bag he’s carrying on the counter. “Is that Mihai’s? What’re you making? It smells good.” 

“Sarmale,” Athanasius says. He brushes past you and you’re absolutely certain that the lingering graze of his shoulder against yours is on purpose. “An hour from now, I would like the two of you to make the polenta. I will explain the steps.”

“Oh, polenta’s easy,” Renaud says. He saunters over to the counter and leans against it. He has a takeout bag, too, larger than Orion’s with a grease stain along the bottom. 

You watch them swap bags across the counter, grinning like they already know what’s inside. The unveiling happens with deliberate, emotional slowness. Orion lifts a burger out of his bag and holds it in its white brand-stamped wrapper like a priceless family heirloom. Renaud opens a takeout box and you swear there are tears in his eyes at the sight of a decadent brioche stack dusted with powdered sugar and topped with blackberries.

“Eat slowly,” Athanasius says, his tone suggesting this warning often goes unheeded. “And save room. Mihai will want to share.”

The food puts everyone in high spirits. Even a dispute over whose leftovers go where in the refrigerator is settled amicably, and Orion and Renaud tackle the polenta with surprising enthusiasm. 

“Does it surprise you that we are so enamored with the culinary arts?” you hear echoing through the connection. 

Athanasius joins you at the far end of the kitchen, keeping an eye on the maelstrom of movement and chaos at the stove; spilled flour, dirty whisks, two and a half cups of water in a puddle on the floor. The hatchlings can’t seem to cook without making a mess. Athanasius chuckles under his breath and shakes his head. 

“It is an anchor. A joyous remnant of the life that came before. For hatchlings, it is even more important that they practice so that one day, they may prepare food for their partners.”

You can feel him watching you. Expecting some sort of quip, probably, a bitter remark about how everything always comes back around to keeping witches against their will somehow, but you just nod and stare straight ahead. Not at the hatchlings. Past them; before them, and this place. 

You want to leave. You don’t want to be alone. Athanasius knows before you say anything. His hand settles on your back, between your shoulders. He doesn’t have to push for you to walk with him to the parlor. He helps you settle against the arm of the sofa, draping the blanket over you like a child home sick from school. Suddenly, you’re so tired you can barely keep your eyes open. You’re certain it’s his mesmerism. The fog of exhaustion grows thicker when he bends down to kiss your forehead.

For once, you don’t mind and you don’t fight. The fire and the fear retreat into old, faded memory. You let go, headfirst into the dark.

*

You dream about the forest. Moonlight and night wind. Moss and petrichor. A beast nuzzles its bloodsoaked maw against your hand, begging for warmth, affection, and forgiveness. Butterflies drift languidly on the breeze. You both wish you could stay forever, but—

The knocking isn’t all that loud but a gentle nudge in the back of your mind helps wake you. Athanasius would’ve come in, would probably be at your bedside already. The hatchlings would say something. That leaves Mihai. You blink the bleariness from your eyes and get up to find him right outside your door. He’s still hiding behind his bangs but his hair’s neater than you’re used to seeing it, smoothed down and combed through, and that makes the jagged, uneven cut even more obvious. The ends fall past one shoulder but taper just short along the other. 

“You helped,” he mutters. “Athanasius told me.”

It takes your mind a minute to catch up. He must mean the food. “Oh, yeah. Did it turn out alright?” you ask.

He nods. He’s staring intently at the floor. “There’s a place I like downtown.”

“Uh-huh?” you say. 

He shifts nervously. Seconds pass in silence. “Do you want to see it?” he asks.

He’s inviting you out again. You’re surprised and a little worried. “Sure. Is that…?” 

“Allowed?” he finishes the thought for you with a wry smile tugging at his lips. “Yes, it’s fine. I made sure to exert myself and haven’t fed since last time. Not enough strength to maintain my hunting form right now.” That doesn’t put your mind at ease. Is he starving himself? Is he expected to? You feel the familiar caress of mesmerism like fingers sliding up your spine and settling at your nape. “Hm. You’re worried.” It sounds like this troubles him. “Follow?” he says. You’re used to that sounding curt, like an order, but it’s softer this time. He takes a step down the hall and stops, watching you over his shoulder. 

You always end up thinking about dogs when you’re around Mihai. Dogs with pricked ears and sad eyes, that press into corners with their tail between their legs and bite anything that comes close. Dogs that always look back to make sure you’re still there.

“Yeah. Lead the way,” you say. The weight of centuries lifts from his shoulders all at once and he stands a little taller. If he had a tail, you think, it’d be wagging.

Athanasius sees you off again but he keeps you at the door a moment longer. He telepathically deliberates with Mihai for a moment and the conversation looks tense. There’s a disagreement of some sort, an indignant huff from Mihai and the exasperated sigh of a parent from Athanasius. You don’t know what exactly they fought about or what they decided, but Athanasius produces a thin strip of leather. It’s plain on the outside but there are small symbols engraved along the soft black inner edge and a silver clasp at the end. He drapes it across his palms and holds it out to Mihai. 

You grimace. You were starting to hope you’d never see that collar again.

“You should,” Mihai pleads.

Athanasius presses the collar into his hands. “No. You will. If there is no need, all the better, but I will not leave you both defenseless.”

“I’m undeserving. And they shouldn’t be defenseless, you should’ve taught them something simple, at least—”

“Mihai,” Athanasius says sharply.

Mihai clenches his jaw and ducks his head. It takes a while, an uncomfortably long silence and an exchange you don’t hear, for his shoulders to loosen and droop again. He shares a meaningful look with Athanasius and nods sheepishly, then glances at you with apprehension. “Sorry about this,” he mutters, moving behind you. His hands are shaking. He keeps bumping his fingertips, his knuckles, the back of his hand against the nape of your neck and every accidental brush makes his breath hitch. When you turn your head, trying to make it easier for him, he goes completely still for a moment. You hear a shaky exhale before he gets himself together and successfully secures the clasp.

The trip into town is awkward as usual. You have to win over the same scared, feral dog all over again, letting him sniff your hand and proving you mean no harm. Mihai stays close but not too close, steals glances but can’t quite work up the nerve to speak. This time, he leads you to a quiet part of town you haven’t been to before. It looks old but not as imposing as the Council buildings, the street bumpy cobblestone and the buildings made of faded, weatherstained brick. 

Almost everything is closed. The businesses out here, sweets shops and antique stores with apartments up above, have dark storefronts and shuttered windows. It’s unusual but not unheard of for a town with so many nightbound. Some places can’t afford to staff an overnight shift, and some places prefer not to, leery of the nightbound or the noise that comes with late night foot traffic.

A soft glow emanates from an eatery on the corner. They don’t look open. The string lights stretched around the outdoor seating area are off. But Mihai goes right up to the door and knocks a couple times, then leads you to one of the wicker tables beneath the awning. The text on the window says “Komorebi Cafe.” You see a forest of potted plants inside. A dark-haired woman in a pastel flower-print sweater comes out a moment later.

“You brought a friend,” she says, sounding pleased.

Mihai’s rumbling, “hm,” is more of a purr than a growl. “Not a friend, exactly.” 

“Oh, hush.” No eye shine. She’s human. You’re surprised she’s so comfortable around him. She sets a tray on the table between you with two ceramic mugs exuding curls of steam. “Come by sometime in the daylight. I’ll make you something on the house,” she tells you. You nod meekly, unsure of what to make of her, but she just smiles good-naturedly and walks away.

“Her name is Kano,” Mihai says. “She's the first human who ever spoke to me in Skelveross. I think we’re friends.” He lifts the mug to his face and shuts his eyes, taking a deep breath of the sweet, earthy aroma. A strangely familiar aroma, you think. It reminds you of nectar. “It is,” Mihai says. He averts his gaze when you look at him sharply. “Ah. It’s habit. I prefer the connection. I know what you think and feel without asking.”

“Is it hard to ask?” you say.

“Yes.” He slides the tray closer to you. “The other one’s for you.” 

Intrigued, you pick up the mug. The scent of nectar is somewhat diluted but unmistakable up close. It’s some sort of tea, lightly floral with hints of berry and citrus. You take a testing sip and hum in satisfaction. “It’s good,” you say, impressed. You were sure Athanasius’ concoctions had ruined you for anyone else’s recipes. “And Kano seems nice. How’d you meet?” 

“In a waiting room. We both had appointments at the Dusk Council headquarters.” He glances at the cafe windows. Kano sits in a corner booth with a book open in front of her and a notebook off to the side, pencil hand. Her brows are furrowed in focus. “She’s latent,” Mihai says.

That makes you look at her again, more carefully and with a pang of sympathy in your heart. She slides her pencil along a line of text and then scribbles something. “That must be hard,” you say quietly. 

Mihai looks at you curiously. “Weren’t you latent once?” 

“No.” 

Mihai must sense your discomfort because he doesn’t press you for details, but you do feel him in your head again, tiptoeing and cautious. You’re thinking that it’s easy to hide if you know how, but only if you start young. Magical potentiality evaluations for children can be either interviews or written questionnaires, and most families opt for the latter. There’s no face-to-face meeting, no verifying background checks, and no magical-medical scans, just a piece of paper with some boxes to check and some space to scribble answers.

You drink your nectar tea and watch Kano study. You don’t meet Mihai’s probing gaze. He’s searching again, carding through your memories in search of whatever it was that shattered your confidence and left you vulnerable. You squeeze your eyes shut and envision barriers. Walls, hedges, metal bars—doors. That’s what your mind settles on. An endless corridor with a thousand locks. The books in the library said this is easy magic if you can stay focused and hold the image in your mind.

You know it worked when you hear a grunt across the table, a little noise of shock and indignation. A sense of mounting pressure begins building behind your eyes like the start of a migraine and you swallow nervously. You’re not confident you can keep him. “Please don’t,” you say. The pressure eases but never fully dissipates. You know he’s still in there, leaning against one last flimsy door. “Please,” you repeat, your voice wavering in desperation. 

Mihai frowns. He stares down into his tea, considering. “I’ll trade you,” he says after a long silence. “One of my secrets for yours.”

“Why?” you ask. You don’t want that. You don’t want to talk about this, or even think about it.

“Don’t have to talk. Just show me.” 

“Why do you want to know so badly?”

He tilts his head. “Because I’m trying to understand you. I want to know everything. I’ll tell you everything, too, in exchange. It’s the only way we’ll ever really trust each other. That, or…you could perform a birth by burial. I would let you—”

“No,” you say.

He hesitates, taken aback by your vehemence and the stricken look on your face. “It would be faster. I could prove myself in a single night. You'd see everything I have to offer. I know I’m an elder, but I’ve made myself weak tonight. You can test me properly.”

“I said no.” 

Mihai growls at you, and for once, the dog companion is not endearing. He sounds like he’s going to lunge across the table and go for your throat. He looks ashamed for all of a few seconds before he’s glowering again. “Then what do you want?” he snaps. “How do I make you stop pitying me?”

“I don’t—”

“You do! I'm a useless wretch in your eyes, too broken to be of any value.”

“I don’t think that,” you insist, but he doesn’t believe you.

“I was wary of you at first. I know what witches can do. But the more I watch you, the more I realize you’re still young. Painfully young, and fragile. You can’t even defend yourself. So I have to protect you. I…” Mihai stops. He takes another whiff and a long drink of his tea, and it helps him steady his breathing. “I will never lose another witch as long as I live,” he says, his voice lowered to its usual low rasp again. “If you won’t bury me, let me prove it some other way.”

“You don’t have to prove anything.”

“I do. You need to know. How can you trust me otherwise?”

Silence settles over you both and the sounds of the city rush in, footsteps and rumbling engines and the squeal of a car alarm a few streets down. The moon is lopsided and waning. Your tea cools in your hands. You can feel it when the anger seeps out of Mihai. The pressure fades. There’s nothing clawing at the hinges of the door in your mind.

“I don’t…” You swallow the lump in your throat. Mihai watches you intently but he’s patient this time. He sips his tea gingerly. 

To your surprise, you don’t think of a dog—he does. The image slips into your mind vivid but hazy at the edges, the colors runny and the textures rippling like water. A dog. A large dog. A guard dog that pads around in a circle right outside your door and then settles down with a loud thump, wanting you to know he’s there. 

I’m listening, he says wordlessly. You take a deep breath and try again.

“I’ve seen a birth by burial before,” you admit. “And it wasn’t…Mihai, listen, it really scared me. I think it must mean something different to you, but to me, it’s…I could never do that to someone. So please don’t ask me to.”

He doesn’t say anything. You don’t even get a nod. Then another vision comes and fills your senses, the table and the cafe and Harrow Creek fading into a different night scene. The ground is firm underfoot but softer than concrete. You smell earth and decay. Moonlight strains through a net of leaves and branches. And there are people here, humans—

Witches. You know somehow. A dozen, maybe more, young and old, gathered around you in a fearless huddle as they whisper amongst themselves. An old woman stands in front of you, barefoot beneath a long, embroidered skirt. Her face is a churning cloud but her voice is clear and strong. You can’t understand her, and yet somehow you know she asks, “You will not fight?” 

You will not fight. You groan and lower your head. It is too large and heavy for your starved frame. You are a beast and you can’t remember how you came this way and you don’t know how to unbecome it. You hear their heartbeats and you smell the tang of their sweat and exhaustion, but fear is a thin quiver and only from the youngest, the littlest things clinging to their elders. 

You do not see death but you know you would if you walked far enough. Piles of it. Gruesome mounds of skewed limbs and blackening flesh left for the animals and for anyone who might come looking. The reek stings your nose and eyes. In that pile rests your entire world, clutch-siblings and strangers and superiors and blood-bonded lovers who you knew for mere months that felt like lifetimes. Most fell in the fighting but they kept some of you, bound you in ropes you could not break. One by one, they poked and prodded and asked their questions.

Who was your sire? Who was his sire? Who did he answer to, and who had sent you, and who else was coming? How many and when? Listening to the others, you began to understand that this forest was the only home the witches had left, and that there had been many more of them once before all the fighting and running and death in the night.

And when they had their answers, they left you in the sun to wilt then tossed those charred bones upon the pile. And now, at last, it was your turn.

“How long have you been bound to the night?” the old woman asked.

Not long. You try to tell her but all you can do is rumble and whimper like an animal, and even that you cannot do well with the rope tying your mouth shut. Not a year yet. Not even a whole season. You were the youngest of your clutch and your flock and the followers of your maker. You try to say that. You try and you try and the only noise that comes out is pitiful keening, so you count the moons you have seen. “One,” you try to say, and grunt instead. You think of the crescent. The sliver. The moonless night. You keep counting until you have told her all of them. You know she is wise. She will know what you are trying to tell her. 

When you finish counting, she sighs sadly. The witches chatter all around you. 

“He is an infant!”

“Were the others?”

“It does not matter.”

“We must not share their bloodlust.”

“No. They could not have been.”

“Not all of them, surely.”

“They do not turn them alone.”

“A clutch. Maybe five. Maybe six.” 

“They would not have spared a chrysalis.”

“And we did not spare them. Does that make it right?” 

“There is no making this right. He will want vengeance.” 

“Give him to the sun.” 

“We cannot give him to the sun.”

“Make him sleep. Then give him to the sun.”

“Mumă, what have we done?”

The old woman raised her hand and the forest fell silent. Even the leaves ceased rustling and the wind died. She stepped forward and you shrunk back, head bowed, whimpering. You waited for something that hurt but it never came. She stroked your beast-maw, sliding her palm up and down the strange expanse of flesh that smelled and felt and tasted too much. Your legs gave out beneath you. You had forgotten how weak and tired you felt until this moment. When she scratched beneath your chin, your chest rumbled and your throat vibrated with a low noise you did not know you could make. When she looked at you, you felt that she saw through skin, blood and bone and knew who you truly were.

You spoke without words. You felt that she was very sad, and very sorry, and very angry but not at you. She felt guilty for what had happened and what would happen next. She must have felt all that you felt and known that you were afraid. All you wanted was to be warm and swaddled in someone’s wings.

“Dig a grave,” the old woman said. The witches left the clearing in all directions, some more reluctant than others. She gathered her skirt and sank to her knees beside you, and she let you set your head in her lap, whispering, “You are strong, yes? You are very strong to survive all that you have. Be strong one more time. When you are born again from the earth, the past will be the past and all will welcome you. You will not be cold, or hungry, or alone ever again. This I swear beneath the moon.”

The vision flickers. The forest fades. You’re in Harrow Creek again, sitting at a cafe table across from Mihai. Tears stream down his cheeks and yours, you realize, wiping your face self-consciously. You don’t know what to do with this. You don’t know what to say, what to think or feel about what he’s just shown you, but there’s warmth unfurling in your chest; a spreading sense of peace. You don’t have to say anything. He’s glad that you saw it. He needed you to know. 

After you finish your tea, Mihai takes your mug and sets it beside his on the tray. You follow him into the Komorebi Cafe where Kano hasn’t moved, still hunched in the corner with books and papers spread across the table. The bells jingling over the door make her mutter and sit up, rubbing her eyes. 

“Mihai! You didn’t have to, I could’ve gotten it,” she says.

“Hm,” Mihai says, setting the tray into an alcove on the wall for used dishes. “Didn’t mean to keep you so late.”

“Don’t be. I’m glad you came.” She slides out of the booth and stretches with a yawn, then ambles over to you both at the door with her hands in her pockets. “So? How was it? I’m still tinkering with that recipe. Ah! I’m Kano, by the way.” She holds out her hand to shake. The moment your fingers touch, a pleasantly cool sensation sweeps up your arm like a spray of mist. Kano feels it, too. Her eyes widen slightly but she’s quick to cover her surprise with a laugh and starts rambling, “I’m calling it ‘Sugar Water!’ It’s actually based on a family recipe. Grandma would kill me if she knew how much sweetener I’m putting in, but the first customers I gave it to said it was kind of bland…”

She’s not just latent. She’s a witch. Her grip on your hand lingers a moment too long, squeezing firmly before she lets go. Her eyes dart down to the collar on your neck, seeing it for the first time in the light, and then she makes herself look away. You wait for something more; another meaningful glance, a smile, telepathy, even just her lips shaping secret, silent words. Nothing happens. The reunion you’ve dreamed of never comes. 

“So what did you think?” Kano says, something nervous edging into her tone. She glances up again but stops short of your face, looking warily at your collar. 

“I liked it,” you tell her. “The steam is really nice and fragrant.”

She beams and clasps her hands together. “Oh, I’m so glad! So you’ll definitely come in again sometime, right? Wait, hold on, I’ll give you a card! I have a hole-punch reward program and everything.” 

Maybe there’s a message hidden in the blocky text printed on the cardstock, or an enchantment concealing something. You hope there is and you know there won’t be. It wouldn’t be safe. Your fingers brush as she passes it to you and the sensation of chilled sparks from your magic greeting hers is weaker this time, deliberately smothered. You shut this secret behind door after door after door, quarantining it in the back of your mind under lock and key. You swallow all the questions you want to ask and stifle the urge to wrap your arms around her and never let go. 

Kano looks at you like she wants to say something, but she never does.

Mihai is standing in the doorway when you come back to his side, green and pink Komorebi Cafe loyalty card safely ensconced in your pocket. “We can come back another time,” he says. Your dismissive shrug makes him laugh. “You don’t want to go yet. It’s all over your face…” 

He trails off, staring into the distance. Then he shoves you back, hard enough that you stumble and have to catch yourself against a table. “Stay. And lock it behind me,” he says. Then he slips out the door and he’s gone. You’re still standing there in confusion when Kano moves around you, touching your shoulder as she goes, and fiddles with her keys. 

“It’s safer in the kitchen,” she tells you. 

The question doesn’t quite make it off your tongue when you’re struck with an awful feeling. You’re nervous without knowing why, your pulse racing, cold sweat and goosebumps prickling all over your body. You feel watched. Trapped. You back away from the door and the windows. You know what this is. You felt something like this every night at your last job. The whole building exuded this same nauseating aura of dread. 

“That’s…” You don’t finish the thought. Your throat constricts with terror and you can barely breathe. 

Kano just nods and you follow her without hesitation. The door to the kitchen is flimsier than you’d like, a lightweight faux-wood panel that even a hatchling could rip off its hinges, but it’s all you have. The back door, at least, is a proper metal slab, so that’s one less point of entry. Kano hands you a roll of sticky, transparent material stamped with protective enchantments and she takes another, and you paste them all over the vents, the drains in the sink basins, all the little gaps in the door frames, anywhere that something might try to squeeze through.

“Don’t be stingy with it,” she says, plastering over your work with even more clingy sheets. “The Council hands these out for free. I’ve got a pretty big stockpile.” 

“Do you get a lot of lemures around here?” you ask nervously.

“Not usually. But they come in seasons, you know. Sometimes you won’t have any for a while, then they all come at once.” She checks her phone, then texts someone who texts back almost immediately. “The CTF’s on it. Looks like there’s been a couple sightings tonight.” 

The lights flicker. You cram yourselves into the safest spot you can find, crouched between industrial refrigerators and storage cabinets.

“Come on,” Kano whispers. “Come here.” She holds her arm open. 

You’re trembling. You want to be there, squeezed in beside her, but…

“Just for a little bit,” she says softly.

So you go. This is how it’s meant to be; tucked against each other, leaning into your shared body heat and feeling your hearts beating together. You can breathe again. Your magic twines together, ebbing and flowing, pulled between you in playful tugs before it settles into perfect equilibrium. You nuzzle like cats, cheek to cheek, nose to nose, buried in the crook of her neck as she hums in quiet contentment. You can’t remember the last time you had the chance to do this. It’s hard to pull away. Kano manages it first but she gives you one last affectionate rub, nosing against the side of your head and letting out a breath. Her magic leaves with her and yours lurches, wanting to follow. 

You want to know who she is. Where she came from. What she likes and where she lives and all of her favorite things. If there are others, if she knows. You want to know how and why the Council thinks she’s latent. You want to know if she plans to leave, and where she’ll go. And if she’d take you with her.

You don’t say anything. The words build up in your throat, behind your teeth, and you have to swallow them back down because the moment has passed and anyone could be listening.

The lights flicker again, dimming longer this time. That’s when the skittering starts. You exchange nervous looks with Kano. No, you didn’t imagine it. She heard it, too. You can hear something in the walls. Scraping sounds. Breathing. 

It tries the vent first, clanging around above one of the industrial ovens. You hold your breath watching the warding enchantments bulge from the other side. Nothing should be able to squeeze itself between the metal slots on the cover, and yet a thin, sharp appendage like an oversized proboscis pokes and prods through the narrow openings. The enchantments hold. The thing retreats from the vents and starts circling again, searching for openings. It sounds like a tangled mass of rats all running in different directions; a spider the size of a car. Leg after leg after leg crawling up into the ceiling and down beneath the floor tiles, tapping against the other side of the wall.

It hisses, long and shrill. Then the hiss warbles, pitch zigzagging, and other rumbling noises join in. It keeps trying, adjusting, softer than firmer, higher then lower, until it settles on something convincing.

“Hhhhhhh. Hhhe. He. Lo. Hhhhhellooo. Hhh. Hha. Hello. Hello. Kano.” 

Kano grabs your arm and squeezes so tightly it hurts. The thing’s hiss becomes a sigh, and then quiet laughter. You hear an unpleasant, wet sound like a dog noisily drinking something. Tasting the air, the walls, the memories left behind in the Komorebi Cafe, Kano’s thoughts and fears settled into the foundations. Its voice strengthens the more it speaks. It sounds like a man, settling into an airy tone and playful cadence. It must be imitating someone she knows. Someone she doesn’t want to see.

“Kano. Hi, Kano. Can I come in?” It paces around you again, circling behind you, on your left, nudging through the pipes in the sink before it hits the enchantments stuffed in the drain and then slinks back down. “Hey, don’t be like that. You know I’m here to help. Kano. Don’t keep me out like this.”

Kano can’t go any further into the corner but she tries anyway, curled up as small as she can make herself. You get in front of her so you’re all she can see, hands on her shoulders, resting your forehead against hers. “Stay calm,” you tell her, hoping you sound even a little bit calm or certain. “Look at me or close your eyes. We have to stay calm.”

Being scared makes it stronger. You can both hear it under your feet, in tunnels or pipes or, impossibly, just on the other side of the tiles, prowling inverted mere inches away. It sounds big and it’s solid enough to touch things, to make noise and have weight. You’ve never seen a fully matured lemure like that before, only the destruction they leave behind.

Kano’s hands shake around her phone. She calls someone but it never goes through. Little red exclamation points appear beside every text she tries to send. 

Mihai! you think desperately. You squeeze your eyes shut and throw your thoughts as far as you can, shouting into the dark. You don’t know if he’s close enough to hear you but you keep calling for him, searching for the snapped threads of connection.

The skittering stops for a moment. You hear the lemure scraping at the other side of an outlet. When it starts to pace, it’s slow and meandering. It tastes the air again. It makes a hoarse barking sound like it’s clearing its throat. Its voice changes, thinner and raspy.

“I’ve made myself weak tonight,” it murmurs, and your heart drops into your stomach. It sounds just like Mihai. “You can test me properly.”

It tries the vent again. The sink again. The outlets, wriggling more of itself against the wards. It pushes against everything at once and you hear things shattering above and below, wood snapping, steel groaning. A bulb bursts, raining glass on your shoulders. Kano sobs into your chest. Something violent happens in the next room and you know it’s gotten into the building, its skittering louder and sharper than before. The handle on the kitchen door rattles but doesn’t budge, slathered in paper wards. 

“Someone should clip your wings,” it whispers, and then something slams against the door. And again, harder. And again, making the wards peel back and rip down the middle. Kano wails and you cling to each other as the door cracks and splinters further, and tendrils of shadow pour through every space in greedy eagerness.

Something else comes barreling through the cafe with a bestial roar, its heavy sprint smashing tile with every step. The lemure rips away from the door, shrieking. There’s a thunderous collision; furniture snapping like twigs. Two behemoths smash into each other and all you hear is carnage, the squelch and bodily splatters of something being butchered alive. You don’t think you’ll ever forget the noise. Chunks of meat hit the floor and gore sprays the walls. They rip and tear and pulverize until only one remains, panting like an animal in the awful silence. Something lands heavily on the ground.

Your pulse pounds in your ears. Kano doesn’t move. You don’t want to but in the quiet, there’s this soft wheeze and the strained start of a whimper. Like a dog, you think with dawning horror. A dog who’s hurt, who can’t get up. Kano grabs at your sleeve when you start to stand and follows you to her feet. You inch towards the door, the wards now a cloudy, sun-baked yellow speckled with mold-like splotches to show their damage. It opens easily. Chunks of wood fall off when you push through. 

All that’s left of the lemure is a giant stain, black and faintly iridescent like an oil slick. It bubbles and gives off heat. Collapsed in the boiling ink spill is a nightbound with a hunting form unlike anything you’ve seen before. It’s wolf-like, its strangely bent legs and elongated paws distinctly canid. There are so many scars on its body that its fur only grows in thin tufts and patches, most of it gathered along its shoulders and back in a thick black mane. The head is its strangest feature, disproportionately large and unwieldy. Its snout protrudes far beyond a wolf’s maw, the flesh teeth-lined and gnarled stiff. 

A borzoi and an alligator, you’d thought before. You had no idea how right you were. It’s Mihai, just as he was in the Council headquarters. This is what he looks like in hunting form. He’s curled up defensively, the sharp angles of his shoulders straining beneath the skin of his back.

He doesn’t have wings. There are no nubs or growths where something might have been cut, no scars suggestive of anything more than general injuries. You stare at the ridge of his spine and his blood-slicked mane in dim confusion. He’s supposed to have wings, isn’t he? Don’t they all have wings?

Screeching brakes and whistling wind alerts you to someone’s presence outside. The CTF, probably. You’re in shock, only faintly aware of noise and movement around you. Nightbound fill the cafe, speaking solemnly to one another. One inspects the lemure’s remains. Several start hauling boxes full of equipment for a cleansing. You’re herded out the door with Kano and surrounded by glinting eyes and worried faces. 

“I want to go home,” Kano insists over and over, her voice quivering, but they keep asking her if her head hurts, or her throat, or if her eyes are burning, or her nose is running. “I’m fine. Can I please go home? I don’t want to be here anymore.” 

Someone volunteers to give her a ride. You don’t say goodbye but you look at each other one more time before she’s gently eased into the passenger seat of a CTF vehicle. You try to go back inside but someone stops you.

“Is he okay?” you ask. The frown you get in response makes you even more frantic. “Is he hurt? Let me see him.” 

“It’s alright. Everything’s going to be fine,” the nightbound says with patronizing softness. His gaze flits down to your collar. “Who’s your partner? We should really get you home.”

“He’s part of my convenire. Please let me see him,” you say desperately.

The nightbound looks startled. He steps aside reluctantly and starts to say something about how it’s all very delicate and you need to be careful, but you’re pushing past him before he’s done. Mihai is out of his hunting form. Not enough strength to maintain it, isn’t that what he said? This could’ve gone badly, you realize, horribly if he’d fallen out of it any sooner. Several CTF agents huddle around him, their voices low and pleading, but he keeps shaking his head and mumbling weakly. 

“Mihai!” 

The sound of your voice makes him twitch, muscles flexing like he’s trying to get up. He looks up at you with a tired smile. It’s easier to tell he’s hurt without all the fur. It was a close fight. Blood pours from somewhere beneath his bangs and slicks his shoulder, forcing one eye shut.

“Okay?” he rasps. Blood dribbles from the corner of his mouth. “Not hurt?” 

“No,” you say hoarsely. You kneel beside him, pushing his hair out of his face. His skin is clammy with sweat. He trembles and leans into your touch, whining softly.

“He’s not taking blood,” one of the nightbound tells you. He holds up a plastic pouch with fine print all over the label pasted across the front, a butterfly stamped in the corner. 

“What? Why?” 

Mihai shakes his head again and groans, burying his face against your knee. He feels feverish. You squeeze his hand and he barely squeezes back.

He speaks through the connection so only you can hear. Even there, his voice comes through strained and quieter than usual. “All emergency medicinal blood is witch blood,” he whispers. “It comes from captives and strangers. I won’t take it. I haven’t earned it.”

“Then take mine.”

He makes a pained sound. When you stroke his hair, he turns to kiss your fingers. “I haven’t earned yours, either.”

“You can have it! I’m offering it!” 

“You shouldn’t,” he chides you. “You don’t trust me yet.”

You don’t know what else to do, so you resort to the language you know he prefers. You clutch his hand to your heart and close your eyes, and you imagine crisp, night wind, rustling leaves and the scent of moss. 

In the forest, you find him staring back at you in surprise. You are both bare, the moonlight shining upon your shoulders. There is a fire burning behind you; heat on your back, a halo of scarlet. Mihai sees the flames but not the thing that’s burning. You’re not ready to tell him about it. You’re not sure you’ll ever be ready. You might take that with you to your grave. But you’re here with him. You’re not going to leave him alone.

His brows furrow. He thinks you pity him. 

You smile and shrug. Maybe you do. Maybe you feel a lot of things for him and it’s hard to separate or name them. But there’s a sense of kinship, too. You feel it more than you’d like to admit for all of the hatchlings, but it’s strongest for him. You reach for his hand, lifting it, threading your fingers together. You won’t bury him. Your trust won’t come all at once. It’ll have to be a slow thing; more quiet nights, more glimpses, more drinks shared over the same table.

He has some of it already. Just a little bit. Just enough that you’re willing to lift your head and bare your throat to him in offering. You feel him tense; see him swallow. His hand shakes when he brings it to the side of your neck, stroking your pulse. Asks, wordlessly, if you’re sure.

You think of the lemure; your fear and your relief hearing him tear it to pieces; his smile, lying on the floor bleeding out. You shut your eyes. You’re sure.

The forest recedes in a rushing blur, overtaken by the wreckage of the Komorebi Cafe. You’re on the floor, staring at shattered tiles, and can’t remember how you got there. 

“Easy now,” someone says warily. The CTF are still here but they’ve backed off, keeping to the edges of the room. “No one’s going to take your witch.”

Mihai growls. He’s on top of you, you realize, his voice directly beside your ear. “No need to use that tone. I’m not a hatchling. I’m lucid, but my instincts are aggravated. Keep your distance. Wait outside, preferably.” Nobody moves. Mihai sighs heavily and grumbles something you don’t catch, his hand sliding up and down your spine reassuringly.

When you try to lift your head, his grip turns harsh. Mihai grasps the back of your neck and keeps you down, the growl returning softer than before.

“Don’t move,” he murmurs.

“Are you okay?” you ask. You can’t help but try and turn, wanting to look around, see the room, the CTF—

“Still,” Mihai orders. A rush of mesmerism forces your muscles to unclench and your limbs to drop. The floor tiles are cool against your cheek. “Sorry,” he says, sounding strained. “I’m not—this isn’t how I’m used to feeding. Doing it so rushed, on the floor like this, makes it feel like play. Like…”

He shifts his weight on top of you and you feel the unmistakable twitch of his cock, half-hard against your ass. Embarrassed heat fills your veins. He’s naked and arched over your back, panting quietly against your ear. 

You raise your voice to address the CTF agents who you never heard leave. “Do you really have to be here for this?” 

“Yes,” one says bluntly.

“Nothing we haven’t seen before,” says another.

A third adds, a bit too cheerfully, “Arousal is a perfectly natural reaction to feeding, it’s really nothing to be embarrassed about. I’d be surprised if either of you last long—”

“Please shut up,” you beg. 

Mihai works the collar’s clasp apart. It takes him a while with his hands shaking as badly as they are. Once it’s loose, he tosses it somewhere beyond your line of sight. His lips are on your nape in an instant. The bite is a quick, shallow pinch and it hurts more than they usually do. Mihai doesn’t drink from the puncture. He kisses it instead, lavishing the small, oozing mark with long, sensual drags of his tongue. His hands start to roam, slipping under your shirt and palming your chest, mapping out your skin as he keeps you close to him. His hips move in languid drags like he’s teasing you. You feel his cock fill gradually, hardening a little more with every small sound he drags out of you.

“Relax,” he whispers. 

One of his hands trails lower, working at your clothes until you feel the cold air on your backside. He doesn’t undress you completely and that makes you feel even more exposed somehow, your shirt bunched up and your legs trapped together as he slots his hips against yours and pushes his cock between your bare thighs. He keeps stroking your spine with one hand as he squeezes your hip with the other, thrusting in a slow grind that smears precum along your inner thighs. 

“Arch your back. A little more. Lift your hips.” 

Mihai arranges you into an even more compromising situation, raising your lower half while keeping your head on the floor. You get it wrong the first time, trying to sit up again. He corrects you with a nip beneath your ear, pinning you by the nape again and squeezing. Your skin tingles beneath his palm. When you stay put, you’re rewarded by his hips moving again, his cock pushing between your thighs and grinding against your sex. Arching into the friction and moving back against him earns you a soft moan.

“I wanted to prepare you more, but there’s no time,” he says, his voice strained. “It’s going to hurt. I couldn’t get enough venom out to put you into heat.” 

You’re not sure you heard him right and you don’t get the chance to ask before Mihai sinks his fangs into your neck. He wasn’t lying. It really hurts. The pinch you felt before is nothing compared to the deep, penetrating sting of a proper bite. It aches worse every time he draws blood from the wound and you can’t help but squirm instinctively, trying to wriggle away. 

Mihai’s grip tightens. Wordless animal ferocity surges through the connection between you. You feel his hunger and indignation. He caught you, pinned you, made you surrender, and won’t deny him his prize. But beneath the red hot flashes of this showy anger like a wolf baring its teeth, you also sense the bubbly excitement of a wagging tail. It’s all a game; a play-hunt. The pain won’t last and he will lick your wounds when it’s over.

He tries to help. He explores your skin, searching for weak spots where you’re most sensitive. His hips move faster and his thrusts grow harsher, every frantic back and forth motion rubbing against your sex. Bent over on the floor with your legs caught in your clothes and his weight holding you down makes it feel dirtier, more primal, and the tingling all around his bite starts to warm into pleasant shivers.

“Are you starting to feel it?” he whispers into your mind. He’s louder than you thought he’d be. He moans into the bite and breathes in harsh pants through his nose. “I had to teach myself how to administer venom so neither the technique nor the results are typical. You’ll experience it properly next time. This is just a taste.”

It’s nothing like Orion’s or Renaud’s. Their venom hit you all at once and drowns you in sharp, unrelenting pleasure, heightening every sensation and turning the pain of the bite to ecstasy. Mihai’s takes longer, its influence gradually creeping up your spine like the lick of flames growing larger and hotter. You feel feverish, lightheaded and achingly empty. You try to spread your legs without thinking about it and whine when you can’t get them far enough apart. Mihai’s hand curls around your neck and cups your chin, gently guiding your head to a slightly different angle so he can drink more deeply. The sensation is maddening, still painful yet deeply satisfying.

Inside. That’s all you can think about. Mihai, inside you, however you can have him. His fangs hurt but they belong there and you feel yourself arching your back, begging him to penetrate you more, again, deeper. Mihai groans against your neck and his hips buck wildly, the head of his cock catching and slipping past your entrance. His hand leaves your hip to grasp himself by the base and you feel him shift on top of you, his stance changing, widening, his weight settling differently. 

Dimly, you recall he said something about heat. Like an animal. That must’ve been what he meant, because he’s mounting you like a beast about to rut its mate. The noises he makes are feral, grunting and growling with his teeth in your neck as he folds himself against your back with his hips molded to yours. He moves completely on instinct, humping mindlessly. Every quick jolt drives him closer to your entrance until you feel the thick head of his cock stretching you open. 

The forest flashes through your mind. Mihai’s mesmerism drags you there again and somehow you are both places at once, surrounded by beige walls and evergreens, the scent of coffee beans mingling with moss. Mihai takes you on the floor of the Komorebi Cafe and in this strange wilderness, his claws scraping broken tiles and tangling in the grass. He drags his fangs out of your flesh and pants against the slow ooze of blood trickling down your neck, but his hips never stop moving. If anything, he ruts even harder now that it’s all he has to focus on.

“Thank you,” he whispers, his voice in your mind gone breathless. “Thank you for this gift. For your blood and your trust. Next time will be different. I’ll show you how it’s meant to be.”

You couldn’t answer him if you wanted to. His relentless, animalistic fucking drives the air from your lungs and the pleasure echoes, the warmth of satiation and burning lust blooming in the connection between you. You lose grip on everything but the sensations of being claimed.

Mihai doesn’t tell you he’s close but his body warns you. There’s a growl rumbling beneath every sound he makes and he starts shifting restlessly, subconsciously searching for the right angle to press even deeper into your tight heat. His stance widens and his nonstop pounding rhythm falters, his thrusts getting slower, more rolling and grinding, refusing to pull all the way out of your body. He drags you to the edge with him with wave after wave of smothering mesmerism, emptying your mind of everything but your shared pleasure.

You cum when he does. He doesn’t give you any other choice. You cry out and tremble uncontrollably, consciousness wavering at the onslaught of his ecstasy cresting alongside yours. You feel warm; heavy; truly sated. Full to the brim and sheathed in squeezing, pleasant heat. Mihai pumps his hips in several last, frantic thrusts. He stays buried inside you until he’s fully spent and soft. When he pulls out, his cum spurts out around him and trickles slowly down your thighs. He collapses onto his side and drags you with him, still catching his breath. 

“Need something for mending,” he says raggedly, holding out his hand. There’s footsteps; shadows moving over you both. Mihai holds you, murmuring indistinctly and rubbing your back when a sudden cold, wet sensation on your neck makes you whimper. Feeding often leaves you a little groggy but this is worse than you’re used to. Everything sounds muffled and you can barely keep your eyes open. Mihai strokes your cheek. “You’re alright. It’s a side effect of my venom. I’ve got you.”

You don’t want to fall asleep here but exhaustion tugs your mind deeper into the dark. You cling to Mihai and he keeps you curled against his chest, stroking your spine reassuringly. “Wanna go home,” you mutter.

“I know. I’ll get us there,” Mihai says. He nuzzles into your neck and hums softly, sounding perfectly content. 

“I didn’t…I meant…” 

“Hush. I know,” he says gently. Connected and nested in your conscious mind, he knows you’re lying. You didn’t think of your old apartment when you said “home.” You thought of ornate wrought iron gates, a long, steep driveway, and the parlor where you spend most of your time. 

.

Pals and Papilios,

Another winter slinks off in the rearview mirror. There are those who would say it’s spellcraft season again but some of us don’t stop casting just because there’s snow ;) 

But apparently, that’s controversial. My last post about solstice spells and making the most of winter brought every miserable busybody out of the woodwork just to leave a complaint in the comments. Check out these testimonials:

“This is such an awful, reckless idea. If you’re going to do something so irresponsible, at least don’t go spreading it around and telling other people to do it, too,” laments HeyKatie84, who has never had fun before.

“DO NOT DO THIS!!!! Do not do ANYTHING recommended in this post! Cold weather/snow affects ambient magic flow and council bloodhounds are on high alert!! You are SO FUCKING STUPID and you WILL get caught if you keep doing shit like this!!!!1!!!” Modern_Merlin SHOUTS into the VOID.

“R U CTF?” xXxbrokennangellxXx boldly asks. Are you kidding me? Every undercover vampfed I’ve ever come across posts like, “Teehee wow omg free nectar lollipops at Local Council HQ tomorrow! Nightbound are so nice and cool and also sexy.”

“You sound insane. What other advice do you have?” inquires NoName000. I’m so glad you asked! Since so many of you seem to have decided that the only way to survive the modern world is to go nowhere, do nothing and be alone forever, I think we should go back to basics today. Feast your eyes on this list of essential skills for my fellow unfortunates stuck in bat and bird country!

1: I LOVE LESTAT - Frequently, publicly and obnoxiously proclaim how badly you want to get turned. Reference vampire books and movies as a motivation (and yes, use the word “vampire”). I’ve got it on good authority that most councils keep a Suspicious and Generally Irksome Humans List, and they avoid Generally Irksomes like the plague. 

2: SNACKS FOR LATER - Nectarify your own magic and save up a stash in case of emergencies. Here you go, killjoys, something even you can get behind. You should have fast-release and slow-release options for different situations.

3: DRINK-FREE ZONE - Befriend some aspiring red-wearers and become their designated driver. Seriously! Nobody ever bothers the DD. I think there’s some kin law about it. And those bartenders all talk to each other so as soon as one of them decides you’re just a boring regular old human who’s off limits, word will spread. Of course, this means going to kin bars so keep yourself topped up. Better yet, use tip #2. My preference is hard candy nectar. Keep it on your tongue and you won’t even be tempted by whatever they’re putting in the drinks.

4: HIDE IN PLAIN SIGHT - Another one for the nervous nellies. If you’re not clipsing, you should be. Pay attention to where the CTF’s been deployed lately and check local news archives to see where hauntings tend to pop up. Shade nests in residential areas can cut rent in half! 

5: RUIN THEIR DAY - Learn the Curse of Gentle Misfortune or whatever equivalent you grew up with, the one that makes people kind of unlucky. I just know I’m going to get more complaints about this, but to the usual suspects: this is a you problem. If someone tracks you from a curse, you suck at curses. Practice some more. Try it on a low-risk target and work your way up to your local council or CTF HQ. There’s not really any strategic benefit to this, it’s just good for morale to watch a 400 year old apex predator stumble going down some stairs and then try to pretend it didn’t happen.

6: START A WITCH HUNT - First, pick a scapegoat. If you have any neighborhood strays, they’re good for this, but I’ve also used raccoons and possums. Feed your new furry friend treats from your nectar stash for a week or so. (Don't worry, they handle magic just fine. It’s pretty common for them to nibble on wild nectar crystals.) Start sending anonymous tips to the CTF hotline. Vent your magic around town, just enough to get the bloodhounds to start sniffing around. They’ll follow the trail for days before they realize what’s going on, at which point they’ll have to file paperwork about chasing a feral cat for a week straight. If you can pull this off a couple times in a row, they’ll shut down the tip hotline for a while. 

I think that’s plenty to get you started. Try some of these out, then report back! And of course feel free to whine about how much the mere ideas of joy and whimsy frighten you, my comments are always open for that, too. But in all seriousness, you’re better off looking out for yourself. Your worry is wasted on me. I don’t plan to change. The nightbound take all kinds of things from us without even trying. I won’t let them take all the fun out of everything, too. 

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According to A Comparative Study of Kin Metaphysics, witch telepathy and nightbound telepathy don’t work the same way. This is the case for all techniques you share. Their bodies process, store and harness magic differently than yours does, and many chapters in this musty yellow doorstop of a tome are dedicated to meticulously cataloguing and contrasting these peculiarities. You’re not here for all that. You just want to know about telepathy because according to the section on “mental magics,” witch telepathy can be especially aggravating for nightbound.

Athanasius, you think, trying to call out to him with only your thoughts. No answer. No metaphysical stir in the back of your head. You focus your thoughts, picturing him in your mind, but you never get a response or any sense that he heard you. You frown and flip to the next page. 

You have the parlor to yourself this evening. No hatchlings are around to complain about the light so the chandelier overhead shines the burnt gold of dusk, just bright enough to read by. Stretched out on the sofa with a bowl of snacks in your lap and a pile of books spread across the coffee table, you study intently how to be a more effective nuisance. 

The nightbound need a connection to speak in their minds, a bridge of mesmerism for meaning to travel along. All a witch needs is a target, a bit of magic, and something they want to say. The book warns that inter-kin telepathy should be initiated by the nightbound to avoid irritation or discomfort. Young and inexperienced witches can be loud, their thoughts chaotic, their clumsy attempts at communication headache-inducing. There are mental magics for shielding the mind and preventing unwanted intrusion, complex skills you’ve made a note to return to once you have a better grasp on your magic, but the nightbound’s principles are more limited in scope. 

In other words, there’s no tuning you out. It’d be like having a megaphone or cranking up the TV too loud. There are other spells you could be learning, enchantments you should try to memorize, but testing Athanasius’ patience is one of the few simple pleasures remaining in your life. This absolutely has to come first.

Athanasius! you try again. You imagine threads, roots, slithering tendrils of connection, your thoughts unspooling like spidersilk. You don’t know if it helps. You can’t tell if you reach him or not. With a frustrated huff, you abandon your study hovel and trudge the mansion’s halls in search of him. Maybe you need to see him first and keep the distance small until you get the hang of it. Maybe it’ll help if you know what it feels like first. Maybe—

Something shrieks. 

You freeze. It sounded close. Not inside but nearby, maybe out in the garden. Was that one of the hatchlings? Are you in danger? You call for Athanasius with your mind again, then feel hot with shame when you realize you’ve done it. He doesn’t answer anyway. You wait to see if it happens again. You can’t figure out which way to go if you don’t even know where it’s coming from. 

Then something moves in the dark. Your pulse picks up. Someone’s here, inside with you. Not Orion; he would’ve said something. Probably not Renaud, either, he’d come closer and tell you what he wants or keep moving wherever he’s going. Caught in the long, windowed corridor where the moonlight trickles through in curtained slivers, you stare down the person you least wanted to see. Mihai is easy to miss. He keeps to the dark space between windows and silver light, the glint of his eyes partially hidden by long, unruly bangs. He’s the smallest of the hatchlings, shorter and slighter in build than either Orion or Renaud. You would’ve missed him entirely if he hadn’t moved.

Was that on purpose? Did he want you to know he was there? You stare at each other in the dark. He stands perfectly still in the middle of the hallway like he doesn’t intend to let you pass. 

“Hi,” you say awkwardly. You don’t particularly want to talk but the silence feels oppressive and dangerous. Mihai shifts slightly; a nod. “I’m looking for Athanasius.” 

He makes a rumbling, almost animal noise, a throaty, “Hm,” that’s not quite a hum or a growl. He says something else you don’t catch, a quick, hoarse rasp too quiet to decipher. When you continue to stare, uncomprehending, he huffs. Like a dog, you can’t help but think. It’s the exact noise a puppy makes in the face of mild inconveniences.

“You’re loud,” he repeats irritably. “And I’m not a dog.” 

It’s working! you think excitedly, which makes Mihai groan and clutch his head. “Oh. Sorry,” you say sheepishly. “I didn’t mean for the whole house to hear me.” You shut your eyes and imagine everything folding back inward. Flowers closing; seams stitching shut. When you open your eyes again, Mihai has crept closer. He stays just out of arm’s reach, a single stripe of moonlight falling through the curtains between you. “So have you seen Athanasius?” you try again.

“Hm,” he says with a curt nod.

You wait a moment but he doesn’t continue. “Where?” you ask.

“Outside.”

You peer through the curtains but don’t see anything. Mihai lurks in your periphery, staring intently. “Where outside?” 

Another bloodcurdling screech makes you both flinch. It’s not a human noise. Mihai looks in a seemingly nonsensical direction, staring at the wall, but you trust his hearing. Whatever’s going on, it isn’t happening on the front lawn. “He was in the garden. Now…” He pauses, tilting his head. You watch him turn, tracking something you can’t see. “Hm. He’s handling it.” 

“It?” you echo. 

He doesn’t answer. He steps back from you, tilting his head sharply in a beckoning gesture. “Follow,” he orders. When you don’t move, he really does growl. “Athanasius sent me to get you.” 

“Why?” you ask.

“House meeting.” 

“Why didn’t he tell me about it himself?” 

Mihai scowls. He lets out another long-suffering, dog-like sigh and starts to hum under his breath. You’re confused, trying to make out if you recognize the melody or not, when your awareness suddenly goes fuzzy at the edges. It’s the pleasant fogginess of waking up without urgency, luxuriating in blankets and birdsong on a day when you have nothing to do. Your muscles unclench, your shoulders sag, and your eyelids flutter shut. Your head is full of warm fur and soft moss. 

That’s right. That’s how it is right now. There’s nothing you need to do. Nothing to worry about in the meadow of your mind. There’s only whispering leaves and clattering branches and the song the wind carries. Nothing more.

“Sacrament?”

You look up. There is the canopy, the leaves almost blue in the night, and stars in the spaces between, and him, lovely and wise. The leader of the flock strokes your cheek with a soft, adoring smile and you lean into his touch with a contented sigh. 

“Mihai can be rather heavy-handed with his mesmerism. But it is pleasant, is it not?” You have some sense of movement; of the world tilting, adjusting, another body and mind folded around yours. You feel caged and protected. You hear the flutter of great wings. “Focus on my voice. I will help you back to the surface. Mihai, if you would—yes, very good. Gently now.” You feel yourself rising, carried skyward in the grasp of sheltering shadows. You drift higher, beyond the leaves and branches of the canopy, beyond the clouds, into silver light, into crimson stars, into eyes wide open, eyes upon wings upon a nightmare, hunger of eons, destroyer of dynasties, King-Breaker, Blood Dancer, He Who the Ancients Dread—

“Sacrament?” Athanasius says.

“Huh?” You blink, bleary-eyed. You feel heavy and half-asleep. You find yourself in the little seating area just outside the kitchen, potted plants and patio furniture scattered around a wooden table. You sit up slowly, rubbing focus into your eyes. Athanasius looms over you, examining you with a patient smile. 

“Back with us?” he asks. 

The hatchlings are all across the table. Orion and Renaud both sit hunched and guilty-looking, avoiding each other’s eyes. They’re shirtless, showing off Renaud’s tattoo sleeves and the scrapes and bruises mottling their chests. Mihai sits between them but he stares at you. He’s wearing a long-sleeved shirt, plain black and slightly too big for him. The sleeves fall all the way to his knuckles and he seems content to leave them there, nothing but his fingertips and sharp, claw-like nails peeking out. 

“What was that for? You could’ve just asked me to go with you!” you snap.

Mihai shrinks back like you lunged at him but there’s anger mixed in with the fear, his face marred by a glaring snarl. “You were defiant,” he says. His voice never rises above a hoarse murmur. “Waste of time arguing with you.” 

“You may blame me, sacrament. I would have retrieved you myself, but there were other matters that required immediate attention.” Athanasius looks pointedly at the hatchlings. Orion and Renaud carefully look anywhere else. “You have all made tremendous progress since arriving at the convenire. I am proud of you. But these recent incidents must not go unaddressed. Orion.” 

The hatchling flinches. He sneaks a look at you and then quickly looks away. 

“Orion,” Athanasius repeats more gently. “Now would be a good time to apologize.” 

Orion stares at the table. “Uh. Right. So.” He clears his throat. “Sorry for, uh. You know. The whole, like, coercion thing. And trying to make you like me more. And not letting you go when, um, you wanted to.”

You glance back and forth at all the nightbound seated at the table. You’re not sure why Orion’s the only one apologizing. They’ve all used their mesmerism in ways you find distasteful and the one most at fault for not letting you leave isn’t a hatchling. Then again, Athanasius has been careful about everything. There’s a schedule, a hierarchy, a particular way things are meant to go under his roof. Orion must’ve crossed a line when he cornered you in the hallway the other day.

“Do you think I’m weak?” he asks suddenly.

You’re completely blindsided by the question, even more shocked by the expectant looks you get as the silence stretches on. Are you supposed to answer that? Orion watches you so intently that it makes you nervous. “Uh. No?” you say. 

“But you like him better even though I’ve been nicer. Is it because I’m the youngest? You don’t think I can protect you? But if that’s all it was, you would’ve fucked Athanasius by now.” Orion frowns at you, eyes darting around to every micromovement of your expression as your face twists in confused embarrassment. 

“Or perhaps,” Athanasius says gently, “every witch is different. And because we are not traditionalists, there is no need for a witch to offer themselves in the hopes of ensuring survival, nor is there any need for these dominance scuffles you keep initiating. This convenire is safe for the sacrament and for you, Orion. All of you are safe in my care.”

Orion smiles half-heartedly and shrugs. He doesn’t believe him, you realize. Is that why he’s been so clingy, following you around and acting friendly? Does he think he can get you in bed that way? Does he think that’s normal? Is that how it was, wherever he came from?

Does he miss it? you wonder nervously. 

“Renaud,” Athanasius says.

Renaud takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly and resignedly. “Yes, sir,” he says.

“I am concerned for your health. You have become avoidant again since your last incident.”

“I’m drinking—”

“Proper blood,” Athanasius stresses. “Cannibalism will starve you slowly.” Renaud doesn’t take the accusation well. He gets out of his chair, glaring, and opens his mouth but never gets the chance to speak. “Do not lie to me. You reek of your dalliances when you return from the bar. You gorge yourself on that which cannot sustain you and you do so with malice. There are many humans who are eager to feel our bite—”

“I don’t want them,” Renaud insists. He hunches over the table, rubbing a hand over his own face in embarrassment. “I don’t…can I talk to Rowan? Here? Not just over the phone.”

Athanasius’ gaze softens. “Rowan has yet to return from Envred, but he has assured me he will be here as soon as he is able. I can arrange something with Dr. Griffiths in the meantime.”

“I’ll wait,” Renaud says quietly. 

No wonder the household is such a wreck. They’ve all got the same counselor and he’s apparently out of town. You shift in your chair uncomfortably and look at the door to the kitchen. Do you really have to be here for this? You feel like you’re lurking at the edge of someone else’s therapy session, hearing things you’re not meant to. 

“Mihai,” Athanasius says. 

“Hm,” you hear. Then a choked sound, an awkward clearing of the throat. “Y…yes, sir.” Athanasius looks pointedly between you as if Mihai has looked anywhere else this entire meeting. His gaze steadily burns into yours. “I can’t apologize. I’m not sorry,” he says bluntly. 

Orion snorts, stifling it when Athanasius glances at him. “What, precisely, are you not sorry for?” Athanasius asks.

Mihai blinks slowly. That’s a cat thing, isn’t it? He doesn’t look particularly friendly or trusting right now. “Any of it,” he says. 

“What bothers you more? My inattentiveness, or the potential danger the sacrament poses?” Athanasius asks.

“Both,” Mihai says immediately. Then he frowns, glancing away from you for the first time and looking meekly at Athanasius. “No. It’s the witch. But you’re not careful enough, either. Witches are dangerous, elder. Especially the young and willful.”

You’re surprised that Mihai speaks so boldly to Athanasius, and even more surprised that Athanasius tilts his head in consideration. “And yet you subdued them easily. You held them so deeply in your thrall that it took both of us to bring them back out again. What did you see while they were unguarded?”

Mihai looks at you again. He’s still nervous, studying you the way a person studies anything volatile and potentially fatal, but there’s pity there, too. “Sadness,” he says quietly, “and profound loneliness. A lifetime of fear, of isolation. Of searching and never finding anything. A desire for destruction, for…vengeance. And yet a reluctance to do true, lasting harm.” 

You’re too stunned to even try refuting him. Are you really that easy to read? Do they all see that whenever they peek into your mind, or just when they go looking for something specific? 

“We probably won’t be killed in our sleep,” Mihai says, not sounding fully confident. “But most animals bite when provoked, and you like provocation.”  

Athanasius smiles. “Then your ire shall be for me alone. Are we agreed, sacrament?” 

You look at him and he looks back at you, and something stirs in the connection between you. He doesn’t send a message or an image through telepathy or try to nudge you into any particular answer, but there’s something there. Wisps of emotion. A feeling unfurling. It feels vast and endless, smothering, consuming. It fills your mind and tingles across your skin. The word “mine” never fully takes shape but you sense the implication; the shape of hands. The weight of chains. Slits of light and dark, sky and birdcage bars. 

He wants you with such ferocity that it leaves you speechless, frozen in fear until he repeats, “Are we agreed?”

“Uh. Yeah. Sure, yeah,” you say nervously, squirming in your seat. Mihai is unreadable but he’s watching carefully.

The rest of the meeting is thankfully uneventful. Athanasius spends some time reassuring the hatchlings, praising them for the things they’ve done well. Orion’s coworkers at the bakery are enamored with him. Renaud was recently mentioned by name in a travel vlog after he gave a tourist nightlife recommendations. 

“And Mihai,” Athanasius says proudly. “The Lord Regent tells me the Council greatly appreciates your insight. I would not be surprised if you are approached for an advisory position of some sort in the near future.” 

Mihai shrugs, letting out a quiet, almost shy, “Hm.” Dismissed, the hatchlings drift back inside. Renaud leaves first and Orion waits a while before he follows dejectedly, giving you one last thoughtful look. Mihai lingers and so do you. Making peace has been in your best interest so far so you let him stare as hard as he wants and clear your throat. 

“So,” you say.

“Hm,” he says.

“You must be pretty, uh…” Interesting? Knowledgeable? What’s he helping the Council with, anyway? “I didn’t know they let hatchlings join the Council.” 

“They don’t,” he says. 

You blink. He doesn’t. Mihai glances up at Athanasius like he wants or expects him to step in, but Athanasius is too busy tucking in Orion and Renaud’s chairs, pretending he isn’t eavesdropping.

“I’m…older,” he says slowly. “Renaud and I are similar. Hatchlings by other definitions.” He stands up suddenly, looking uncomfortable. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he says, sounding seconds away from turning into a pile of leaves. 

“Hey, okay, no problem,” you assure him. Curiosity gnaws at you but you’ll leave it alone for now. “Well. It was nice to meet you. You know, properly. We haven’t really talked much before.”

He cocks his head in the sharp nightbound headtilt. It’s the first time you’ve seen it on him. Somehow, it strikes you as more intimidating than usual. His gaze is piercing. You feel like he sees things the other hatchlings miss. The dog comparison comes to mind again, but now it seems insufficient. That’s a wolf, you think. He’s been skittish but now that he’s tested you, sniffing around and prodding to see what you’ll do, he’s getting bolder. 

“Hm. We’ll speak more,” he says. For once, he walks away instead of shapeshifting and stealthily vanishing. His movements make your pulse pick up. He doesn’t walk like Orion or Renaud, confident, graceful, but ultimately human. He looks like Athanasius. Like Virgilio or Avudim. That’s a beast barely constrained by human skin, a predator that’s tasted centuries of blood.

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It’s Friday night. Time feels flimsy in the Belanger Estate, more like a bit of hearsay slipping in from the world beyond the sun shields than anything tangible and real, but you know it’s Friday night. You woke up this evening to find a planner on your bedside table, shiny gold bookmark ribbon slotted into the current week with today’s date circled. Two recurring symbols make you flip forward, finding a pattern of stamps in speckled red ink. A rose every other day; a droplet at the end of every week.

“Sacrament,” Athanasius calls. You jolt upright. You’re still not used to the telepathy, the sudden awareness of his presence in your mind like he’s standing right behind you and breathing down your neck. “Please join me in the kitchen and bring the book I left you. We must discuss your schedule.”

“What if I’m busy?” you mutter.

“You are not.”

“You don’t know that. I could be.”

“You were asleep.”

“I was resting my eyes,” you grumble, kicking the blanket off your legs. There’s a bay window at the end of the hall where the bedrooms are, the rounded alcove beneath cushioned. It’s big enough for you to stretch your legs, small enough to feel snug and cozy, with a view of the moonlit garden and the gazebo Orion likes. The pillows and neatly folded blanket, soft as fleece, smelled freshly laundered. You brought your books, flicked on the lamp on the little end table nearby, and settled in to read. 

You didn’t quite make it through a whole page before your eyes fluttered shut, but Athanasius doesn’t need to know that. 

“I am pleased to see you comfortable. I thought you might like that spot in particular.”

You resist the petulant urge to insist that you hate it, actually, and you’ll never use it again. You put the pillows back the way you found them. “Are you making me tired? It feels like all I do lately is sleep.” 

“No. You have become accustomed to constant alertness and fear. Subconsciously, you recognize that the convenire is safe and now your body wants to rest.” 

You roll your eyes. “Calling it ‘safe’ feels like a stretch.” 

“There is no safer place for you than here.”

Something noisy is happening elsewhere in the manor. It gets louder the closer you get to the kitchen, clearest as you pass the hall that would take you to the lounge. You can just barely make out spritely flute music beneath a constant barrage of explosion sound effects and an increasingly frenzied conversation. 

“You need to rez me. Dude, you need to rez me.” 

“Uh-huh.” 

“Rez, please. You’re making me nervous, man.”

“Just a second.” 

“Rez. Bring me back. It’ll take two seconds. C’mon. For real. Dude.”

“Heard you the first time.”

“But you’re not doing it! You’re gonna die and we’re gonna have to start over again. Don’t get hit by that don’t get hit by that—”

“Fuck.”

“I told you—”

“I can’t hear myself think when you’re yelling in my ear!”

“You didn’t have to think, man, you just had to rez me!”

“To me, sacrament. You may join them when our business is concluded,” Athanasius reminds you. 

You find him idly stirring something at the stove, his long hair pulled back in a ponytail and his sleeves pushed up to his elbows. You hesitate to call his attire “casual.” There’s some frills on that crisp white shirt but his black vest and trousers are relatively plain compared to what you’re used to seeing him in. Something smells hearty and fresh, a touch earthy. Stray peels of onion skin and bits of leftover greenery that escaped the mincing pile dot the counter. Athanasius lifts his ladle and takes a testing sip of cloudy, fragrant broth, humming thoughtfully. 

“Sorrel soup,” he says without turning to look at you. It doesn’t matter; you can hear the smile in his voice. “I agree, the aroma is lovely. Now, there are several things I would like to discuss. The roses in your planner indicate the nights that you will receive a dose of roseblood, while the droplet marks your weekly blood draw.” 

You scowl. “You mean feeding?”

“No, this is a medical procedure. Your roseblood dose will be high to accommodate the number of nightbound you are expected to feed, but feeding itself will not follow a rigid schedule. You will produce far more blood than you need. Now, I would also like to discuss dietary suggestions.”

The phrase dietary suggestions makes you feel sick. “So, what, you control what I eat now, too?”

He brings the heat down to a simmer and places a lid over the pot before giving you his undivided attention. He meets your irritated stare with his usual patient amusement. “We have not discussed roseblood at length before. You will receive a dose every other night, beginning tonight, and that means you must also begin the roseblood regimen. It is not a restrictive diet. You may eat whatever you like, but you must also increase your iron intake. As convenire leader, your health is my responsibility. I would like you to peruse the cookbook there,” he pauses, waving his hand at the nearest countertop and the book cracked open on its spine, “and select dishes that appeal to you.”

The cookbook is an antique. You leave it on the counter, afraid it might fall to pieces in your hands with nothing but the ghost of old binding keeping the pages in. The words A Witch-Keeper’s Cookbook are barely visible on the battered cover above a stylized bird and butterfly worn to little more than faint outlines. They overlap; the bird perched upright, head downturned as though gazing at the butterfly nestled in its chest. “Interesting title,” you say dryly. You skim through a flowery introduction that goes on and on about sacred bonds and duties of guardianship and how you should always have a little nectar on-hand to smooth over difficult days. “You guys really don’t change. The Council still talks about witches like this.” 

“Yes. We do not change,” Athanasius says. He’s facing the stove again, checking on the soup, but you think he sounds wistful and nearly sad. “I intend to cook one meal for you each day to ensure you are properly nourished. If you find you do not like a dish, we will try something else. I am more than happy to make recommendations.”

“Do you even remember what tastes good?” you ask.

Athanasius has a particular laugh, a breathy little chuckle usually accompanied by a shake of the head, that he makes whenever you’ve said something he feels necessitates a lecture. He does it now and you brace yourself with a sigh. “In fact, I do. We do not need food, but many of us still enjoy it on occasion. I prepare meals for the hatchlings to celebrate their successes and to ease their homesickness. I could do this for you, as well, if you would like.”

“That’s…nice.” Athanasius pauses, the hand holding the ladle frozen in place when he glances at you. “It is,” you tell him. “That’s the kind of thing you do when you really care about someone. Or, I guess, when you really want something from them and you hope they’ll warm up to the idea.” 

“You think my care for you is a facade,” he guesses.

“I think it comes with strings attached.”

Athanasius twists a dial until it clicks, shutting off the stove. He sets the pot and the ladle aside, and then he draws closer. You hold his gaze and you don’t back down, but your pulse picks up when he gets within reach. He leans against the counter, still looking at you with his head cocked to one side and his smile full of fondness. “In this world, sacrament, no one will come to you without hunger for something. You are right to be wary of that.”

“Did you play this game with the last witch you kept, too?” you snap. “Is that what this is? You make me trust you, and then you lock me up in…”

…in what? Your brain catches up with your mouth and you freeze. What were you saying? Why were you saying it? The sudden absence of words and understanding, the hole punched through your thoughts, scares you. What was it? What was it? There was something, wasn’t there? There is something else in this house. That’s what you were thinking just a second ago. There is something—

And there it is: the nightbound headtilt, sharp and animalistic like an owl perched above a mouse. Athanasius looks at you with the same furious hunger. How dare you run from me, spoken with nothing but his eyes. “In what, sacrament?” he repeats, too calm and too quiet. The words come out slow and contemplative to conceal something else. “Answer.”

“I don’t…” You swallow and his eyes flick to your throat. Watching. Tracing the path of your arteries. “I don’t know.” The words are dragged out of you with mesmerism. You’re too afraid to speak. 

“You are free to roam the estate as you like, and I am willing to consider chaperoned travel beyond it. I have told you this. It was the same for those who came before you.” He’s staring. He stares a lot, but this is different. There’s no smile, no playfulness, no snide enjoyment of your squirming. He looks like he’s expecting something. Searching for it in your nervous movements, every breath, blink and fidget. You feel peeled open and exposed, bared for his scrutiny, and you are keenly aware of his disappointment. He sighs so softly you don’t hear it, but his shoulders sink. His soft smile returns. “As I said, your wariness is justified. If it puts your mind at ease, know that your predecessors were beloved and no harm came to them in my care. I knew them only briefly before their sacramental service came to an end and they began their partnerships, but I think of them fondly.”

You nod, not really listening, your gaze on the floor. Did he do something to you? Would he even admit it if he did? Something’s definitely wrong. There’s fog in your head, nibbled edges around your memory when you try to pick your way backwards through the conversation. A thought keeps slipping away, crumbling to dust whenever you try to grasp it. The moment is a jigsaw puzzle and there are pieces missing. Didn’t this happen another time recently? You think it did. But when?

“Are you alright, sacrament?” Athanasius asks. 

You meet his gaze. He knows, doesn’t he? He knows something’s been plucked out of your brain, and he knows that you know. And here you are at a stalemate, searching each other for those missing pieces and realizing neither of you are holding them. “I’m fine,” you say slowly. The lie is so absurd it makes him laugh and shake his head. 

*

“How did you do the ice spell? The big one that hits everything?”

“I think it was ice, then wind, then earth…no, wait, earth first. I think.”

“That’s not it.”

“Uhhhhh try ice twice, then wind? I did it on accident, man, I have no clue.”

The hatchlings don’t notice when you walk in. That shouldn’t be possible—they should’ve heard you by now, should’ve smelled prey long before you got to the lounge—but absolutely all of their senses are honed on the TV. Orion and Renaud are crammed shoulder to shoulder on the couch despite having more than enough room to spread out, a sight that startles and amuses you. Weren’t they at each other’s throats just a couple nights ago? It’s like watching a pair of siblings, the way they tentatively give advice and grumble about it, nudging each other in irritation when one of them makes a mistake. They’re playing some kind of co-op game, lasers and fireballs flashing across the screen. 

You also notice someone you haven’t seen before. Curled up in an armchair, there’s a third nightbound who hasn’t said a word. He’s not playing, not holding a controller at all, just watching and toying absently with the charm dangling from his woven necklace. Stringy black hair falls unevenly over his shoulders, significantly longer on one side than the other, his bangs unkempt and hiding his eyes. He’s wearing pajama pants and nothing else, exposing a thin build and a torso covered in scars. He looks like he survived a mauling, slashes and snaking lines leaving gnarled tissue across his chest and shoulders, smaller markings ringing his arms and hands. 

“What’re you playing?” you ask.

It’s like you startled a roomful of cats. All three nightbound jolt in alarm, wide-eyed with their fangs bared. Renaud looks the most mortified, letting out a long sigh before he flops back against the couch. Orion laughs nervously and waves in greeting, patting the cushion next to him. The last one yelps, high-pitched and terrified, and fucking explodes. There’s a bloodless burst, a rush of expelled magic like a breeze blowing past, and then you’re looking at crumpled pajama pants and a pile of leaves.

“Of fucking course,” Renaud groans.

“Aw, hey, man. You were doing so good!” Orion says. He pauses the game and sets his controller down, going over to the chair where someone used to be sitting and kneeling beside it. “You think you can turn back? Maybe just say hi?”

Renaud unpauses, uncaring of the protesting sounds Orion makes. 

“Is, uh. Is that okay?” you ask, gesturing vaguely.

“That’s Mihai,” Renaud says simply. 

“Should I go?” 

“He has to get used to you eventually.”

Orion whispers something. The leaves do not answer. With one last reassuring pat to the arm of the chair, Orion returns to the couch and looks at you expectantly. “Hey, come hang out with us! We got another controller around here somewhere, or you can just watch if you want,” he offers. 

You didn’t plan on sticking around, but now you’re curious. To your surprise, Orion lets you have space when you squeeze against the end of the couch. He shoots you a smile and then goes right back to pestering Renaud, the two of them arguing heatedly over how to approach the next boss. You must’ve caught them just before they leave for work. Orion never wears the red button up and black slacks otherwise. Renaud looks a little more casual in a t-shirt and jeans but the bag he always leaves the house with is on the floor in front of him.

“Heading out soon?” you ask.

“Yeah, in a bit,” Orion says distractedly. “Just wanted to hang out a little. You could join us sometime, you know? Or you can play while we’re gone, no one’ll mind. The Switch doesn’t belong to anybody. I mean, I guess it’s Athanasius’? But, like, it’s for all of us and he doesn’t use it, obviously. Can you imagine—?”

“Pay attention,” Renaud hisses, “before you get us both killed.”

“Right, right, sorry, gotcha.” 

They’re both so into it, leaning forward and jolting whenever their characters do something like their movement will transfer somehow. “How…old are you?” you ask. 

Orion hums, his eyes never leaving the screen. “You mean, like, total? Or just my night-years?”

It never occurred to you that they might count age differently, but that makes sense. It must feel like starting over when they change. “I guess total,” you say. “Do you usually use night years when people ask?”

“Thirty-three total. And people don’t ask. There’s only three ages for nightbound and it doesn’t have much to do with how long you’ve been alive.” He nods to the side, at Renaud. “Renaud’s, like, seventy-something and he’s a hatchling, too.”

Renaud doesn’t meet your wide-eyed, startled stare, more concerned with the creatures swarming the screen. Seventy-something? You know nightbound never look their age, but you assumed all the hatchlings were young. “It’s not ‘age’ so much as ‘can we let you out in public unattended and you won’t be a problem?’” Renaud says, scoffing, as if they didn’t both prove themselves to be problems a few days ago.

“Yeah, basically. And sometimes being around longer means you can control yourself better, but sometimes it doesn’t. Mihai’s—” Orion stops himself abruptly, glancing over at the chair. 

The chair that’s empty, somehow, devoid of both crinkled autumn leaves and discarded clothing. You’ve been distracted, sure, but you also didn’t see or hear a thing and that makes you nervous. 

Orion shrugs. “Eh, I’ll let him tell you sometime.”

Based on the single interaction you’ve had thus far, you doubt Mihai will ever tell you anything. “Is he scared of me?” you say. You’re being sarcastic. It’s meant to be a joke. But Orion looks at Renaud, Renaud looks at Orion, and they both grimace. “What? No, come on. He can’t be.” 

“Well, y’know,” Orion says, looking pained. You don’t, actually, you have no clue what that’s supposed to mean and he never elaborates. You don’t get the chance to ask, either, because something else snags both of their attention. They’re not as panicked as when you snuck up on them. Orion thinks to hit pause and they sit up straight, turning back towards the hallway with alert, cautious expressions. You’re reminded of a dog that just heard somebody walk up to the front door.

“Great, he’s coming in,” Renaud grouses. 

“Huh. What do you think he wants?” Orion says, frowning. Neither of them look upset or worried, but they’re both tense. They don’t start the game again, staring over the back of the couch and waiting for something. You hear the creak of aging floorboards, then voices. Indistinct first, muffled noise through the walls, growing gradually into understandable conversation. Athanasius and another person exchanging quiet pleasantries. Someone steps beneath the arched opening where the hallway opens into the parlor, briefcase in hand. Nice, polished shoes, fancy tailcoat with a canary stitched onto one side of the chest, cropped hair slicked to one side— 

Fuck. It’s Edmund, the guy who sniffed you out at work. He remembers you, too, if the sudden brightening of his expression and sharp head-tilt is any indication. “Good evening,” he says politely, nodding to each of you. 

“Good evening, detective. What can we help you with?” Orion says in the most blatantly ass-kissing tone you’ve ever heard come out of his mouth. 

Edmund smiles wryly. “You can relax, both of you. I’m here to check on your sacrament and conduct a follow-up interview, as is standard procedure after apprehension and assignment. May I speak to them privately for a moment?” He nods at an armchair and doesn’t quite wait for permission, already moving before Orion agrees. Renaud scoffs and gets to his feet, slinging his bag over his shoulder. You catch the exasperated look Edmund gives him and the absolutely frigid look Renaud offers in return as they pass each other. Orion pats your shoulder reassuringly. 

“Go easy, detective. You scared ‘em a little last time,” he says. He’s reluctant to leave, slow to get up and slower to walk away, giving you one last lingering look from the hall before he follows Renaud. 

“My apologies. I never wanted to frighten you.” Edmund sets his briefcase down and seats himself, adjusting the angle of the chair to face you rather than the TV. Looking at him makes your stomach twist, remembering the last time he sat across from you like this. There’s nothing but a coffee table between you this time, not that a sturdier barrier would do you any good. “Athanasius tells me you’re still adjusting.” 

“That’s one word for it,” you say quietly, watching his hands. He bends to pick through his briefcase, plucking out a manila folder that he rests in his lap. One hand lays along the armrest while the other is perched atop the folder, waiting. 

“This is a lot, I know. And I’m sure you’re not pleased to see me. But you’re in the very best hands here.”

“Am I?” you ask. “Orion and Renaud haven’t exactly made the best first impressions.” 

Edmund sighs softly. “Yes, well, that’s to be expected. Athanasius has a soft spot for troubled hatchlings and those two are especially troubled. But you’re perfectly safe here. He’s aware of everything that happens on the estate grounds and he’ll never allow anything to harm you.” He flips the folder open, thumbing through the first few pages in a thick stack. “Now, you mentioned something unusual when you met the Council. You’re unfamiliar with the term ‘kin.’ Perhaps Athanasius has taught you by now, but this is how we refer to ourselves collectively, nightbound and witches. You misunderstood the question at the time so allow me to ask again. Prior to that evening at the office, had you been in contact with other unregistered kin?” 

“Are we doing this again?” you ask. “You ask me a bunch of stuff and then you put me under anyway and ask a second time to get the answers you want?” 

“There’s no need to put you under if you’re truthful the first time,” he says patiently. He nods, his gaze flicking below your face for a moment. “Your pulse is fast.”

“You scare me.” 

“My apologies. But if I can hear your heartbeat, what else do you think I might notice? Very few people can lie without giving themselves away somehow.” 

He waits, scrutinizing your expression, your posture, micromovements you’re not even aware of. This is a fight he knows you’ll lose, just like all of them. It makes your face burn with humiliation and your breath quicken with fear. 

“You really believe all the same bullshit the Council does,” you say hoarsely. “You think you did the right thing, destroying my life.” Edmund’s cold, calculating expression thaws but only slightly. “No, Edmund, I don’t know any other ‘kin.’ I haven’t talked to another witch since I was a kid and I don’t know where any of them are anymore. And that’s your fault. If you think we can’t possibly exist by ourselves because it’s too dangerous, that’s because we’re all too afraid of you to even find each other. We live lonely lives in a world that doesn’t even want us, and just hope you never find us so you can make it all worse.”

He nods slowly, his gaze lowered, like he’s listening to someone tell a sad story. Trying to sympathize without really understanding what he’s hearing. He doesn’t say anything, even when your anger cools again to quiet despondency and the silence settles heavily over you both. You hear him breathe in sharply then pause, like he means to say something, and then exhale slowly in resignation. 

“I don’t know what to say,” he finally admits. “I wish I did. My relationship with the Council and my experience with them is wholly different from yours. I understand why it works the way it does, and I’m keenly aware of what Skelveross would be like without it. I hope, in time, you might…” He has the sense to stop himself, clearing his throat uncomfortably at the withering look you give him. “Have you heard from your coworkers lately?” 

The question takes a moment to set in. “Have I heard from them? With what? The phone I don’t have?” 

“A ‘yes’ or ‘no’ will suffice,” Edmund says patiently. He taps his index finger impatiently, like a warning. It’s a much softer sound on the folder but you still hear it and it still makes your stomach lurch.

“Of course I haven’t. Why…” You sit up a little straighter in disbelief. “Wait, why are you asking me that? What does that have to do with anything?”

Edmund picks two papers out from the stack and sets them on the coffee table, sliding them closer to you. They’re glossy photographs, stiffly smiling headshots that belong on employee ID cards. A man—shaggy blond hair, black button up. A woman—rectangular glasses, brunette with a short bob cut.

“Do you recognize the people in these photos?” he asks. You do, obviously. You know your old coworkers. “This is Monroe, correct?” Edmund taps the photo of the man. When you nod, he taps the other. “And this is Cindy?” He says their names strangely, drawing them out with emphasis, and he watches you intently when you answer.

“Shouldn’t you know that? I thought you interviewed them, too.” 

“And you’ve had no contact with them since your apprehension? None at all?” he presses.

“What? No. But why—?” Ta-ta-ta-tap. You lunge out of your seat but Edmund stays right where he is, looking up at you with a small, apologetic frown. “What? What do you want from me? I’m cooperating!” 

“I know,” he says, his tone calm, quiet and urging you to sit, to be calm, to relax. His mesmerism hasn’t settled into place yet but you feel it pushing at the corners of your mind. It’s pressure, steady and encroaching like an embrace growing slowly more suffocating. “It’s alright, I know. You’re not being punished. I don’t believe you’re hiding anything from me consciously or deliberately in this instance, but that doesn’t mean you have nothing to hide. Please sit down, I don’t want you to fall.” 

“Fuck you,” you hiss. It’s different this time. The worst thing that could’ve happened to you has already happened. You’re not trapped in an office meeting room trying to keep up appearances anymore. Gusts of raw, unwoven magic ripple around you like a heat haze and the lights flicker overhead. Edmund stands up in a panicked rush, the folder and all his papers scattering on the floor at his feet. You’re used to seeing him cautious, eyeing you like a small animal he’s trying to keep from bolting. A rabbit he wants to coax into a trap.

That’s not how he’s looking at you now. Hands raised in front of him in a gesture both calming and wary, his eyes dart up and down, tracking you for sudden movements. “Come on. Let’s not do this,” he says. It’s a stretch to call him nervous but he’s definitely alert and wired. Not waiting for you to run; waiting for you to bite. It gives you an exhilarated rush of satisfaction and your magic flares, crackling like tendrils of lightning. “There’s no need for all that. You’re not in any danger.”

You look down at your hands, watching little sparks and firefly glimmers bloom and die at your fingertips. Your magic is still wild, your grasp on it flimsy. It fizzles aimlessly, twists itself into iridescent spirals and burns itself out, leaving a static sensation dancing across your skin. You wonder what you might’ve been capable of if you’d grown up properly with friends and mentors and a whole community. What do they do, you wonder, with the witches who can defend themselves?

A hand clamps down on your shoulder. “Sacrament,” Athanasius murmurs against your ear, and then everything turns to soft, pleasant fog. You feel yourself falling and then floating, drifting away like a leaf carried by a gently trickling stream. The heat of your anger dissipates. The dizzying rush of a fight you were never going to win seeps from your body and all of your tension goes with it. 

“What am I going to do with you?” comes a fond whisper from above. You feel held and precious, cradled in a protective embrace. “Of course you did not learn to choose your battles. Who would have taught you? That falls to me now.”

He lets you go slowly, as if lifting one finger at a time from his iron grip on your mind. You are aware of him first: Athanasius and the tranquility of his thoughts, feeding you slivers of his own perfect calm to ease your waking. His hand on your face, cupping your cheek. You’re sitting on the rug, kneeling at his feet, and he’s taken your chair. Edmund has gathered everything back into his briefcase and composed himself once again. They’re talking, speaking in hushed tones like they’re hoping you might not wake just yet. Edmund is apologizing and Athanasius is shaking his head. 

“I take full responsibility. I should have called for you before I started using mesmerism. I truly didn’t expect such an adverse reaction.” 

“You are forgiven, Edmund. I understand the time-sensitive nature of your investigation. But yes, please do ensure I am physically present next time, for your safety as well as my sacrament’s safety.” 

Athanasius smiles sweetly. At you, not at Edmund. Fully aware of yourself and your humiliating position again, you hurriedly push away from him and stagger to your feet. 

“Did you get what you wanted? Are we done?” you mutter, staring at the floor. Edmund’s mesmerism is nothing compared to an elder’s. You hate how good it feels and how that smothering sensation lingers, like Athanasius is still in your hand, still stroking your brain just the right way to turn you into a thoughtless, needy animal.

Edmund nods. “Yes. My apologies, once again, for causing distress. I’ll let you return to your evening. Sir. Sacrament.” He offers a polite bow, gives you one last lingering glance, and then he leaves. His footsteps fade, softened by the carpet and dampened further by distance as he makes the long walk to the mansion’s front doors. 

“Renaud,” Athanasius says, “you are going to be late for work.” 

You turn and find him just as he unfolds himself from the shadows of the hall. It’s terrifying, the way there’s nobody there one minute; the next, a humanoid shape coalesces from a hiding place that isn’t there, space that shouldn’t exist. The dark peels back in long, thin stripes and Renaud dusts off the rest like it’s black snow draped on his shoulders. He looks sheepish about getting caught, stuffing his hands in his pockets and not looking at Athanasius. 

“I was just keeping an eye on things,” he mutters.

Athanasius chuckles. “I know, and I appreciate your vigilance. But you trust that I would never let harm come to you or anyone in this house, yes?” 

“Yeah, I do.” Renaud meets your utterly bewildered expression with an embarrassed shrug. “Sorry to hear about your coworkers. I hope they turn up,” he says. 

Your heart sinks. “What?” you say hoarsely. 

“Renaud,” Athanasius scolds.

Renaud frowns, averting his gaze. “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t think they should be coddled just because they’re a witch.” He doesn’t explain himself any further, leaving you alone with Athanasius, who sighs softly. 

“I imagine you would like to discuss this.” 

You’d like to be anywhere else right now, but you need to know. “It’s just the two of them? Not Devon, or my boss?” you ask. “How long have they been gone?” 

“That is my understanding, yes. They were last seen the night of your apprehension.”

You hesitate. It feels like there’s something caught in your throat. “It wasn’t me, was it? I didn’t…I mean, I wasn’t thinking about my magic at all, but I don’t think I felt it. It shouldn’t have done anything.” 

“Oh, sacrament,” Athanasius says gently. He says that awful title with such sweetness, rising slowly from his seat. “No, it was not you. No curses, no lemures, nothing of the sort. No one else in the building was harmed or affected in any way. Edmund would not divulge the details of the case to me, but he was not here to assign guilt. I am inclined to believe he has another suspect in mind.” He steps closer, holding out one of his hands invitingly. “I can feel you are still uncertain. May I hold you?” 

You step back. You don’t want his comfort. You never wanted any of this. Athanasius looks wounded for a moment, lips parting around a word he never speaks, but then he nods and smiles instead. 

“Very well. Should you change your mind, simply call for me. You are not alone here.” 

Yes, you fucking are. 

You have to leave. You can’t stand his pity or his smothering attention, or how tempting it is to give in. You hide in your room for a while. Except it’s not your room, not really. More of your things have trickled in over the course of the week, but transplanting your meager belongings into a room too big for them doesn’t make you feel any less trapped. You read, and then you try to practice your magic, making swirls of strange color dance across your hand before you lose focus and it unravels into air. You tire yourself out thinking and worrying and wondering. 

Why your coworkers? Why only two of them? What was Edmund looking for in the first place when he found you instead?

Eventually, you resume your wanderings. You think about that seat in the bay window but your feet bring you upstairs again instead. That long, dark hallway nobody likes seems to beckon you. You find yourself in front of a door that looks out of place, dark and speckled like the aftermath of a burn pile. You see a bisected butterfly carved into the wood and it all comes rushing back. You’ve been here. You’ve seen this. You hear, just as you did last time, the clatter and drag of heavy chains. A quivering wheeze. A weak, rasping voice. 

“Hhh…hello?” someone whispers from the other side. “Is…is it you? Is that my friend, my…kindred spirit?”

You swallow nervously. “Yeah, it’s me.” 

There’s a pause. Then a rattling hiss; quiet, ecstatic laughter mixed into an exhale. “Hhhhhhahahahh…you came back. You came back! Ohhh, you…you must be in pain. I’m sorry. But I’m also glad.” It breathes heavily for a moment, overwhelmed by its own excitement. When it speaks again, it’s quieter. “I think…you can help me. And I could help you in return. I really think so.”

You’d laugh if you didn’t feel so awful. Athanasius was right. Everyone wants something from you, even this creepy whatever-it-is you can’t even see. You sit down beside the strange door, leaning your head back against the wall. “I don’t think anyone can help either of us,” you say tiredly. 

The thing inhales sharply. “No, no, no, don’t speak like that. There is a way. There is always a way. Let me…let me tell you something. Let me explain.” 

You shrug. “What’s the point? Won’t I just forget as soon as I walk away?” 

“Yes, of course. But…you’ll remember when you return. That’s the only way to outsmart those things, to keep them from the treasures of your mind. Leave our secrets here, with me.” 

You look up at the butterfly carved into the blackened wood. You’re no fool. You’re not about to make a deal with this thing. But you want answers. You want to know what it knows. You are tired of losing every fight. “Fine. Tell me something,” you say. “Tell me who and what you are, and what you’re doing there, and why nobody else knows.”

You hear chains clanking together, dropping heavily on a wooden floor. Slow footsteps. Heavy, shaky breathing, closer than before. It’s right there, you think, right on the other side. If you opened it, it would be close enough to touch. There’s a hissing sound; skin smoothing against wood, as if it placed its hand on the door. 

.

.

.

There should be light. Isn’t that what they say? You should feel weightlessness, floating-flying like a seabird on the updraft looking down at the ocean of yourself. The cold and the pain should twine together on the journey outward, elsewhere. All you have ever loved should return one last time, vivid and gauze-soft, to comfort you. At the end of all the dark, there should be light.

Where is it? you think. Your pulse stumbles. You lie in the sticky shadow of your own blood, a smeared snow angel in scarlet. The shadows above you shift, and meld, and split apart. Someone speaks and the words wash over you without lingering, muffled, indistinct, then gone. 

“…another one…”

“…bleeding out…but the scent’s not…”

“…a second clutch. Do you think…”

There’s no light, I can’t see the light, you think. Fear tries to ignite but exhaustion smothers it. Breathing is too taxing. You make soft sounds, dying animal noises. Your finger twitches against the floorboards. Hands frame your face. Someone is close, speaking quickly, urgently, but all you see is silhouettes in the dark and all you hear is muttering in another room. But you feel what they’re saying. It comes in soothing waves. There are three? Four? Four of them, four soundless voices, four gentle presences huddled close to keep you warm. 

“Hold on,” they say. “Just hold on. Help is coming.” There is a hand wrapped around yours, squeezing. You try to squeeze back but all your fingers do is twitch. Something loud happens and you feel it more than you hear it, a rattling in your bones. Footsteps. More shadow. New shapes. The warm leaves and new warm, greater warm, engulfs you but you can’t see anything. There is no light. The wilted end of a sob stings your throat.

“Hello, little one,” says the new warm, gentle like a sunshower. The words are in your mind, not your ears. “You are so very young and so strong, but you have not finished being born. This should have been your choice.”

You don’t understand. You tremble and wheeze trying to speak. You are lifted from the hard floor and the warm wraps around you even more tightly. You feel like a featherless newborn rescued from the cold earth and returned to the nest far too late. You were broken in the fall and now you will never fly. You will never get to be old enough to learn.

“…a hatchling, sir. Please, we can’t just…”

“…a conflict of interest, not to mention the risk…”

“…understandable given the circumstances, and you’re the only one who can…”

“…no time…”

You keen miserably, the most noise you’ve managed since the dark set in. The warm grows. You are moved, your head cradled, bare skin set against your open mouth. Open and bleeding. You whimper but you are not allowed to turn away, held still with firm fingers on the back of your head. 

“You must,” the warm says with great sorrow. “I am sorry. This is meant to be a gift. A blessing. You should have chosen, and this is not right.”

“Where is the light?” you speak into the fog of kindness with thought and feeling. You feel a lightning strike; a burst, a branching shock. Surprise, and elation, and so much fondness, so much tender care. And then it cools, hardening into grief and regret. “I thought there would be light.”

“It is here,” the warm says. You feel that this is a promise. “I will give it to you. I will not let you go without. It is here, so take it.” The skin, the wound, the blood, comes again. The warm fills your mouth and dyes it red. Slowly, your hands find the strength to rise, shaking fingers grasping a wrist, a forearm. Slowly, your grip tightens. Your tongue drags along the sweet, narrow slit and your throat moves in a weak, labored swallow. You are still tired and weak and you still hurt so much, but you are held in warmth and you are not afraid.

Your eyes open. Your pupils dilate. You see everything. The mismatched wooden boards in the ceiling, and the blood all over the walls, and the crooked emptiness where there used to be a door and a stripe of the star-filled sky and light! Light cleaving the darkness apart, just as you hoped for, just like you were promised, light! Light! Tears stream down your cheeks. There is light and it is the face of a stranger who is not a stranger because your heart knows him, eyes of earth and hair of night and he is yours and you are his. You curl into the space against his chest and you drink the new life he gives you until your eyes are heavy and your soul is full.

The light says he is sorry. You do not hear him cry but you feel him tremble.

*

You wake up without him.

Someone else tells you, “It’s okay, you’re safe, it’s okay,” and urges you back into bed. You feel unwell. Better than before, but anything is better than that. You sit up against a pile of pillows and blink the world clear. You’re in a bedroom. The curtains are open and the moon is full. Someone’s dressed you in clothes that aren’t yours, soft gray pajamas. A man stands beside you, wiping the sweat from your forehead with a damp cloth. He wears glasses; an off-white sweater. You know, immediately, that he is good. Safe. Older and stronger. You can smell the night on him. You wonder how you know what that smells like, if it’s ever smelled like anything before. 

“How do you feel?” he asks. 

“Like I died,” you croak.

He smiles. “Not quite.” His name is Loren. You’re in Skelveross. The name means nothing to you until he gives you other ones, cities you know. You’re a long way from home. “Do you remember what happened to you?”

Bits and pieces. You were walking home. You were in the dark. You were attacked. There was a room that stank of blood and death; a shed full of corpses. And there was a man, a monster, something holding you down and hurting you, eating you, making you eat him, too, but he didn’t stay. He flinched. Bolted upright like he heard something and left you there to bleed out. Loren nods as you tell the story haltingly, stopping to breathe and choke back tears. You died, didn’t you? You shouldn’t have survived that.

“But somebody saved me. Somebody…” You trail off thinking of him. The light. The warm that held you. 

“Are you familiar with the term ‘nightbound?’” he asks. 

You are, vaguely. You had that one history class in high school. You see something on the news from time to time. You knew when it happened, but you were too afraid to think about the future. The consequences. Loren watches the truth flicker across your face; the slow dawn of realization and then confusion, then fear. 

“You were turned,” he says gently. “It was cruel, it was not done in accordance with Council regulations, and the process was interrupted. It’s a miracle you survived as long as you did but you would not have made it much longer if the Lord Regent did not intervene.”

“Lord Regent,” you murmur thoughtfully. That’s him, you know that’s him. You heard that, felt it, when you were being born again. The others, the ones who found you and held you first, they reached out for help and “Lord Regent!” is what they cried into the dark. “Can I see him?”

“I’m afraid he’s attending a Council meeting, despite everything I told him. He’s left you in my care for now.”

Left you; the words seem to echo. Loren says more about laws and dissenters and the Lord Regent’s stubbornness but you don’t hear it. Left you. He left you. He isn’t here. This isn’t his house. Loren’s expression softens when you make a pitiful, whimpering noise like a sad dog.

“Let’s not worry about that now. You must be hungry.” He pushes one of his sleeves up to his elbow and grasps his own thin wrist, quickly puncturing the skin with the nail of his thumb. The smell hits you quicker and harder than you expect. It’s nothing familiar, not like the fried scent of a fast food restaurant or the buttery aroma of a bakery, but it makes your stomach clench hungrily and your mouth water. Loren seats himself beside you in bed, holding you like the Lord Regent did with a hand cradling the back of your head and his wrist beside your mouth. 

The thought makes you feel sick all over again. It should be him. He should be here. You shake your head, pushing Loren away.

“Come now,” he chides you gently. “I know this must be strange and unpleasant, but your tastes should have already shifted. It smells good, doesn’t it? It might be easier if you close your eyes—”

“Why did he leave me?” you ask. Loren’s expression crumbles into something pained. “Is there something wrong with me? Is it because of where he found me, or what happened there? Is he…” Your voice cracks. You try to speak around an unbearable lump in your throat. “Is he ever going to come back?” Loren tries to soothe you but there’s nothing that can dull the ache in your chest, the gaping emptiness where warmth used to be. You are held and rocked gently, told kind things in sweet whispers, and it means nothing. You’re broken all over again, far from the nest with no way back up. 

“I’m going to call him,” Loren says, wiping your tears uselessly. More come. You feel like you might shatter; like you already have. “He’ll be here soon, I promise. I’m so sorry. You have to understand, your sire is…” He pauses, sighing deeply. “It doesn’t matter. He needs to take responsibility.” 

You barely hear him. You’re lost in an unthinking haze of agony and desolation. Heartbreaks, mournings, bleeding wounds; nothing has ever felt quite like this, not so deeply emptying. You were nothing when he found you. He unmade the void, breathed you into being again. You are a gift, pieces of another lovingly pressed into place. What does it mean if he abandons you? What’s left of you now?

And then—light. 

“Here, my cygnet. I am here.” His voice warms your ear. He takes you from Loren’s arms and into your own, and there is light, and warmth, and you are whole again. You shiver and you weep but you will be alright now, you know you will. He gives you his wrist, holds your head against it, and you nurse from the oozing cut until nothing hurts anymore. A different warmth fills you now, a need that pulses between your legs. You’re embarrassed by it but you can’t stop your hips from moving, pressing into the Lord Regent’s lap. He doesn’t stop you. His hand slides down to rest on your hip, steadying, guiding you to move more slowly. 

“What’s…I don’t…” You can barely hold onto a thought beyond heat, food, want, more. Blood dribbles from the corner of your lips and the Lord Regent clicks his tongue, rubbing the stain with his thumb.

“Do not waste,” he says, pressing the pad of his thumb to your lips. You open your mouth without a moment’s hesitation. You find him watching you, his gaze fixed on how obediently you lick him clean. 

“We need to discuss this, Lord Regent,” Loren says. Heat rushes to your face remembering he’s right there, standing on the other side of the bed, but the Lord Regent is unbothered by having an audience. He tugs the quilt and blankets away, and then he pulls at the waistband of your pajama pants until they’re beneath your hips. 

“There is no need to gloat. You were right. I was wrong. I will ensure this does not happen again.” The Lord Regent stretches out beside you and you finally have a moment to appreciate him without a haze of pain impairing your senses. He is beautiful. His features are sharp and severe, his cheekbones prominent. He dresses like the nobility of another age in a dark waistcoat and crisp white undershirt, the sleeves edged with snowy lace. “Feeling better?” he asks, softening his tone slightly. You nod, flustered beneath his scrutiny. The Lord Regent smiles and your heart feels like it might burst. “Good. But now you hunger for something else, do you not?” You’re embarrassed. You don’t want to admit it. “I am your sire. I feel your arousal as readily as if it were my own. There can be no shame between us.” 

Loren crosses his arms over his chest. “I am asking, as your friend and as an advisor to the Council, that you set aside your pride for a moment. It’s been a detriment to the wellbeing of your hatchling.” He strokes your cheek as he says this and you lean into the touch, needy and open now that you know you aren’t abandoned.

The Lord Regent watches Loren’s hand, his expression contemplative. He caresses you, strokes your thigh and lower stomach where your shirt rides up, paying close attention to what makes you squirm. “Very well. You may speak plainly. What is it you wish to say to me?”

“If one of my clients tried to wean their hatchling after their first feeding, I would lodge a complaint with the CTF and have them investigated for neglect. You can’t leave them alone right now. Your position in the Council is not an acceptable excuse. Do you really think the others won’t understand? That they’ve never felt the bond before, never needed to—”

“It is dangerous,” the Lord Regent cuts him off, “for someone in my position to reveal what they hold dear.” His words make you writhe. You grab for his wrist, wanting his touch lower, firmer, and he trills softly. It’s a strange sound, bird-like but lower. It settles something that had been wild and restless inside you, makes you melt against the sheets. When he indulges you, touches lower, lower, down your abdomen, between your thighs, you almost sob. “And you are precious to me,” he murmurs. “I am sorry you doubted it for even a moment.” 

It feels good. All he’s doing it touching you, stroking, teasing with light, fleeting strokes, and you’re already hurtling towards the edge. It’s because it’s him, because he’s the light, he’s everything and he wants you and there is nothing greater than this feeling. You spread your legs for him, humping his palm with mindless need. You nuzzle against Loren’s hand like a needy animal and he gives you the affection you need, the slow, soft strokes that make you feel like you will never want for anything ever again.

“These are not the nights you were raised in,” Loren says quietly. “You are beloved, Avudim. Skelveross is not perfect but it’s a kinder place than any of us had in our youth. Anyone who would harm your hatchling would make an enemy of us all.” 

“Avudim?” you repeat, panting. “Is that your name?” You have to know. You’ll call him whatever he wants but you need this. 

“Yes,” the Lord Regent—Avudim, your Avudim, your light—says. He leans in and kisses your forehead, and then he touches you the way you want. Everything that isn’t him fizzles away in the heat of his attention, the friction you needed, the pressure and the quick, dexterous slide of his fingers. You can hear yourself, slick and obscene, can hear him purring praise and approval at the frenzied movements of your hips. “Yes, my dear one, my darling cygnet, like that, just like that. Take your pleasure. There is no need for restraint here, not with me. Cum for your sire.” 

You do, the moment he asks. You sob, hips pumping without conscious thought or control. Avudim wrings out everything you have, keeps you jolting and moaning until you only have the strength to flinch in overstimulation. You’re still catching your breath when hunger stirs again. You don’t say anything. You don’t have to. Your sire feels what you feel. Avudim gives you his wrist and you bite him yourself this time, moaning at how he opens for your new, throbbing fangs. He hisses and you feel an echo of his pain, unpleasant prickling in one of your arms, but he strokes your hair and doesn’t let you pull away. You’re tired again. Is this how it’s going to be for a while? Pain until he makes it stop? Hunger of every kind until he fulfills you? Avudim waits until you’re too tired to keep suckling at his wrist and pulls you into his arms, tucking your head against his chest. 

“Take them home,” Loren says. “Please.” 

Avudim sighs softly. “I will. I have fought the pull long enough.” He listens to your breath softening, growing shallow. “It should not have been this way. They are a gift I do not deserve.”

“Then be deserving. They need you.” You feel the bed dip. A hand rubs between your shoulders.