Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Marcus sat in the library at the Orange Street house watching Philip construct a wobbly tower out of blocks. He was staring at the empty fireplace, lost in memories. They had just moved back from France, with Diana and Matthew both ready to resume faculty positions at Yale. Without Marcus realizing it, Philip crawled into his lap. His chubby hands shot out and his tiny fingers closed around something Marcus couldn’t see. He definitely felt a burning tugging sensation shooting up his arm, like a nerve was on fire, though.

“What the hell?” Marcus breathed. His expression froze as the gilded monstrosity of an old clock in the corner let out a loud thump before it suddenly stopped ticking. The second hand hung suspended over the numeral XII. A preternatural silence fell over the room.

Marcus couldn’t speak. His mouth opened but no sound came. His limbs refused to move. He could see Diana on the other side of the room, lips parting in alarm, but everything was muffled, as though he were looking and listening through fogged glass.

“Bye-bye, owie,” Philip cooed, smiling sweetly. He kissed his own hands, still clutching the invisible threads, and murmured again, “Bye-bye.”

Marcus wanted to scream, or shake the kid, or do something, but he could do nothing but sit there and feel reality warp around him. And then—

“Philip Michael Addison Sorley Bishop-Clairmont. Put time down. Immediately.” Diana’s voice was carrying an urgency that Marcus had never heard before.

Startled, his pudgy hands unclenched. Then with a jolt, the clock’s hands resumed their movement, tick-tock, tick-tock, as if nothing had occurred. Time was flowing once more. Philip’s lower lip trembled, his eyes going round. He sensed he’d done something wrong but didn’t understand.

“We do not play with time. Not ever. Do you understand me?” Diana scolded, gripping him firmly under the arms as she swept him off Marcus’s lap. A single tear slipped down Philip’s cheek. Then, he burst into wails. As his sobs rang out, the half-constructed tower across the room collapsed outward, blocks scattering across the rug.

Marcus blinked, looking as dazed as if he’d been awakened from a dream. “What just happened?” he asked unsteadily. He pressed a palm to his temple.

Diana opened her mouth to answer, but before she could Rebecca crawled over to console her brother. She could never bear to see Pip cry. Becca held out her right thumb, her left firmly planted in her mouth. Marcus could see a violet sparkle glimmering on her thumb, trying to use her own magic to distract her brother. Philip hiccupped at the sight of Becca’s glowing thumb, momentarily forgetting his tears.

“Wow. That was weird. I could see you, but I couldn’t hear you. And I couldn’t seem to speak,” Marcus said, voice recovering some strength. He was still trying to process his recent experience. “Everything started to fade. Then you pulled Philip off my lap and it all went back to normal.” He looked from Diana to the twins, confusion knitting his brow. “Did I… timewalk?”

Diana managed a faint, almost reassuring smile as she shifted Philip onto her hip. “Not quite,” she replied. The hesitation in her voice made it perfectly clear to Marcus that his stepmother wasn’t entirely sure what had happened in that frozen moment. He hadn’t vanished into the past, but something unnatural had tugged at him. At least now the danger seemed to be over.

In the doorway, Matthew appeared, drawn by the commotion. His shirtsleeves were rolled to the elbow and a streak of coppery grime was smeared across one cheek, no doubt he’d been up on the roof fixing a gutter when time ground to a halt. “What’s going on?” he asked, alarmed at the confusion he could feel in the room.

“I think Philip just worked— or rather, wove—his first spell,” Diana cautiously explained. “He was trying to smooth out Marcus’s memories so they wouldn’t bother him.”

Matthew’s face shifted from puzzlement to pure shock. He was thinking that it was impossible. But the evidence was clinging to Philip’s lashes in the form of tears and to the fearful look on Marcus’s face.

“Owie,” Philip whimpered to his father through a remaining sniffle, as if offering an explanation. He pointed a tiny finger at Marcus. “All better.”

Matthew’s mouth fell open slightly. “Shit.”

Meanwhile Becca, still sucking her left thumb, patted Philip’s head with her free hand and solemnly repeated: “Shit.”

Diana couldn’t help the startled laugh that escaped her. Matthew cleared his throat, attempting to regain some semblance of parental composure. He stepped fully into the library and surveyed the scene: Marcus pale and shaken in the armchair, Diana clutching Philip, and Becca trying to offer comfort in her peculiar, profane way. The scattered blocks lay all around like evidence of a magical storm.

Marcus looked between Philip and Becca, first in alarm and then slowly in amazement. The color was returning to his cheeks as he absorbed this revelation.

Matthew let out a long breath and raked a hand through his hair. “We’ll, ah, discuss this later,” he said, attempting a smile for the twins’ sake. “For now, perhaps we should all have a bit of a rest.” There was an undercurrent of concern in his voice as his eyes flicked to Marcus. Clearly, Matthew didn’t want to agitate his son any further tonight.

Diana nodded in agreement. “Good idea. Why don’t we—”

But before she could finish, Marcus swayed where he sat, a hand rising to his forehead once more. “I… I think I just need to close my eyes for a moment,” he mumbled. His voice was suddenly thin with fatigue. The evening’s events had taken a toll, and whatever spell Philip cast might have lingering effects.

“Marcus?” Diana stepped forward, alarmed by the way his eyes unfocused.

Marcus tried to respond, but only a soft grunt escaped him. In the next heartbeat, his eyes rolled back and he slumped sideways in the chair. If Matthew hadn’t darted forward with a vampire’s swiftness, Marcus might have crumpled to the floor.

Philip let out a frightened cry at the sight of his big brother collapsing. Becca whimpered around her thumb.

“I’ve got him,” Matthew said. With effortless strength, he lifted Marcus’s limp form into his arms, as though Marcus weighed no more than one of the toddlers. Marcus’s head lolled against Matthew’s shoulder, completely unconscious.

Marcus awoke to the sound of hushed voices and the sensation of soft sheets against his skin. The world felt muffled and off-kilter, as though he were underwater. He groaned quietly, eyes still closed, aware of a dull ache throbbing at the back of his skull. What happened? he wondered. The last thing he remembered was sitting in the library…and Philip’s strange magic. He vaguely recalled Diana saying something about time. After that, darkness.

He forced his eyes open and immediately winced; the warm light of late morning flooded his vision. How long had he been out? Blinking rapidly, Marcus tried to push himself upright—but something stopped him. Specifically, there was a small hand resting on his chest that did not belong there. Marcus frowned at the tiny hand in confusion. It lay atop the cotton t-shirt covering his chest.

Except it wasn’t his shirt. His clothes had been changed. The hand itself was delicate, the fingers short. It certainly wasn’t Matthew’s large hand or Diana’s slender one. And it was too big to be Philip’s or Becca’s pudgy toddler hands. This hand looked like it might belong to a child perhaps nine or ten years old.

Heart pounding, Marcus lifted his right arm, intending to poke the mystery hand and see if it would vanish. As he did, his own right hand floated into view and horror lanced through him. His hand was tiny. Instead of the broad, long-fingered hand he’d known for over two centuries, he saw a child’s hand attached to a scrawny, youthful arm. He wiggled his fingers in disbelief and the small hand on his chest wiggled in perfect unison. It was his hand. Both were his hands. Marcus jerked upright, far more quickly than he intended, and the room spun around him.

“What the—” he spluttered, the words coming out in a high, youthful voice that he barely recognized. “What the fuck?!”

The curse echoed off the stone walls of his bedroom in an alarmingly childlike timbre. Marcus clapped his hands over his mouth. He could feel the smooth roundness of his cheeks, the absence of the stubble that normally roughened his jaw. His heart thudded at the shock.

Across the room, Matthew shifted to pin his son with a stern glare. “Language,” he admonished, looking every bit the imposing patriarch. The single word carried the crisp authority of someone well practiced in scolding unruly children. He stepped closer, arms crossed over his chest.

Marcus gaped at him. Of all the concerns right now—language? Truly? He opened his mouth to retort, but all that emerged was a strangled half-squeak of indignation. His mind was reeling, thoughts tumbling over each other chaotically. This isn’t right. This can’t be real.

He scrambled off the massive bed, feet tangling in the oversized nightshirt someone had dressed him in. The hem hung below his knees. Marcus almost tripped, but Matthew was there in a flash, steadying him with a firm hand on his shoulder. The top of Marcus’s head barely reached the middle of Matthew’s chest. That realization sent a fresh jolt of panic through him. He felt absurdly small next to his father now.

Matthew’s lips twitched as though he were suppressing a smile. “Careful,” he murmured, easing Marcus to sit back down on the edge of the bed. Marcus noticed Matthew’s hand spanned most of his back—another disorienting detail in this nightmare scenario.

“Wh-what happened to me?” Marcus managed. He hated the tremor in his voice. It sounded so young, brimming with confusion and a hint of tears he refused to shed.

Matthew crouched so that he was at eye level with Marcus. Despite Marcus’s terror, the rational part of his brain noted the sheer curiosity and concern on his father’s face. Matthew studied him with a gaze that was equal parts clinical and fatherly. “You’ve been…changed,” Matthew said slowly. “Physically.”

“Changed?” Marcus echoed. His small hands balled into fists in the folds of the oversized shirt on his lap. That single word couldn’t begin to cover the insanity of what he was experiencing.

Matthew raised an eyebrow. “Do you remember Philip grabbing your threads yesterday?” he asked gently.

Yesterday. Marcus’s mind whirled. He recalled the library, the feeling of time stopping, Philip’s hands yanking at something within him, the dizziness… Fainting in his father’s arms. And now this. He nodded, throat too tight to speak.

Matthew continued, carefully matter-of-fact. “Apparently, he pulled you back. Back along your life’s thread.” He paused, as if unsure how to phrase the next part. “Diana thinks Philip was trying to take away whatever hurt you, to make your ‘owie’ go away. In doing so, he might have unwoven years from your thread.”

Marcus’s stomach dropped. Unwoven years… It was unthinkable, but here he was, living proof. He glanced down at his body—at the knobby knees visible now that the too-large nightshirt had slipped a little. A child’s knees. His knees, from a time long before Matthew had met him in the aftermath of the Battle of Brandywine. He felt suddenly light-headed again.

“This isn’t possible,” Marcus whispered. He searched Matthew’s face, hoping for any hint that this was a bad joke. But he found none. Only sympathy, worry, and a slight glimmer of mirth that Matthew was trying hard to suppress.

Indeed, Marcus realized with a mixture of irritation and dark humor, Matthew was going to enjoy this far too much. After all, how many times had his father sighed in exasperation over Marcus’s youthful impulsiveness, his boyish enthusiasms? Marcus could practically hear Matthew’s future teasing: Well, now your body finally matches your behavior, son.

A flush of mortification heated Marcus’s cheeks. He scowled, fists still clenched. “Don’t you dare say it,” he muttered, narrowing his eyes at Matthew.

Matthew’s brows lifted in an almost comically innocent expression. “Say what?” he asked, but his lips curved ever so slightly at the corners. He knew exactly what Marcus meant.

Marcus groaned and buried his face in his small hands. This could not be happening. Having siblings was weird enough—after centuries of being an only child (Benjamin didn’t count; Marcus hadn’t even known about that “failed execution” of a brother until recently), he had finally accepted that he was no longer the sole apple of Matthew’s eye (if he ever really had been). Becca and Philip were here to stay, and as bizarre as it was to have toddler siblings, he truly did care for them.

But this? Being magically de-aged to the body of a child by one of those toddler siblings? This was beyond weird. It was utterly uncharted territory. He peeked through his fingers, voice muffled. “How…how old do I look?”

Matthew stroked his chin thoughtfully, as though assessing a patient. “About ten years old, give or take,” he answered. “Your hair is lighter, too—more blond than I’ve ever seen it.”

Ten. Marcus let out a shaky breath. He was the age he had been in 1767, a boy running wild in the Massachusetts countryside long before war and blood changed him forever. Part of him felt a distant, surreal awe at actually being young again. But the dominant emotion was a rising wave of panic.

“This will wear off, though, right?” Marcus dropped his hands to stare imploringly at Matthew. “Please tell me Diana can fix this.”

Matthew’s momentary smirk faded, replaced by the cautious look of a father who doesn’t want to lie to his child. “Diana is already researching a way to reverse it,” he said carefully. “We’re optimistic, but this is entirely new ground, Marcus. Even for her.”

Marcus’s shoulders sagged. The room fell silent except for the gentle rustle of the breeze through the open window and the distant clatter of domestic activity elsewhere in the house. He could hear Philip and Becca laughing faintly in the distance as they played. A memory from yesterday floated up: Philip’s bright face yesterday, cheerfully saying “bye-bye, owie” as he yanked on Marcus’s threads. The little one had only meant to help.

Marcus exhaled slowly, trying to rein in his tumult of emotions. Dramatic as the situation was, the introspective part of him knew there was some irony here. Perhaps this was the universe’s way of forcing him to confront his past—literally in the form of his past self. Diana had wanted him to remember his human life, after all. Well, I certainly can’t escape it now, he thought wryly.

He felt Matthew’s hand squeeze his shoulder reassuringly. “We’ll sort this out,” his father promised in a firm voice. “You have my word.” There was love and resolve in that tone that made Marcus’s throat tighten. In that moment, despite everything, Marcus was profoundly grateful that he didn’t have to face this alone.

Then Matthew stood and ruffled Marcus’s unruly, white blonde hair. “Come now. No use hiding up here all day. Let’s see if we can find you something that actually fits.”

Marcus looked down at the tent-like nightshirt and managed a rueful chuckle. It was a small relief that he could still laugh, even in this predicament.

Matthew’s only response was a light pat on Marcus’s cheek as he moved toward the door. “I’ll fetch Diana,” he said. “She’ll want to see that you’re awake and alright.” He hesitated. “And Marcus? No more fainting if you can help it, alright? You gave us all quite a scare.”

Marcus nodded. He didn’t particularly want to faint again either. As Matthew slipped out of the room, presumably to gather the family, Marcus was left momentarily alone with his thoughts. Sunlight slanted across the wooden floorboards and up to his dangling feet. He swung them slightly, marveling at how short his legs were now. This day was only getting started, and he already felt exhausted by the sheer absurdity of it.

He fell back onto the pillows with a dramatic thump, covering his face with his forearm. Maybe I’ll wake up and find this was all a bizarre dream, he thought fleetingly. But as he inhaled, he caught the subtle, sweet note of young human blood coursing through his veins. Not even a vampire anymore, he realized distantly; a ten-year-old boy’s heart beat steadily in his chest. There was no denying the reality.

Marcus let out a long, muffled whine of frustration into the crook of his elbow. This was real, all right. And if he knew his family, the next few days (or however long this lasted) were going to be hell. Ysabeau would likely coo over how adorable he was. Sarah would fuss, Matthew would hover, and Miriam, when she found out, would probably laugh herself sick at his expense.

He sat up once more, summoning a spark of resolve. Alright. I’ve faced worse than this, he told himself. Revolutionary War. Smallpox. Matthew’s driving. Surely he could survive being ten years old for a little while. How bad could it be?

As if in answer, a giggle sounded from the hall, followed by the unmistakable patter of toddler feet. Marcus’s vampire hearing (still keen, thank God) picked up Diana’s voice pleading, “Slow down, Philip!” and the deeper rumble of Sarah’s amused chuckle.

Marcus steeled himself. A moment later, the door burst open without ceremony. “Buvver!” Philip squealed in delight, barreling into the room with Becca hot on his heels. The twins came to an abrupt halt just inside the threshold, four wide eyes taking in the sight of Marcus perched on the bed in an oversized shirt.

Philip’s face lit up in pure joy and triumph, as though everything had gone exactly according to his plan. “Buvver little!” he declared, pointing at Marcus and jumping up and down with glee.

Becca clapped her hands, brown curls bouncing. “Little Marcus,” she echoed in a singsong voice, grinning from ear to ear.

Marcus pressed his palms over his eyes, feeling both utterly exasperated and on the verge of laughter at the sheer ridiculousness of it all. Having siblings was weird indeed. And it was about to get a whole lot weirder.

“Oh, God,” he muttered under his breath as the twins scrambled toward him, giggling. Marcus braced himself for the onslaught of excited toddlers. He had a slightly sinking feeling that this was only the beginning of a long, interesting ordeal.

Chapter Text

Three hours into prepubescent hell, Marcus was going insane. He was hungry—bone-deep hungry. When was the last time he’d eaten anything? Too long ago, if the growling and gnawing in his stomach was any indication.

He had been waiting in his room since waking up, hoping someone would bring him clothes. But with his stomach practically eating itself, he couldn’t wait any longer. If that meant venturing out in nothing but an oversized T-shirt that now fit like a dress, then so be it.

Tentatively, Marcus cracked open his bedroom door and peeked into the hallway. Thankfully, it was empty. He slipped out and scurried to the kitchen as fast as his newly shortened legs would carry him.

Once there, Marcus went straight for the fridge in the pantry where the family’s blood supply was stored. His mouth watered at the thought, maybe this would finally silence his stomach. He grabbed a bag of AB-positive, his usual favorite, and prepared to drink it like the world’s most concerning Capri Sun. With a quick, practiced motion, he tore into the bag and took a deep gulp, not even bothering to pour it into a mug.

Immediately, he recoiled, gagging. Marcus was hit with a new, revolting flavor. Why does it taste so bad?

This was blood from a donor he’d had countless times before. It was always sweet and comforting, like a rich hot cocoa for vampires. Now it tasted like he’d licked a roll of pennies, all coppery and foul and gross. His stomach twisted and violently rejected what little he’d swallowed.

With a frustrated growl, Marcus hurled the half-full blood bag across the kitchen. It smacked the far wall and burst, splattering dark red everywhere like it was auditioning to be a crime scene on CSI.

He didn’t even have time to blink at the dripping mess before an angry voice made him jump. Matthew was suddenly looming in the doorway, eyes blazing. Marcus froze, caught red-handed (and red-chinned).

“Why,” Matthew demanded, “did you do that?”

Marcus’s lower lip trembled. He felt a sudden, unfamiliar sting in his eyes. Oh no, he thought, am I about to cry?

Stupid tween body with its stupid tween emotions. He’d barely had this body for a few hours and already it was betraying him. Face flushing, Marcus opened his mouth, but no excuse came out.

Instead he snapped “Matthew, calm down.” The glare Matthew leveled at his son was bone-chilling, and if possible, his face grew stormier. Truly, not even the most volatile teenage drama queen could compete with the dramatics of Matthew de Clermont.

Before Marcus could crumble into an emotional wreck, another voice cut through the tension. Diana strode into the kitchen, stepping between them.

“You're scaring him,” Diana said, coming up behind Marcus and slipping a protective arm around his shoulders.

“Sweetie, are you ok?” she asked him softly.

Marcus swallowed hard and shook his head. “It… it didn’t taste right,” he mumbled, ashamed at the quiver in his voice.

Diana’s expression shifted from alarm to curiosity. Gently, she pulled Marcus into a hug. “Didn’t taste right?” she repeated.

Marcus could only nod, still trying to process how something he’d relied on his whole life—well, his whole reborn life—suddenly made him want to puke.

“Do you want to try another one?” Diana asked.

“Maybe… a different type,” he said weakly, with a grimace. He wasn’t eager to experience that again, but the gnawing hunger hadn’t gone anywhere.

Diana nodded, then glanced at her husband. “Go get him another bag. And warm it up this time.”

Matthew looked like he wanted to keep scolding Marcus or perhaps protest Diana’s commanding tone, but he pressed his lips into a thin line and did as she asked. With a hefty sigh, he made his way to the pantry, fetched a fresh packet of blood, and popped it into the microwave. A minute later, he poured the warmed blood into a mug and set it in front of Marcus with a thunk.

“Here. Try this one.”

Marcus took a deep breath, steeling himself. The mug was warm in his hands, and for a moment he allowed himself to hope this might do the trick. He took a sip.

Immediately, his stomach churned. The taste was just as vile warm as it had been cold—metallic and utterly unpalatable. Marcus gagged and pushed the mug away, coughing and retching.

Diana’s brow furrowed in worry. “Did the blood fridge accidentally get turned off? Is it spoiled?” She picked up the discarded packet to check the expiration date. “Why is he acting this way?”

Frowning, Matthew took the mug from Marcus and sipped the blood himself, rolling it around his tongue like a sommelier tasting wine. “It tastes perfectly normal to me,” he said flatly, setting the mug down. His eyes narrowed at his son, confusion and suspicion battling with concern.

Marcus felt despair creeping in. If blood tasted like poison now, what was he going to do? Starve? He doubted he could choke down enough of that sludge to survive. Panic fluttered in his chest, right next to the burning hunger, and for a moment he worried his new child-sized body might embarrass him further by bursting into tears.

But Diana suddenly straightened, a new idea dawning on her face. Without a word, she moved back to the pantry and rummaged around. When she returned, she was holding something small and plastic-wrapped. She pressed it into Marcus’s hand with a hopeful smile.

It was a Little Debbie Oatmeal Creme Pie.

Marcus blinked down at the soft cookie sandwich in his hands. The familiar cartoon girl logo on the wrapper smirked up at him, as if to say trust me. He shot his stepmom a puzzled look.

“But… I can’t eat human food,” he protested quietly. It was one of the unyielding facts of being a vampire: real food might as well be nothing in his mouth, providing no sustenance and barely any taste. Over the years, he’d tried bites of “people food” here and there out of curiosity—a french fry, a cookie—but they were always bland, texture without flavor. He’d long since given up, save for the times he loudly complained about the injustice of it all when his warm blooded friends and family chowed down on Em’s famous cookies.

“Humor me,” Diana encouraged, still smiling. “Try it.”

Marcus still looked skeptical, but his stomach gave another demanding growl. With a resigned sigh, he tore open the wrapper and held the Oatmeal Creme Pie up to his nose. It smelled good. Spiced oatmeal and sweet cream with a hint of molasses. He’d often lamented that some foods smelled incredible but the taste was never good. But now? His mouth actually watered a little, which was completely new.

“Just a bite,” Diana said, watching him like a hawk. Even Matthew had crossed his arms, curiosity sneaking past his stern façade.

Bracing himself, Marcus took a small bite. The soft oatmeal cookie yielded easily, and the sugary creme filling melted on his tongue. He stood stock-still as his brain processed a sudden flood of flavor—actual, delicious flavor. The sweetness, the hint of cinnamon, the creamy filling; it was glorious.

A cascade of expressions flitted across Marcus’s face: skepticism, then surprise, then pure wonder. Finally, delight broke through. “Oh my god,” he mumbled through the mouthful, eyes widening like saucers. “It’s good!” The words were garbled around the bite of cookie, but his blissful tone was undeniable.

Diana laughed, watching him devour the rest of the snack cake in two more bites. “Well, this is certainly something,” she said fondly, dabbing a crumb from the corner of his mouth.

Matthew looked less amused. In fact, he was still frowning, but now it was more perplexed than angry. Marcus couldn’t tell if his father was annoyed by the mess or baffled by the fact that his centuries-old vampire child was suddenly scarfing down a Little Debbie like it was ambrosia.

Matthew’s eyebrows were knitted together in what might have been concern as Marcus licked a remaining dollop of cream off his thumb and glanced between his parents. He was still ravenous, and now he knew at least one thing he could actually keep down. His eyes drifted back to the pantry, hopeful.

“Can I have another one?” he asked tentatively.

The simple question snapped Matthew out of his bewildered haze. His eyes narrowed. “No,” he said flatly.

Marcus deflated. He wasn’t surprised, exactly. Matthew firmly believed “no” was a complete sentence when it came to his kids, but he had hoped these extraordinary circumstances might earn him a second cookie.

Diana rolled her eyes at her husband. “Honestly, Matthew, one more wouldn’t hurt—”

Matthew was already pointing at the gruesome splatter of blood on the wall and floor. “Absolutely not. If you are still hungry, there are other options. There is oatmeal, yogurt, fruit, granola. The last thing you need is overly-processed sugar. And before anything else, you”—he leveled a stern look at Marcus—“need to clean up that mess.”

Heat rushed to Marcus’s face. “Right. Sorry.”

He skirted around them and grabbed the roll of paper towels from under the sink, eager to escape Matthew’s withering stare. Kneeling by the wall, he started scrubbing furiously at the sticky red streaks. Diana handed him the cleaning spray, and soon the scent of bleach and lemons filled the kitchen. After a few minutes of vigorous wiping, the wall and floor were clean, and the only evidence of the incident was a very full trash bag of crimson-stained paper towels.

“Then we need to get you vitamins,” Matthew said, mostly to himself.

Marcus tossed the last of the dirty paper towels into the trash bag and tied it closed with a sigh. He was still hungry (one little creme pie was nowhere near enough), but at least he wasn’t shaking with hunger pangs anymore. Now he was just keenly aware of a dozen other discomforts—like the fact that he was practically swimming in this baggy T-shirt.

Matthew seemed to notice at about the same time. His lip curled at the sight of Marcus’s attire. “We need to get you properly clothed,” he muttered, as if the oversized shirt were some personal affront to his sensibilities.

Marcus glanced down at his bare, bony knees poking out from the hem of the T-shirt and couldn’t help a weak laugh. “Agreed. As much as I love the chic oversized-toddler look, maybe some pants? Modern eyes aren’t ready for these thighs.”

Diana chuckled and reached out to ruffle his hair, a gesture that made Marcus scowl and duck away out of habit, even if a tiny part of him didn’t actually mind it.

“Oh! I almost forgot,” she said. She retrieved a shopping bag from a chair by the doorway and pressed it into Marcus’s arms. “We threw an outfit together for you earlier. It’s just temporary until we can go buy you some new things.”

Marcus peeked inside the bag and immediately made a face. On top was a neatly folded white button-down shirt, followed by a pair of navy slacks and a pair of polished brown loafers. The outfit practically screamed Matthew. Not quite Sunday church clothes, but definitely far from Marcus’s usual style, which involved a lot more band T-shirts and converse sneakers.

Matthew cleared his throat. Marcus looked up to find his father watching him expectantly. “Get dressed,” Matthew ordered, nodding toward the bag when Marcus hesitated.

Marcus bit back a groan. Where exactly did his father expect him to go in this getup? He was going to look like he was one embroidered blazer and ugly tie away from a prep school uniform. Still, he knew better than to argue right now.

He clutched the bag of tragically boring clothes and trudged off to the downstairs bathroom to change. As soon as he closed the door, Marcus let his irritation show, scrunching up his face in a silent scream of preteen angst. He really hated this outfit. Unfortunately, he had to admit that wearing something was better than parading around in an old T-shirt like a kid playing dress-up in their dad’s clothes.

He took a deep breath and swapped his giant shirt for the crisp white button-down. It felt stiff and scratchy. The slacks were next. He had to cinch the waist a little so they wouldn’t slip down. Finally, he stepped into the loafers, which at least fit better than expected.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and nearly groaned out loud. Staring back at him was a sullen pre-teen boy who looked like he was about to be dragged to Easter Sunday Mass.

Marcus ran a hand through his hair, trying in vain to tame it, and muttered to his reflection, “The first chance I get, this outfit is getting torched.”

Despite his griping, a minute later he found himself slinking back into the kitchen, miserable expression plastered on his face. Matthew was waiting, leaning against the counter, not even attempting to mask his impatience. Diana was by the sink rinsing out the bloodied mug.

The moment Matthew saw Marcus in the too-big outfit, he frowned. “Tuck your shirt in,” he said, exasperated. “You weren’t raised in a barn.”

Marcus grumbled under his breath and began fumbling with the shirttails. “Are you sure about that?” he muttered, just loud enough for Matthew to hear.

Matthew’s eyes flashed. Marcus instantly regretted it and hastily shoved the hem of the shirt into his pants properly. “Better?” he asked, a little sarcastically.

“Let’s go,” Matthew said curtly, clearly choosing to ignore the attitude as he picked up a set of car keys from the kitchen island.

“Where are we going?” Marcus ventured, trailing after them towards the front door.

Neither parent answered, but once they piled into the car and Matthew started driving, Diana gave Marcus a reassuring smile. “We need to get you some clothes that actually fit, and a few other essentials,” she explained.

As it turned out, “let’s go” meant a trip to the biggest mall in the city. Marcus hadn’t been to a mall in ages.

Stepping through the sliding glass doors of an overly large shopping mall, he was hit with a wave of air-conditioned mall scent: a mix of cinnamon pretzels, floor polish, and a thousand overlapping perfumes from the department store. Almost immediately, Marcus’s eyes were drawn to the sprawling food court on the lower level. The moment he entered, the rich smells of food drifted his way, burgers, pizza, cinnamon rolls, coffee, fries, ice cream. His stomach gave an approving flip and growled in anticipation. He wanted to try everything.

Unfortunately, Matthew had other priorities. He beelined away from the railing (and Marcus’s longing gaze at the food stalls) and led them toward the first clothing store in sight, a tailor’s shop. Marcus groaned inwardly. Of course his father was taking him to get tailored clothes, because heaven forbid Matthew allow anything off-the-rack.

The tailor was a tiny, old-fashioned boutique incongruously sandwiched between an Orange Julius and a Spencer’s Gifts. Marcus squinted up at the elegant sign above its door: Tailor & Sons–Est. 1899.

He almost laughed. Of course Matthew was a regular at a place that had been around since 1899. Only his father would insist on bespoke junior-size suits or something equally ridiculous for this “temporary” situation. Marcus also couldn’t help picturing Matthew wandering next door into Spencer’s by mistake and immediately having a stroke at the sight of the crude T-shirts and gag gifts.

Inside the tailor’s shop, the air was thick with the smells of wool and starch. An extremely elderly man with a tape measure draped around his neck shuffled out from behind a wooden counter. His face lit up in recognition.

“Mr. Clairmont! A pleasure, as always,” the old tailor said in a warbling voice.

Matthew shook the tailor’s hand. “Good to see you, Bernard. My son has had a… growth spurt,” he said dryly, shooting a look at Marcus, “and he’ll need a few things to tide him over.”

Marcus bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smirking at Matthew’s colossal misrepresentation of the situation. Growth spurt, right.

In no time, Marcus found himself standing on a small raised platform in front of three mirrors, being measured every which way by Bernard’s much-younger assistant, a lanky guy named Roland. Marcus stood with his arms outstretched as Roland took his inseam measurement, looking positively bored. Matthew, meanwhile, was flipping through fabric swatches with Bernard and discussing the merits of various weaves as if this were the most normal thing in the world.

By the fifth dramatic sigh that escaped Marcus’s lips, Diana decided to intervene. While Roland wrapped a measuring tape around Marcus’s chest for the third time, she gently pulled Matthew aside.

“Matthew,” she said under her breath, “maybe we should split up to save time. There are a lot of items to get.”

Matthew raised an eyebrow, but she continued before he could object. “I’ll take him to get some shoes and a few casual things he can wear today. Why don’t you head over to the LEGO store and pick out a couple of sets for him?”

Marcus’s ears perked up at that. LEGO sets? Now that was unexpected.

“LEGO sets? We’re here for clothes.” Matthew looked skeptical.

Diana patted his arm. “He’s going to need something to do at home to keep him occupied. Unless you’d rather let him get bored and see what disaster he finds next?”

Matthew opened his mouth, then shut it. He glanced at Marcus, who smiled back angelically from the platform, as if he’d never caused a lick of trouble in his life. Matthew exhaled through his nose. “Fine,” he conceded gruffly.

Diana hid a victorious grin. But Marcus could read the meaning behind it. Game. Set. Match.

A short while later, they left the tailor’s with Bernard promising to have a few essentials ready by tomorrow. Matthew headed off toward the LEGO store (not without a backwards glance and a reminder to please not let Marcus pick anything “ridiculous”), and Diana hooked her arm through Marcus’s, steering him toward a much trendier clothing outlet across the mall.

The next hour felt like a bizarrely normal shopping trip, if you ignored the fact that Marcus was technically a vampire over 250 years old. In the aptly named Hot Trends store, he and Diana both took turns pulling things off racks and holding them up for consideration. Marcus gravitated toward the band T-shirts, chuckling to himself as he picked out a vintage Pink Floyd tee and a Ramones shirt—bands he’d actually seen live decades ago, which modern kids now wore because they thought the logos looked cool. Diana grabbed a soft black hoodie for him and a couple pairs of jeans (one classic blue, one fashionably ripped at the knees). Marcus eagerly found some athletic shorts and, to Matthew’s inevitable horror, a few graphic tees with loudly printed slogans.

Diana tactfully pretended not to notice the more outrageous designs as she piled items onto the cashier’s counter. She was pretty sure one shirt in Marcus’s stash said “F*CK IT UP” in neon pink bubble letters. Matthew would have an aneurysm when he saw that one—but hey, at least she’d be a rich widow.

By the time they left Hot Trends, Marcus was carrying two bags of clothes and feeling much more like himself. More importantly, his stomach was growling again, louder than ever.

“Sounds like it’s time for lunch,” Diana said, amused at the almost animalistic noises coming from her stepson’s midsection. She glanced at the mall map and guided Marcus toward a casual sit-down restaurant on the far side of the food court—a Chili’s.

“I’ll text your father to meet us here,” she added.

Marcus practically floated to the table, visions of burgers and fries dancing in his head. The moment they were seated in the booth, he dove into the menu like Matthew did when presented with new theological texts. Everything looked amazing.

By the time the waitress came by, he might have gone slightly overboard: he ordered an appetizer sampler (why choose one thing when you can have mozzarella sticks and potato skins and onion rings and hot wings?), a full-size pepperoni pizza with extra toppings, and a Coke.

The waitress raised her eyebrows playfully. “Someone’s hungry! Growing boys can be bottomless pits, huh?”

Diana just laughed and shook her head. “You have no idea.”

While they waited, Marcus fidgeted with excitement, jiggling his leg under the table. He could smell the fry oil and grilling meat from the kitchen—his senses seemed sharper than a normal human’s, possibly a leftover perk of vampirism—and it was driving him wild.

A few minutes later, Matthew arrived, sliding into the booth beside Diana. He had a large, bright yellow LEGO Store bag in one hand and, to Marcus’s surprise, a to-go cup of coffee in the other. Matthew took in the scene of menus and condiments on the table with a hint of trepidation.

“I see someone ordered enough food for a small army,” he remarked.

Marcus just grinned. “I’m really hungry.”

Before Matthew could respond, the appetizer platter arrived, heaped with golden fried goodies. Marcus’s eyes went huge. He didn’t even wait for a comment, just grabbed the biggest onion ring of the bunch and took a massive bite, crunching happily.

Matthew watched this with a look of blatant disapproval. “This cannot be good for your body,” he said, frowning at the parade of grease and carbs in front of them.

Marcus, mouth full of onion ring, just shrugged and made a noise that was something like “Mfphhmm.” He was beyond caring. It tasted heavenly.

Diana thanked the waitress as she set down plates and napkins. “He’ll be fine, darling. Let him indulge a bit—just for today,” she said to Matthew, patting his hand.

Matthew grunted, clearly unconvinced. He eyed Marcus, who was now dunking a mozzarella stick into marinara sauce. “I suppose next you’ll be telling me fried cheese sticks are an essential part of a growing boy’s diet,” he muttered.

Marcus snickered and popped the mozzarella stick into his mouth with an exaggerated moan of pleasure, just to mess with him. Matthew looked positively pained.

After polishing off a couple of hot wings, Marcus finally slowed down enough to notice the giant shopping bag Matthew had set by his feet. Bright yellow, emblazoned with the LEGO logo, it was impossible to miss.

“So… what’s in the bag?” Marcus asked between bites of spicy chicken. He licked some hot-sauce off his thumb. “Did you buy out the whole store or something?”

Matthew took a sip from his “coffee” cup, and Marcus caught a whiff of metallic blood hidden under the scent of espresso. Leave it to his dad to BYOB (bring your own blood) to a Chili’s. Setting the cup down, Matthew cleared his throat.

“Your mother thought you might like something to keep you busy,” he said. His tone made it sound like a baffling concept. “Why that couldn’t be chores is beyond me. And mark my words, you’ll still be weeding the flowerbeds once we get home.”

Marcus rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress a grin. Typical Matthew. Only he would consider giving his kid extra chores as a form of entertainment. Still, the promise of whatever was in that bag had Marcus curious and excited. He decided to ignore the grumbling about chores.

“Okay, okay… but what did you get?” he pressed, nodding at the bag.

“Sets,” Matthew said, emphasizing the plural with a mild huff. He took another measured sip of his not-coffee. “Plural. Disney Castle, a Typewriter, a sports car, some massive Star Wars ship—I didn’t catch the name, one of those giant gray things—and the Titanic.”

Marcus’s jaw dropped. That was easily hundreds of dollars of LEGO, and thousands upon thousands of pieces.

“Holy—” He caught himself as Matthew’s eyebrows shot up. “Uh, Matthew… dad. Dad, that’s… that’s awesome!” he stammered, a huge smile spreading across his face.

Diana looked pleasantly astonished. “I said a few sets, darling, not the entire catalog,” she teased, giving Matthew a light, playful poke.

Matthew coughed and actually looked a tad sheepish. He busied himself straightening a napkin that didn’t need straightening. “I just asked the clerk what would take a very long time to put together,” he admitted. “He was all too happy to make suggestions.”

Diana’s face softened, and she placed her hand over Matthew’s in a wordless thank you. Marcus felt an unexpected warmth blooming in his chest. As strict and grumpy as Matthew could be, there was no denying he cared in his own way. A pile of LEGO sets might not be the typical way a father showed affection, but to Marcus it was pretty much perfect.

The sweet moment was short-lived. It abruptly ended when the server arrived with Marcus’s pizza—a 16-inch monstrosity loaded with pepperoni and about a gallon of melted cheese. It was beautiful.

Matthew recoiled as the greasy aroma wafted toward him. He watched in abject horror as Marcus grabbed a slice and folded it lengthwise to fit more in his mouth, strings of cheese stretching comically. Marcus devoured half the slice in one go, sauce smearing at the corner of his lips.

“Surely you could have ordered a salad,” Matthew said, looking pained, “or at least something less likely to bring on premature heart disease.”

Marcus just gave a contented groan, too absorbed in pizza bliss to formulate a witty comeback. Whatever he mumbled in response was unintelligible, given that his mouth was full of pepperoni and mozzarella.

“Close your mouth when there’s food in it,” Matthew snapped, his eye twitching. “I did teach you basic manners, unless those disappeared along with a few inches of your height.”

Marcus froze, realizing he had been talking with his mouth open, one of Matthew’s ultimate pet peeves. His cheeks burned red. He quickly clamped his lips shut and chewed, swallowing the enormous bite with an audible gulp.

“Sorry,” he mumbled once he could speak clearly. He straightened up a bit in his seat, suddenly feeling every bit the scolded child. “Old habits—or, um, new habits, I guess,” he added sheepishly. Matthew just shook his head, giving a long-suffering sigh. Diana hid a smile behind her hand.

Chastised but undeterred, Marcus took a more moderate bite of pizza this time, carefully chewing with his mouth closed. It was hard to look properly reprimanded when he was this happy, though.

Despite Matthew’s griping, this was shaping up to be one of the strangest, most unexpectedly enjoyable days he’d had in... well, forever. He was alive (sort of), he was young (definitely), and for the first time since waking up in this pint-sized body, he didn’t feel quite so panicked about it. His stomach was full, his parents were here—one doting, one grouchy, both caring in their own ways—and he had a giant bag of LEGOs waiting for him to put together at home.

As Marcus polished off his slice and reached for another (after dutifully dabbing the excess grease off with a napkin under Matthew’s watchful eye), he found himself thinking that maybe, just maybe, he could get used to this whole being-a-kid-again thing, at least until they figured out how to fix it.

Diana reached over and brushed a crumb off Marcus’s cheek with her thumb. “How are you feeling, sweetheart?” she asked gently. She was probably remembering the way he’d gagged on blood earlier and worrying he might feel ill now.

Marcus gave her a small, content smile. “Happy,” he said simply. “Full.” He patted his stomach for emphasis. “Maybe a little too full,” he admitted when a twinge of indigestion made him wince.

Diana chuckled and slid the half-eaten pizza plate away. “We’ll get the rest to go,” she said. “You can always have more later if you’re hungry again.”

Matthew looked positively horrified by the suggestion of more pizza later, but Diana shot him a look, effectively silencing whatever comment he was about to make. Marcus watched this silent parental exchange with mild amusement. His stepmother’s uncanny ability to wordlessly cow Matthew was something to behold–definitely a skill he wanted to learn.

When the bill was settled and the leftover box secured in a bag, Matthew stood and adjusted his immaculate cuffs. “Let’s get going,” he said, ever the man on a mission.

Marcus slid out of the booth, feeling heavier than he remembered, and hopped down to the floor. His overstuffed stomach made him sluggish, and he trailed a step behind his parents as they left the restaurant.

The mall corridor outside the eatery was bustling with early afternoon shoppers. The noise of chattering people and the kaleidoscope of store signs momentarily overwhelmed Marcus’s heightened senses. He paused, blinking at a garish display of neon plushies in a toy store window that practically vibrated with color. That might have been the food coma making him delirious, but for a second he could have sworn one of the plushies waved at him.

Matthew noticed Marcus had fallen behind and doubled back, a hint of impatience in his expression. Without a word, he reached out and took Marcus’s hand. Marcus instinctively tried to pull away, old habits (and pride) dying hard. “I can walk on my own,” he mumbled, cheeks flushing.

His father’s grip was gentle but unyielding as a steel trap. He guided Marcus around a cluster of teenagers loitering outside the arcade. “Humor me,” Matthew said, repeating Diana’s command from earlier that day. “You’re smaller now. And slower.”

Marcus wanted to protest further, but a quick glance at his father’s set jaw told him it wasn’t up for discussion. He allowed himself to be led through the crowd, grudgingly aware that okay, maybe he did feel a bit more secure with Matthew clearing a path. The mall’s crowds loomed taller than they used to, and being jostled by careless shoppers was not on his to-do list.

Diana trailed on Marcus’s other side, carrying the bag of leftovers in one hand and a couple of bulging shopping bags in the other. “We should swing by the pharmacy,” she suggested lightly, as though it were an afterthought. Marcus could see the glance she exchanged with Matthew.

“Vitamins, right?” Marcus sighed. He remembered Matthew’s decree about needing vitamins back in the kitchen after the blood-bag debacle. Marcus wasn’t thrilled about whatever horse pills or foul tonics “vitamins” translated to, but he knew the topic was non-negotiable.

“Correct,” Matthew replied, steering them towards a large drugstore at the end of the corridor. “Since you can’t keep blood down, we’ll have to try supplementing your iron and other essentials another way.”

The drugstore was bright and sterile, rows of colorful bottles and boxes under unforgiving fluorescent lights. Marcus squinted at the assault on his eyes which were used to the dimmer ambiance of the restaurant. Immediately, he caught sight of a display in the kids’ aisle: chewable gummy vitamins in the shapes of cartoon characters, practically begging to be chosen.

Before he could voice a preference, Matthew was already prowling the adult supplements aisle with laser focus. Diana gave Marcus a sympathetic wink and followed Matthew, still gently corralling Marcus along by the shoulder.

Matthew plucked a bottle off the shelf and read its label intently. “High-potency multivitamin with iron,” he murmured. “This should cover most bases.” The bottle in his hand was the size of a soda can and boasted bland text about daily values. Marcus’s nose wrinkled. He could practically smell the metallic tang of those pills through the plastic, probably as appetizing as chewing on nails.

“Um,” Marcus began, eyeing a jar of fruit-flavored gummy vitamins on a nearby shelf. The label featured a grinning orange bear. “What about those? They look more palatable.” He pointed at the gummies.

Matthew followed his movements and raised an eyebrow, utterly unimpressed. “Those are children’s vitamins,” he stated flatly.

Marcus gestured at himself up and down. “And this is a child’s body, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

Diana pressed her lips together, likely to smother a laugh. Matthew, however, was not amused. He placed the multivitamin into the shopping basket Diana held, pointedly ignoring Marcus’s gummy suggestion.

“Your body may be smaller, but your nutritional needs are complicated. You’re not a normal child, Marcus. You need a serious regimen.”

Marcus crossed his arms, feeling a spark of defiance. “I’m not a normal child, but I’m also not a grown vampire right now either. I think my taste buds proved that.” He couldn’t keep the bitterness entirely out of his voice.

The memory of the sweet, comforting blood turning to awful pennies in his mouth was still fresh and upsetting. “If I have to choke down vitamins, at least let them be ones I won’t gag on.”

Matthew’s expression clouded, and Marcus braced for a scolding. For a heartbeat it looked like Matthew might double down, but then Diana stepped in as gracefully as ever. She put a gentle hand on Matthew’s arm.

“He has a point. We need him to actually take them, love. Gummy vitamins are better than no vitamins.”

Matthew looked from Marcus, stubbornly raising his chin in what he hoped was a convincing show of resolve, to Diana, smiling reasonably. His shoulders dropped a bit in concession.

“Fine. But not the cartoon bear ones with nothing but sugar,” he muttered. He scanned the shelf until he found a bottle that proclaimed to be both “Great Tasting!” and “Complete Daily Formula.” It just had slightly less juvenile packaging. “These will do.”

Marcus exhaled, relieved. He could live with that compromise. As long as they didn’t taste like chalk or blood, he wouldn’t complain. Well, not too much anyway.

“Thank you,” he mumbled, not sure if he was thanking Matthew for relenting or Diana for intervening.

They added the selected gummy vitamins to the basket alongside the horse-pill multivitamin. Matthew insisted they get both, just in case.

Diana grabbed a few other items, a toothbrush with a superhero on it that she slipped into the basket with a knowing look at Marcus. He flushed, realizing his old one at home was full-sized and probably wouldn’t fit comfortably in his smaller mouth. She added some kid-friendly toothpaste as well. Matthew made a disapproving noise when Diana also tossed in a bag of chocolate coins at the register.

Marcus bit back a snicker as Matthew rolled his eyes skyward, muttering something about three children in the house now.

Purchases in hand, the family finally made their way toward the mall exit. Marcus noticed Matthew subtly adjusting his pace to match Marcus’s shorter strides. It was such a small thing, but it felt significant, like a quiet acknowledgment that things were different now.

When they reached the parking garage, Matthew halted abruptly beside the sleek black Audi. Marcus assumed the pause was so Matthew could fish the keys from his pocket, but then he saw his father eyeing the backseat with an odd frown.

“What’s wrong?” Marcus asked, tilting his head. He was already dreading the car ride. With the amount of food he’d eaten, there was a non-zero chance he’d fall asleep and drool all over himself like an overtired toddler.

Matthew didn’t answer immediately. Instead, to Marcus’s utter horror, his father opened the trunk and began fussing with something. A moment later, Matthew straightened up holding a bulky booster seat–one emblazoned with cheerful cartoon mice–that had been tucked away.

Marcus’s mouth fell open. “Is that…?”

“Standard law for child passengers,” Matthew said briskly, as if reciting from a DMV handbook. “Children under twelve of a certain height require a booster seat. We don’t want a police officer stopping us, do we?”

Marcus’s jaw clenched tightly. “I’m not sitting in that,” he finally managed, voice high with indignation. The booster seat looked embarrassingly infantile, and the mere idea of being strapped into it made him want to sink into the pavement.

Diana covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes dancing with amusement as she watched this exchange. “Matthew, darling, I think he’s tall enough to manage without it...” she began diplomatically.

But Matthew was having none of it. “The law says five feet tall. He’s barely 4 foot 9,” he said, shaking the booster seat slightly for emphasis. “And rules are rules. I won’t risk it.”

Marcus felt his cheeks flame hot. This was beyond mortifying. He glanced around the parking lot, praying no one they knew was nearby to witness this humiliation. Fortunately, the only onlookers were a couple juggling shopping bags three cars over, and they paid the family no mind.

“I can just slouch down if we get pulled over,” Marcus tried, voice half pleading, half petulant. He knew it was a weak argument even as he said it, but pride made him grasp at any alternative to that seat. This earned him one of Matthew’s patented glares—the don’t test me special.

Marcus had seen that look many times over the years, often directed at hapless colleagues or misbehaving family members and most often at Marcus himself, but experiencing it from the vantage point of a child’s height made it loom all the more.

“Get in the seat, Marcus,” Matthew said, each word enunciated with crisp precision.

His inner adult bristled at being ordered about, but his child’s body reacted instinctively, a slight quiver in his stance betraying the unease that Matthew’s tone elicited.

For a heartbeat, Marcus hesitated. It was almost comical. Almost. Heat crept up Marcus’s neck as he realized he was actually considering backing down. No, his pride rebelled, he wasn’t quite finished fighting yet.

“Fine,” he snapped, hazarding one last bit of sass as he planted a hand on his hip. “Anything else, Dad? Want to tuck me in and read me a bedtime story too? Maybe you should get a stroller to push me in?”

The words came out with a bitter edge, Marcus’s blue eyes flashing with challenge. His tone was insolent, undeniably childish—betraying that volatile mix of fear and stubbornness roiling inside him. The moment the quip left his mouth, he half-regretted it.

The next thing Marcus knew, he was yanked firmly forward by a strong hand on his upper arm. He hadn’t even seen Matthew moving.

“Hey—!” he squeaked, the protest cut off as his father deftly turned him sideways. Two swift, firm swats landed on Marcus’s backside, the sound startlingly loud in the enclosed parking garage. Marcus’s breath caught in his throat.

The sting that blushed across his backside sent a crimson flush flooding Marcus’s cheeks. Marcus let out a tiny involuntary yelp of surprise at the first smack, then clenched his jaw tight, determined not to give Matthew the satisfaction of a second. He refused to cry out—though his bright red ears and wide eyes surely spoke volumes.

Before Marcus could even process the indignity, Matthew hoisted him up with effortless strength and deposited him into the booster seat. Marcus suddenly found himself perched atop the hated contraption, breathless and stunned. For a dizzy moment, Marcus’s world narrowed to the confines of that seat: the faint smell of new polyester and plastic, the absurd feeling of being elevated a few extra inches off the car’s backseat. His feet dangled a fraction above the floor now, underscoring just how small he’d become.

Marcus’s hands flew to the armrests, fingers curling tightly as he tried to reorient himself. He opened his mouth—whether to protest or to apologize he wasn’t sure—but no sound came out. Instead, he sat there in mute astonishment, eyes round, bottom stinging, and face hot with mortification.

He blinked rapidly and swallowed hard as Matthew buckled his seatbelt, forcing down the prickling threat of tears that his child’s body betrayed him with. Absolutely not, he told himself sternly. He was not going to cry over a little smack and a seatbelt, no matter how embarrassed he felt.

Straightening his spine, Marcus mustered what dignity he had left, though the effect was rather undermined by the booster seat’s cartoonish pattern. His bottom tingled warmly where Matthew’s hand had found its mark. It smarted, sure, but the smack to his pride smarted far more.

As the initial shock ebbed, a swirl of conflicting emotions rose in Marcus’s chest. Indignation still flooded through him—he was outraged to be manhandled and spanked like a naughty child. Part of him wanted to shout that this was ridiculous, that he was ridiculous for having lost his temper. Yet, alongside the indignation, there was an undeniable sense of remorse and reluctant acceptance. In the harsh light of retrospect (all thirty seconds of it), he recognized that he had been behaving like, well, a ten-year-old. Matthew had only done what any responsible parent would do: enforce the rules and ensure his child’s safety. Child.

The word made Marcus cringe inwardly, but he couldn’t deny its truth. However adult his mind, however vast his lifetime of memories, right now he was a child in the eyes of the world—and clearly in the eyes of his father. Marcus drew a slow breath, the air cool on his tongue, and tried to steady his rioting nerves. The lingering sting on his backside and the snug constraint of the seatbelt were potent reminders that at least for the time being, he had to play by childhood’s rules.

Logically, he understood the necessity. A wry, ironic voice in his head—likely the voice of Dr. Marcus Whitmore—reminded him that booster seats save lives. He’d even lectured young parents about them in the clinic not too long ago. By law and by reason, a child of his size belonged in a booster for any car ride. If one of his patients’ parents had tried the stunt he’d just suggested, slouching down to cheat a traffic stop, Marcus would have given them a stern talking-to about safety.

He knew all this. But having the roles reversed, being on the receiving end of such precautions, was a bitter pill to swallow. It’s different when it’s me, he thought, and immediately felt a flush of guilt at the petulance of that sentiment. He wasn’t being singled out unfairly. Matthew was protecting him, as he had done in one way or another since 1781. That realization landed softly in Marcus’s heart, taming some of his resentment. Beneath the dramatic scene and the flare of tempers, there was genuine care. Matthew’s hand may have been heavy for a brief moment, but it was guided by love, not anger.

Diana slid into the passenger seat, twisting around to give Marcus an encouraging, if sympathetic, smile. “All set back there?” she asked. There was a suspicious tremor in her voice, like she was holding back laughter.

Marcus crossed his arms and sank as low as the booster seat would allow. “Just peachy,” he muttered. At least the car’s tinted windows would spare him from public embarrassment en route.

As they pulled out of the parking garage, Marcus allowed himself one last, small display of rebellion: he stuck his tongue out at the back of Matthew’s head, knowing full well his father couldn’t see it. It was a childish gesture that made Diana snort softly and glance out her window to hide a smile.

He smirked to himself, feeling a tad better. Some part of him realized he was already beginning to see the humor in the situation, however reluctantly.

The motion of the car and the warmth of the sun streaming through the window started to lull Marcus into drowsiness. He fought to keep his eyes open, but his full belly and the steady hum of the engine were a potent combination. His eyelids drooped heavily.

He was vaguely aware of Matthew and Diana murmuring in low voices up front. Something about “doctor” and “tomorrow morning.” Marcus was too far gone in a semi-doze to catch the details, but he made a mental note to ask later. For now, the gentle sway of the car was irresistible.

By the time Matthew turned down the long driveway to their home, Marcus was fully asleep, head lolling to the side. A thin line of drool had escaped the corner of his mouth. The Audi rolled to a smooth stop, and Matthew twisted around to see his formerly adult son snoozing soundly in a Mickey-Mouse booster seat, cheeks flushed and lashes dark against his skin.

Matthew’s stern expression softened for a fleeting second. He reached back and gently shook Marcus’s shoulder. “We’re home. Wake up.”

Marcus jerked awake, blinking blearily. For a disorienting heartbeat, he forgot where he was – why was everything so big? Then reality reasserted itself: Right. I’m fun-size now. He scrubbed the drool off his chin with his sleeve, mortified, and quickly unbuckled. So much for maintaining dignity.

Inside the house, Marcus trudged behind his parents, stifling a yawn. The burst of energy from his feast had worn off, leaving him feeling every bit a tired kid in need of a nap he would never willingly admit to.

“Go put your new things away and change into something comfortable,” Diana suggested, taking pity on his sleepy state. “We’ll sort everything else out afterward.” She was probably referring to the upcoming doctor visit or whatever plan they had to figure out his condition, but Marcus was too exhausted to ask just then.

Chapter Text

It hadn’t been a good day. First, Matthew forced another healthy breakfast on him. Then he had the stupid doctor’s appointment with Dr. Lockwood. Then Marcus realized, ten pages too late, that he’d put the wrong piece on his Lego build and had to undo an hour’s worth of work.

Lunch hadn’t been terrible. Diana had snagged them some Sonic on the drive back. She’d grinned and said, “There's lettuce, tomatoes, onions, and pickles on the burger—that's basically a salad.” Marcus had actually managed a small smile at that.

But it all went bullet-train to hell at dinner. Matthew was again in charge of the food, which meant another well-balanced, vegetable-laden meal. Marcus poked at the roasted brussels sprouts and carrots with open disdain.

Finally, he snapped, “You don't even eat, so why should you get so much say in what I eat?” He shoved the vegetables around his plate, voice sharp with simmering anger.

Matthew’s rapidly dwindling patience was hanging on by a thread. His tone went cold. “Because I am your father. Because I am a doctor,” he replied, eyes flashing in warning.

Marcus let out a harsh laugh. “When was the last time you even practiced?” he demanded, stabbing a brussels sprout as if it had personally offended him. The words came out before he could stop them, and he saw Matthew’s jaw clench.

Matthew chose to ignore the jab at his medical career. He leaned forward, voice stern and authoritative. “Because I am an adult and you are a child. Take your pick. Now stop playing with your dinner and eat it.”

As if dinner wasn’t bad enough already, Matthew then turned to Diana and asked, “What did you find on fixing this?”

His tone was calmer, but the question made Marcus freeze. They were talking about him, about reversing his current predicament.

Diana shifted uncomfortably and avoided Marcus’s eyes. “We can't just make him normal instantly,” she said softly. “It's going to take time.”

Marcus’s heart sank. “How much time?” he asked, voice tight. He set his fork down hard on the table. He wasn’t yelling yet, but every muscle in his body had gone tense.

Diana winced at his tone. “About six months,” she answered quietly. “We can do one year every two weeks.”

Six months. For a moment, Marcus just stared. The number echoed in his mind. Six months trapped like this. Six months of being a weak, fragile human child under constant supervision. Six months of this life. The realization hit him like a freight train. His vision blurred with sudden hot anger.

“What the actual fuck?!” Marcus exploded, shooting up from his chair. “Aren’t you supposed to be the most powerful fucking witch in the goddamn world? That’s the best you can fucking do?”

All the frustration of the day—the forced meals, the patronizing doctor visit, the botched Lego, the constant hovering—it all ignited at once. He knew better than to curse directly at them, especially at Diana, but the words tore out of his mouth before he could think. His cheeks flushed with fury and fear.

In an instant, Matthew was around the table before Marcus’s brain had time to catch up. One moment he was standing by the table, the next he was bent forward over it, Matthew’s iron-strong arm pinning him in place. A flurry of hard swats landed on the seat of Marcus’s athletic shorts. Matthew’s preferred method of discipline—one Marcus had erroneously hoped would be off-limits, despite the few smacks he’d received the day before—was making itself very clear.

Marcus howled in a mix of pain and shock. He had truly believed that being in this stupid human body would protect his backside from Matthew’s heavy hand. But if the burning in his lower half was anything to go by, his current child form did nothing to protect him from receiving a sore bottom. Matthew’s quick, hard spanks spoke volumes. He was less likely to tolerate cursing and shouting from Marcus as a child than normal, and even when he was normal, what he had said would have been way over the line.

It was over almost as fast as it began. Matthew released him, breathing hard more from anger and adrenaline than exertion. The moment Marcus was free, he shot upright, face hot with humiliation. Without a word, he bolted from the dining room. He could feel Diana’s stunned gaze and Matthew’s stern presence behind him, but he didn’t look back.

Instead, Marcus ran to his bedroom, slammed the door with a resounding bang, and locked it.
He knew a simple lock wouldn’t provide any real security from an irate vampire. If Matthew truly wanted in, a wooden door wouldn’t stop him. But maybe a calmer Matthew would hesitate, maybe he’d feel just hurt enough by the door being shut in his face to stay away. Chest heaving, Marcus pressed his back to the door and squeezed his eyes shut.

For a long moment, the only sound in Marcus’s bedroom was his own ragged breathing. His backside throbbed. He furiously scrubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand, angry at the prickling of tears. I will NOT cry, he told himself, jaw clenched. He was too angry to cry. But his traitorous human body didn’t care about pride or age. A burning butt and the emotional whirlwind of the evening were more than enough to make his eyes sting.

From down the hall, Marcus could hear the muffled rise and fall of voices. Matthew and Diana were talking, though he couldn’t make out the words through the door. He caught the tone, though. Diana’s voice was low and soothing, Matthew’s was tight, edged with frustration. Marcus pressed his ear to the cool wood, curiosity momentarily overcoming his anger.

“...too hard on him,” Diana was saying, her voice faint but gentle.

A pause, then Matthew’s voice, louder and defensive: “He can’t...discipline...out of control...” The rest was indistinct, but Marcus heard his own name in the mix. He scowled. They were talking about him like he was some misbehaving toddler, which, he had to admit, is sorta how he’d acted at dinner.

He flopped face down on his bed. His heart was still pounding with residual adrenaline, and anger warred with embarrassment inside him.

Everything had been building up to that explosion. He hated this, hated being stuck like this for even one more day, let alone six months. Six months! It might as well be an eternity. Every day in this human body felt so loud and uncomfortable. His senses were duller, but his emotions were somehow louder, closer to the surface.

Marcus swiped at his eyes again, anger flaring as the tears spilled over despite his efforts. Why couldn’t they fix him sooner? What was the point of all Matthew’s resources, all Diana’s magic, if they couldn’t undo this curse or whatever it was right away?

A soft knock at the door jolted him from his thoughts. Marcus tensed, hastily brushing his cheeks dry. No way was he going to open the door if it was Matthew. His backside twinged and he winced. He wasn’t exactly ready for round two.

“Marcus?” came a quiet voice. Diana.

Marcus exhaled, some tension leaving his shoulders. At least it wasn’t Matthew. Still, he didn’t answer immediately.

Another gentle knock. “Marcus, sweetheart, it’s me,” Diana called softly. “Can we talk?”

Through the door, Marcus could hear genuine concern in her voice. He stood there silently for a few seconds, torn. Part of him wanted to stay stubborn and silent, to refuse to talk to either of them. They couldn’t force him. Well, Matthew could, theoretically, but Diana wouldn’t let it come to that.

On the other hand, a smaller, lonelier part of him really did want to talk to someone. As much as he hated to admit it, he felt awful and not just physically. The day’s frustrations and that humiliating scene at dinner had left a heavy lump in his throat.

“Go away,” he finally muttered, but his voice lacked conviction. He pressed his face into his pillow.

“Please,” Diana urged. “I have something for you. And I want to make sure you’re okay.” There was a brief pause, then she added in a lighter tone, “I come in peace. And I come with a peace offering.”

Marcus frowned. A peace offering? He heard a soft clink of dishes from the other side of the door and realized she must have brought something up. His stomach gave a small, traitorous rumble at the sound. In all the chaos, he’d barely touched his dinner. Now that some of the anger was ebbing, he felt a hollow ache of hunger. Stupid human body, again, betraying him.

“I... I’m fine,” he lied through the door. His voice was a little hoarse. “Just leave me alone.” He cringed at how petulant he sounded.

“Alright,” Diana replied simply. “It’ll be here if you change your mind. And Marcus...”

He waited, unwilling to ask but curious at what she wanted to say.

Her voice softened even more. “I’m sorry. I know the news about the six months was not what you wanted to hear. If I could make it faster, I would. I promise we’re doing everything we can.”

Marcus closed his eyes. The sincerity in her tone tugged at him. He believed her. He’d seen Diana poring over ancient texts and consulting grimoires nonstop for two days. If she said six months, it wasn’t because she hadn’t tried for sooner. It was because she truly couldn’t do it quicker without risking something worse. He swallowed hard, but didn’t reply.

Diana took the silence in stride. “We’ll figure this out,” she said. “In the meantime... we’re here for you. Matthew and I both. We love you, Marcus.”

He let out a shuddering breath. “I... I shouldn’t have yelled like that,” he admitted in a small voice. It was as close to an apology as his pride would allow right now, and only to Diana. He wasn’t ready to face Matthew with that yet.

“I know,” Diana replied gently. “It’s been a hard day for everyone.”

Marcus hesitated, then stood and unlocked the door. He didn’t open it fully, just a few inches. Through the gap, he could see Diana standing there with a tray in her hands. Warm, savory aromas wafted in, making his mouth water despite himself. On the tray sat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, crusts cut off the bread, alongside a glass of milk and a couple of cookies. It wasn’t the strict healthy fare Matthew would have approved of, more like typical kid comfort food. Marcus’s eyes widened at the sight.

Diana offered him a tentative smile. “Peace offering,” she said again.

Marcus felt an unexpected prick of tears at the simple kindness. He bit his lip and looked away for a moment, struggling to rein in the storm inside him. Finally, he stepped back and opened the door wider in silent invitation.

Diana entered slowly, careful not to make any sudden moves that might spook his fragile mood. She set the tray down on his small desk. “Figured you might prefer this to cold vegetables,” she said lightly.

Marcus stood there awkwardly, arms wrapped around himself. “Thanks,” he mumbled.

Diana nodded and glanced around. The room was dim, lit only by a small lamp on the nightstand. The Lego model Marcus had been painstakingly working on earlier was strewn in pieces across his desk, disassembled in frustration. Diana’s gaze lingered on it, understanding the metaphor. His day had come apart piece by piece, indeed.

She pulled out the desk chair. “Mind if I sit for a minute?” she asked.

Marcus shrugged and sank onto the edge of his bed, the movement eliciting a slight wince. His backside still smarted, and sitting wasn’t exactly comfortable yet. He was annoyed that while some of his vampiric senses remained, at least compared to a normal human child, his healing did not seem to have survived. Under normal conditions, the sting from the brief handspanking he’d received would have faded after ten or so minutes of pain. Although, if he had spoken to his stepmom like that under normal conditions, he would have gotten a lot worse than Matthew’s hand. He shifted, trying to find a position that didn’t hurt, and opted to perch sideways with one leg tucked under the other.

Diana noticed his discomfort. Concern flickered over her face, but she didn’t comment on it directly. She folded her hands in her lap. “This situation has all of us a little on edge.”

Marcus chewed on the inside of his cheek. He still couldn’t bring himself to voice the turmoil inside — the fear, the frustration, the humiliation. Instead, he focused on something concrete. “Six months,” he said, voice bleak. “I don’t know if I can do this for six months, Diana.”

There was raw pain in the way he said her name. He rarely addressed her so directly. In fact, he wasn’t even sure what to call her in this dynamic. She was technically his step-mother now, he supposed, but she felt more like a cool aunt or an older sister sometimes. Regardless, she was here and listening.

Diana leaned forward, resting her forearms on her knees. “I know,” she said. “It sounds like forever right now. But you won’t be alone in it. We’ll help you, day by day.”

She reached out as if to touch his hand, then stopped, uncertain if he’d accept comfort. After a moment, Marcus let his hand drift a little closer to her, an invitation of his own. She gently placed her hand over his, giving it a warm squeeze.

They sat in companionable silence for a minute before Marcus’s eyes drifted to the plate Diana had brought. Now that his adrenaline had waned, the smell of peanut butter and sweet grape jelly was awfully enticing. He hadn’t realized just how hungry he was. Hesitantly, he reached for the sandwich. Diana released his hand, allowing him to eat. He took a small bite, then a bigger one, the comforting, simple flavors easing some of the tightness in his belly.

Diana watched him fondly. “There’s more downstairs if you want, or something else. Anything you want, really. We can worry about vegetables tomorrow.” She offered him a conspiratorial wink.

Marcus’s lips twitched in the ghost of a smile. The sandwich was already half gone, and he chased it with a gulp of milk. It was cold and creamy, soothing on his dry throat.

When he’d finished the sandwich and one of the cookies, Marcus finally met Diana’s eyes properly. “Thanks,” he said, meaning more than just for the food.

“You’re welcome.” Diana got to her feet slowly. She brushed a lock of his tousled hair back from his forehead in a gentle, maternal gesture. “Feeling a little better?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “I guess.” He did feel steadier. Food and Diana’s calm presence had worked a subtle magic of their own. The emotional storm had downgraded from a hurricane to a drizzle of resentment and exhaustion.

Diana seemed to weigh something in her mind, then nodded toward the door. “Matthew’s been hovering in the hallway this whole time,” she said softly. “I think he’s worried if he comes in here, you’ll just get upset again. But… would you be willing to talk to him? Just for a minute, before you go to sleep?”

Marcus tensed, the hand holding the remaining cookie freezing in mid-air. Part of him immediately wanted to say no. He wasn’t ready to face Matthew, not after the yelling and definitely not after the spanking. His backside tingled at just the thought of looking Matthew in the eye right now. And if he was being honest, he was a little worried that his father wasn’t done doling out punishment.

But another part, quieter, but growing, kind of did want to see Matthew. To get it over with. To maybe not go to bed with everything so raw between them.

He bit his lip, then gave a small nod. “Fine,” he mumbled. “He can come in, I guess.”

Diana smiled in relief. “Alright. I’ll send him in.” She headed to the door, then paused and glanced back. “Be honest with him, okay? He needs to hear how you feel. And you might want to hear what he has to say, too.”

Marcus nodded wordlessly, fiddling with a loose thread on his comforter. As Diana left, opening the door fully, Marcus caught a glimpse of Matthew out in the hallway, leaning against the opposite wall. The vampire’s face was drawn, his dark eyes lifting quickly with concern as Diana whispered something to him. Marcus looked away, suddenly very interested in the pattern on his sheets.

A moment later, Matthew appeared in the doorway. Marcus didn’t look up, but he could feel Matthew’s gaze taking in the scene—the half-eaten food on the tray, the boy hunched on the bed avoiding eye contact, the reddened eyes and tear-stained cheeks Marcus hadn’t quite managed to hide.

“Marcus,” his father began quietly. His voice was gentle, but it still made Marcus flinch slightly. He couldn’t help it. He didn’t look at his father. The heat still lingering in his backside made it impossible to forget how their last encounter had ended.

Stepping inside, Matthew closed the door partway behind him for privacy, though he left it open a crack. He moved almost cautiously and took a seat in the desk chair that Diana had vacated. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Marcus studied a speck of lint on his blanket, while Matthew studied Marcus.

For a few minutes, neither of them spoke. Then, Matthew broke it gently. “You’re still angry,” he said, voice laden with uncharacteristic weariness.

Marcus shifted on the bed and shrugged, shoulders tense. “Not really,” he mumbled. “I mean... yeah. I guess. But not as much as I was. I’m mostly just embarrassed.”

Matthew didn’t respond right away. When he did, his voice was calm but sure. “You have every right to be upset, pup. You just didn’t have the right to handle it the way you did.”

“I know,” Marcus said quickly. “I mean—I know I deserved it.” He felt his face go hot even saying the words, but he didn’t take them back. “I crossed a line. I didn’t mean to shout. I’m just…overwhelmed and scared.” Tears welled in his eyes as he admitted how vulnerable he felt.

Matthew closed his eyes briefly, as if centering himself. “It’s not fair to you. I understand that. And I understand what you are feeling. I’ve felt that same helpless fury more times than I can count. Usually when someone I love is hurting, and there’s nothing I can do to make it stop.”

Marcus swallowed hard.

“And I’m frightened too, Marcus. I have been ever since this happened to you.” He spread his hands helplessly. “I’m frightened that I can’t protect you like I used to. That I might lose you—to some illness, or accident, or who knows what—because you’re human now. So fragile.” His voice caught on that last word.

Marcus was stunned into silence. He had been so wrapped up in his own fear and anger about the situation that he hadn’t fully considered how it felt from Matthew’s side. To have one’s immortal vampire son suddenly turned into a vulnerable human child... of course Matthew was scared. Matthew, who had already lost so many people over his long life, who guarded his family with unmatched ferocity. Marcus’s anger wavered, tempered by an unexpected sympathy.

Matthew went on, eyes fixed on the floor as if it was easier to confess without looking at Marcus. “When you yell and refuse to eat and fight us on every little thing, I know it’s because you’re frustrated, believe me. I do understand why. But it pushes all my panic buttons.” He gave a small smile. “My instinct is to tighten the reins, to keep you safe at all costs.”

Marcus squeezed his eyes shut as a tear escaped down his cheek. “I hate this,” he choked out. “I hate all of this, Matthew.”

Standing from the chair, Matthew moved to sit beside his son on the bed. “I know you do,” he whispered. He slowly drew Marcus into an embrace. For a heartbeat, Marcus resisted, but then he gave in, sagging against Matthew’s solid chest.

Matthew wrapped his arms around him securely, one hand cradling the back of Marcus’s head, the other rubbing gentle circles over his small back.

Marcus found himself clutching the front of Matthew’s shirt, bunching the fabric in his small fists as all the fight drained out of him. He was exhausted. Exhausted from the day, from the anger, from the constant strain of pretending he was okay with any of this. In the circle of Matthew’s arms, he finally let a few silent sobs shudder through him. Matthew just held him tighter.

“I’m sorry,” Matthew murmured, his lips pressed to Marcus’s hair. “We’re going to get through this. I promise you.”

They stayed like that for a long moment—a vampire father comforting his temporarily-not-vampire son. Eventually, Marcus pulled back slightly, embarrassment creeping in now that he’d just full-on cried into his father’s chest. He hastily wiped his face with his sleeve.

Matthew gently tilted his chin up, inspecting him with concern. “Alright?” he asked softly, brushing a tear off Marcus’s cheek with his thumb.

Marcus sniffled and nodded, a little mortified but also relieved. “Yeah. I’m... okay.”

Matthew gave him a small, tentative smile. “Good.” He slowly stood, and Marcus scooted back on the bed to look up at him. “For what it’s worth, I do think Diana’s right. We will figure this out. And if it truly takes six months, we’ll get through those six months together. You’re not alone in this, Marcus.”

“I know,” Marcus replied quietly. And he did know, deep down, even when he was angry. Matthew and Diana were nothing if not steadfast. “It’s just... hard.”

Matthew nodded in agreement. “Incredibly hard.” He looked down at his watch. “It’s late. You should get some rest.”

Marcus suddenly realized how utterly drained he was. The emotional rollercoaster had left him bone-tired. He climbed under the covers, careful to lie on his side rather than his back. The cool sheets felt heavenly against his warm skin.

Matthew drew the blankets up and, to Marcus’s surprise, tucked them around him snugly. It was such a dad thing to do that Marcus couldn’t help a faint smile. He hadn’t been tucked into bed in—well, in a very long time.

Matthew caught the smile and his own eyes warmed with relief. He sat on the edge of the bed. “Try to get some sleep. We’ll have a better day tomorrow,” he said softly.

Marcus’s eyelids were already heavy. The pillow was inviting him to sink into oblivion. “’Kay,” he murmured. Then, he added in a drowsy whisper, “Goodnight.”

Matthew’s hand found Marcus’s and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Goodnight, son.”

Just as he was about to drift off, Marcus roused slightly, recalling one more thing he needed to say. “I… I’m sorry I yelled. And cussed. At you. At Diana.” The apology came out fragmented and mumbled into his pillow, but Matthew seemed to understand.

“We forgive you,” Matthew replied softly. “Thank you for saying it.”

Marcus gave the smallest nod, eyes already closed. He felt Matthew pat his hand and then start to rise. A spike of anxiety flared in Marcus’s chest at the thought of being left alone in the dark after such a turbulent day. Without fully thinking, he tightened his grip on Matthew’s hand for a second.

Matthew paused. “Do you want me to stay until you fall asleep?” he asked quietly.

Marcus, half-asleep and running on honest instinct, whispered, “...Yeah. Maybe just for a bit.” The words were almost inaudible.

Matthew heard them, of course. He squeezed Marcus’s hand again, then settled back onto the edge of the bed. “I’m right here,” he assured.

In the comforting silence that followed, Marcus’s breathing evened out. The last thing he felt before sleep claimed him was the cool touch of Matthew’s fingers lightly brushing through his hair, a soothing, repetitive motion that gently lulled him to sleep.

Chapter Text

Marcus hopped on one foot by the front door, tying his shoe laces in a hurried knot. He could hear the twins giggling down the hall as Matthew tried to coax them into saying goodbye properly. Marcus’s heart fluttered with a mix of excitement and nerves. It’s just dinner, he reminded himself.

But it wasn’t just any dinner. It was his birthday (sort of) and Diana’s birthday was in four days, and they were going to celebrate together. But it was their first time going out alone like this. He patted the lumpy shape in his jacket pocket to make sure the little handmade gift was still there. The paper corners of the card he’d crafted poked him, reassuringly real.

“Marcus, are you ready?” Diana called from the foyer. Her voice was warm and steady, the way it always was, but he could hear a smile in it.

Marcus snatched his other sneaker from the floor, nearly tripping in his haste. For someone who remembered being much older, he still managed to fumble like the ten-year-old he appeared to be.

He jogged over to the foyer, almost colliding with a tottering Pip. The little boy thrust his chubby arms up for a hug. Marcus couldn’t help but grin as he scooped his little brother up for a quick squeeze. “Hey, sport. Take good care of Dad while we’re out, okay?” Marcus asked playfully.

Philip babbled something in toddler-ese that Marcus decided was a confident “Yes!” and an explanation of what exactly that entailed.

Diana appeared at Marcus’s side, adjusting her light jacket. She gently ruffled Philip’s hair as Becca clung to her leg.

“We won’t be long,” she promised the twins softly.

Rebecca pouted, not entirely happy about being left behind, but Matthew swooped in just then, scooping up one twin in each arm.

“Alright you two, say ‘happy birthday’ to Maman and Marcus,” Matthew urged.

Rebecca perked up and gurgled something resembling “Hap birt-day!” Pip echoed her with a loud squeal that made them all laugh.

Marcus felt a swell of affection as Diana stepped forward to kiss each twin’s cheek. Matthew’s studious eyes met Marcus’s over the top of Rebecca’s head, and he gave Marcus a reassuring nod and a half-smile. It was the kind of look that said enjoy yourself and also take care of her.

Straightening his shoulders, Marcus gave an overly serious nod in return. He liked that Matthew trusted him with Diana, even if technically Matthew was trusting Diana with him—since he was the one in a child’s body now.

That irony wasn’t lost on Marcus. A wry grin tugged at his lips as he opened the front door for Diana with an exaggerated gentlemanly bow. “Milady,” he said in a mock-serious tone.

Diana chuckled and dipped a little curtsy. “Why thank you, kind sir.” She stepped out onto the porch, and Marcus followed, letting the door swing shut behind them.

Outside, the balmy summer day had cooled to a slightly chilled evening as it carried the last golden light of summer dusk. Marcus led the way to the car, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“You seem eager,” his stepmother teased, unlocking the car. “I’m dying to know where we’re headed. You’ve been very mysterious about your restaurant choice.”

Marcus tried to play it cool as he climbed into the back seat. After last week’s car seat fiasco, Diana had purchased a Volvo with built in booster seats, for which Marcus was eternally grateful. “Well,” he drawled, “you said I get to pick anywhere I want.” He shot her a cheeky grin.

She started the car, still eyeing him with playful suspicion. “As long as they have real food and not just cotton candy and ice cream, I won’t veto anything.”

Cotton candy and ice cream actually sounded fantastic to Marcus’s ten-year-old taste buds, but he kept that thought to himself. He gave Diana the address and smiled.

As they pulled into the parking lot, the neon sign buzzed to life in the twilight: “Lou’s Diner & Soda Shop” in cheerful red letters. In the window, a cut-out cartoon chef gave a thumbs-up, and behind the glass Marcus could see the retro décor of checkerboard floors and vinyl booths. Even from the car, he could smell the french fries and grilled burgers in the evening breeze.

Diana parked, taking in the sight with an impressed nod. “I haven’t been to Lou’s in ages. Good choice.”

He hopped out of the car and hurried around to walk in with Diana. Inside, the diner was alive with activity but not too crowded. A jukebox in the corner was softly playing some oldies rock ’n’ roll tune, and the clatter of dishes and chatter of families filled the air. Marcus’s eyes darted around—there was so much color and movement.

A couple of kids about his (current) age were giggling over a shared sundae at one table. In another booth, a tired-looking mom was cutting up pancakes for a toddler. Pancakes at dinner time—Marcus found that funny for some reason, probably because Matthew would never allow it.

The hostess, a teenage girl with a high ponytail, greeted them with a chipper smile. “Just two tonight? Any kiddos’ menus needed or…?” She looked down at Marcus and winked as if to say I’ve got you covered.Marcus felt heat rising in his cheeks. He quickly opened his mouth, ready to assert that actually he’d be ordering off the regular menu, thank you very much—

But Diana beat him to it. “We’re celebrating a birthday, actually,” she announced cheerfully, putting a light hand on Marcus’s shoulder. “This young man is ten today.”

Marcus shot her a look of pure betrayal mingled with amusement. His stepmother merely smiled, the picture of an innocent mother indulging her child’s birthday. Marcus had to bite the inside of his cheek not to laugh. Two could play at that game, Dr. Bishop.

He turned to the hostess and matched Diana’s energy. “And it’s her birthday too,” he said with big, earnest eyes, jerking his thumb at Diana. “My mom’s turning, um—” He paused, suddenly realizing he didn’t know if Diana would appreciate her actual age announced to random strangers.

She looked amused but subtly arched a brow at him. Marcus grinned impishly and finished, “—twenty-five. Again.”

The hostess giggled, clearly thinking Marcus was just being a cheeky kid. “Well! Happy birthday to both of you,” the girl said.

She grabbed two regular menus and one kids’ menu with crayons, despite Marcus’s fiercest attempt at a no crayons, please expression.

“Right this way.”

Diana took the seat across from him in the turquoise vinyl booth. He noticed she discreetly handed the kids’ menu back to the hostess with a polite, “We won’t need that, thank you.” Sometimes Diana had an almost telepathic way of knowing what might make him uncomfortable in his current form.

Once the hostess left, Diana fixed Marcus with a feigned stern look. “Twenty-five again, huh? You charmer.”

Marcus shrugged, eyes twinkling. “I thought flattering the birthday girl was the gentlemanly thing to do.”

“Mhmm.” She leaned in a little, resting her elbows on the table. “And here I thought you might announce I was turning, oh, forty-something.”

Marcus made an exaggerated horrified face. “I would never! I have the wisdom of ages, remember. I know better than to guess a lady’s age out loud.”

At that, Diana snorted softly. “Wisdom of ages, right,” she teased. “How’s that working out for you these days, kiddo?”

He opened his menu to hide the sheepish smile spreading on his face. “Let’s see, the wisdom of ages is telling me to order the biggest cheeseburger I can get.”

When the waitress, a harried older woman with kind eyes, took their orders (a double cheeseburger with onion rings and a chocolate malt shake for Marcus, a turkey club sandwich with fries for Diana), his stepmother gently added, “And could you maybe put a candle in his dessert later? It’s his birthday.” Marcus noticed she didn’t mention it being hers as well.

The waitress beamed at Marcus. “Well, happy birthday, young man! We sure can. How about a hot fudge sundae on the house to celebrate?”

Marcus felt a curious mix of delight and embarrassment. He wasn’t used to this kind of casual kindness from strangers. When you look like a child, people treat you differently, he mused. As an adult—and a vampire, at that, he’d often been regarded with wariness or respect. As a kid, he seemed to invite smiles and generosity everywhere. It was… nice, actually. He liked sundaes.

“That’d be great, ma’am. Thank you,” he managed, trying to maintain a polite tone that wouldn’t sound too old-fashioned. He must have succeeded because the waitress winked and ruffled his hair as she left, causing him to blush and smooth it back down hurriedly.

Diana hid a smile behind her hand. “Your face is as red as the ketchup bottle,” she teased softly. Marcus groaned and dropped his head into his hands in mock despair.

“I think it’s sweet,” his step mom said. “I never got free sundaes on my birthdays at your age. You must be special.”

He peeked at her between his fingers. “It’s because I’m extra adorable now, obviously.” He fluttered his eyelashes comically, then gave up and laughed along with her.

Their drinks arrived shortly—Diana’s iced tea and Marcus’s chocolate malt in a tall frosty glass, piled high with whipped cream and a cherry on top. Marcus’s eyes practically shone at the sight. The boyish excitement that bubbled up in him was hard to contain. He grabbed the straw and took a long, blissful sip. Heaven. Cold, sweet, chocolatey heaven. For a moment, he might have even kicked his feet happily under the table without realizing.

Diana watched him with affectionate amusement. “Good?” she asked, sipping her tea.

He nodded fervently, wiping a bit of whipped cream from his upper lip. “So good. You sure you don’t want one? You’re missing out.”

Smiling, his stepmother shook her head. “I think I’ll survive. Besides, someone has to stay awake to drive us home after your inevitable sugar crash.”

Marcus rolled his eyes, though a grin tugged at his mouth. “I won’t crash. I have the metabolism of a—” he stopped short of saying vampire. That wasn’t true anymore, after all. “—of a very energetic ten-year-old,” he finished instead. “I could drink two of these and still outrun you to the car.”

“Oh really?” Diana arched an eyebrow, playing along. “Maybe I’ll challenge you to that. Loser does dishes for a week.”

“Deal—” Marcus started to say, then narrowed his eyes. “Hey, wait. You always use magic to do the dishes, so that’s not a threat.”

She gave him an innocent look. “Who, me? Use magic for mundane chores? Never.” They both broke into chuckles, and Marcus felt a warmth spreading in his chest.

When their food arrived, Marcus attacked his cheeseburger with gusto. It was huge, almost the size of his face, and dripping with melted cheese and special sauce. Definitely not the refined cuisine Matthew favored, but oh man was it delicious. Sauce dribbled down his chin, and Diana reached over with a napkin to wipe it away.

He made a little sound of protest. “Mooom, I can do it,” he insisted, though gently, since they both knew he didn’t truly mind that much. He flushed slightly when he realized he’d called her mom, but he didn’t really mind, as long as she didn’t. Her mothering could be embarrassing, sure, but it was also... kind of nice. Letting someone fuss over him was a new lesson in patience and trust.

Diana held up her free hand in surrender. “Alright, alright. Just trying to preserve your dignity before you wind up with ketchup all over your shirt.” She nodded toward his plate with a grin. “I’m impressed. You weren’t kidding about that appetite. Is there even a cow left in the kitchen or did you eat the whole herd?”

Marcus swallowed a big bite and puffed up his chest playfully. “Growing boy, remember?”

At that, Diana’s smile softened. “Yes, you certainly are,” she said quietly.

There was something tender in her tone that made Marcus pause. He set down his burger and took a sip of water, suddenly feeling that weird pang again in his heart. He must have drifted into thought because Diana reached across the table and touched his hand lightly. He felt her thumb gently rub against his knuckles.

“Marcus,” she said softly. “I can’t pretend to know exactly what you are feeling. But I do know that we’re all right here with you.”

His throat tightened unexpectedly. Marcus managed a joking tone to ward off any embarrassing tremble in his voice. “Careful. You’re getting sappy, Mom.” He tried it again, this time intentionally.

She smiled, unfazed. “Birthday privilege. I’m allowed to be sappy tonight.” Then she added with a light tease, “Besides, I’ve had a little practice with people who age oddly.”

He snorted, thinking of Matthew’s eternal 37-year-old appearance and the twins who were growing in spurts with their mixed witch-vampire heritage. If anyone could handle weird aging issues, it was Diana and Matthew. “Fair point,” he conceded.

He tried to grin, but Diana squeezed his hand and gave him a knowing look.

“Don’t worry. We’ll make the best of this situation. And we will get through it. One day you might even miss parts of this experience.”

Marcus raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Oh really? You think I’ll miss being too short to reach the top shelf or being forced to eat vegetables again?”

Diana chuckled. “Your dad is quite a stickler about rules, isn’t he?” She shrugged, utterly unapologetic.

Marcus scowled. “You actually have no idea. He’s been surprisingly relaxed since you got married. Or maybe it’s just he’s got someone else to focus his attention on.”

“Actually, I was thinking of things like this.” She gestured around the diner—the cheerful chaos, the jukebox, the half-eaten burger and milkshake. “A simpler birthday. Laughing over silly things. No big responsibilities for a night. I mean, when’s the last time you got to act like a carefree kid on your birthday?”

“Never, Diana,” Marcus said swallowing hard. “It wasn’t a common thing when I was growing up, and even if it had been, I doubt Obadiah would’ve allowed it.”

His gaze instinctively shot to the brightly-colored linoleum, shame and guilt and grief fighting for control of his expression.

Diana’s eyes crinkled at the corners as she offered a comforting smile. “Well then, you deserve a nice birthday.”

He felt his face flush again, but this time not from embarrassment. It was from gratitude and something warm he couldn’t quite name. He was about to mumble something along the lines of thanks when—

“Alrighty, are we ready for some birthday dessert?!” a bright voice interrupted. It was the waitress, and behind her trailed two additional staff members wearing party grin expressions. Marcus’s eyes widened. Oh no. He had been so absorbed he didn’t notice what was coming.

Before he could fully process what was happening, a glorious mountain of hot fudge sundae, whipped cream, and sprinkles, was thrust in front of him.

Stuck in the top were two blue candles, flames flickering. The second waitress placed another bowl in front of Diana. Marcus smiled when he saw it was a smaller sundae with one candle in it. Diana looked surprised. No one had mentioned bringing one for her.

Then, the trio of waitstaff broke into and enthusiastic song: “Happy happy birthday, from all of us to you! We wish it was our birthday, so we could party too! Hey!” They clapped in rhythm, and a couple of nearby tables joined in with clapping and cheering.

Marcus felt every cell in his body attempt to shrink under the table. He could feel heat rising in his face, and if he’d been as red as the ketchup bottle earlier, he couldn’t imagine what color his face was now. People were staring.

Across the booth, Diana was laughing, her face in her hands. She was actually blushing. It was a rare sight; Professor Bishop, world-class witch and scholar, reduced to giggles by something as mundane as a birthday song in a diner.

Marcus didn’t know whether to be mortified or delighted. Probably a bit of both. A strangled snicker escaped him, and then he gave up and laughed too, hiding his face behind the enormous sundae like it was a shield.

The waitstaff finished with a final cheer of “Happy Birthday!” and a flourish. People around clapped and then returned to their meals. As the servers departed with satisfied smiles, Marcus blew out his candles, still chuckling. Diana leaned forward and blew out the one in her dish, shaking her head in disbelief.

When she looked at Marcus, her eyes were bright with tears of mirth. “You set me up!” she accused, though her grin gave her away.

He raised both hands. “I swear I didn’t! I only told the waitress that you needed a candle too, not a whole performance!”

Diana narrowed her eyes playfully. “Wait—you told her to put a candle for me? Was that what you did when you snuck off to the bathroom?”

“Maybe,” Marcus admitted. “I just wanted you to have a wish, too.”

For a moment, Diana just looked at him with such tenderness that Marcus thought he might actually melt faster than the ice cream. She reached over, swiping a bit of whipped cream from the edge of his bowl with her finger, then lightly plopped it onto his nose.

“You wonderful, sneaky boy,” she said affectionately.

Marcus wrinkled his nose, going cross-eyed trying to see the dab of cream on it. Diana laughed and handed him a napkin. As he wiped it off, he was pretty sure his face was as red as a stop sign again, but he didn’t mind this time.

They dug into the sundaes, still catching their breath from laughter. The hot fudge was perfectly gooey, and Marcus savored each bite. He made sure to take one of his cherries and plop it into Diana’s bowl, because he knew she secretly liked them even if she pretended she didn’t care. She accepted it with a soft "thank you" and a pat on his hand.

Halfway through demolishing his dessert, Marcus remembered the other surprise he had planned, this one a bit more personal than singing waitstaff. He wiped his hands on a clean napkin and shifted in his seat, suddenly nervous. This was more frightening than any public singing.

“Um, Diana?” he began quietly, reaching into his jacket pocket. The restaurant’s noise had picked back up to its normal buzz around them, making this moment feel oddly private despite being in a crowded diner.

“Yes, sweetheart?” Diana responded, pausing with her spoon mid-air. That word sweetheart still made Marcus’s heart do a weird flip. He cleared his throat and pulled out a slightly crumpled envelope made from sky-blue construction paper.

“I, uh, I made you something,” he said, handing it across the table. “Happy Birthday.”

Diana looked surprised.

“Marcus! You didn’t have to.” She took the envelope gently.

As she opened it, Marcus quickly added, “It’s nothing big.” He realized he was holding his breath and forced himself to exhale.

From the envelope, Diana slid out a folded card. The front had a drawing that Marcus had labored over for an entire afternoon: it showed a little stick-figure boy with blond curly hair (Marcus, obviously) holding hands with a taller stick-figure woman with reddish hair (Diana). He’d even drawn a tiny pair of wings on the woman’s back, a reference to where Corra used to reside.

Above the two figures, he’d written in blocky letters “HAPPY BIRTHDAY MOM” with a few stars and balloons for good measure.

Diana inhaled softly at the sight, then opened the card to read the inside. Marcus looked down at his sundae, suddenly shy. Inside, he had written a short message:

“Dear Mom,
Thank you for always being there for me (in every way, at every age). I’m lucky to have you. I love you.
Love, Marcus.”

His stepmom’s eyes were definitely glistening with tears now, one hand covering her mouth. For a heartbeat, Marcus panicked—had he overdone it? Was it too sentimental or did he inadvertently upset her?

“S-sorry if it’s goofy, I—” he began, but Diana quickly shook her head and came around the booth to sit beside him. Before he knew it, she had pulled him into a tight hug.

“It’s not goofy at all,” she whispered into his hair. Her voice wavered with emotion. “It’s beautiful. You’re—” She sniffed and let out a small laugh at herself for crying. “You are an incredible child. And an incredible man. I’m so, so lucky to have you too, Marcus.”

Marcus hugged her back, sinking against her for a moment and closing his eyes. Her familiar chamomile and honey scent made him feel safe. He hadn’t realized until now, but he’d wanted a hug. Maybe the sugar and the silliness had lowered his guard enough to accept it openly. Either way, he savored it.

“Happy birthday, Mom,” he murmured again, his face half-buried in her shoulder.

“Happy birthday, sweetheart,” she replied softly, kissing the top of his head.

Chapter Text

Marcus sat cross-legged in his father’s study, Lego bricks scattered across the carpet around him. He glanced up at Matthew, who was seated behind his desk, phone pressed to his ear.

From his spot on the floor, Marcus craned his head to listen. Matthew’s tone was calm and businesslike as he spoke to whoever was on the other end. It sounded like Chris, which meant they’d be on this call forever, Marcus thought sourly.

Being the size of a ten-year-old meant he wasn’t included in those conversations, a fact that irked him more than he wanted to admit. He could remember being part of calls like this, weighing in with his own opinions and decisions. Now he was expected to sit quietly and occupy himself like a good little boy.

Marcus bounced the two bricks in his hands together quietly, eyes darting between his project and Matthew. He said he’d help after this stupid call, Marcus thought. The idea of building with his Legos together made his heart flutter in a way he didn’t quite understand.

Each passing minute of being sidelined made him more restless. Finally, he decided he’d had enough. He picked up the colorful creation and stood up, inching toward Matthew’s desk.

“Matthew…?” Marcus piped up softly, holding the Lego spaceship in front of him. Matthew’s gray-green eyes flicked over to him briefly. With the phone still at his ear, Matthew gave a small shake of his head, eyebrows raising in warning, and held up one finger—the universal sign for wait. Marcus recognized that look and it was enough to stop him in its tracks.

“...Yes, the samples should arrive by Monday. I’ll check on it then,” Matthew continued into the phone. His voice was steady, giving no indication that his ten-year-old son was hovering nearby, scowling.

Marcus bit his lip and lowered the spaceship. Waiting felt like an eternity. He added a blue brick to the ship’s wing, glancing up every few seconds to see if Matthew was done.

After what felt like forever, but in reality was probably only two or three minutes, Marcus’s impatience got the better of him. He sidled closer and tugged lightly at Matthew’s sleeve.

“Matthew,” he whispered, a bit more urgently this time. “Can you come build Legos now? I built a spaceship and we can build a base for it next!” His voice rose in excitement on the last part despite his attempt to be quiet.

He could see a muscle tick in his father’s jaw. Matthew frowned and covered the phone’s mouthpiece with his hand. “Enough, Marcus. I mean it.” His brow furrowed in a way that made Marcus’s stomach flip a little with worry.

Marcus huffed with a sullen pout. He hadn’t yelled or anything. Why was Matthew making such a big deal over this? It’s not like Chris could even hear his comments. Still, the warning in Matthew’s eyes clearly said do not interrupt again, so Marcus went quiet.

Then Matthew lifted his hand from the phone and continued, “Sorry about that, Chris… yes, I’m still here.”

Marcus’s shoulders drooped. He hated feeling insignificant. It wasn’t his fault he was stuck in this stupid body. He returned to his spot on the carpet and placed the spaceship gently on the floor. With a quiet sigh, he started to assemble a little tower for the base, just to keep himself busy. Each new Lego brick he attached caused his frustration to grow.

He placed a red brick on top of a blue one, not really paying attention to the colors, and peered over at Matthew again. His father was nodding at the results Chris was describing as he took notes on the findings.

Marcus knew that Matthew was dangerously close to the end of his patience. And yet, knowing that only stoked Marcus’s defiance. Maybe it was residual anger at being treated like this regardless of his true age, or maybe the simple contrariness of being ten, but Marcus suddenly did not want to obey. He jutted out his chin, the beginnings of a pout forming on his face.

Before he could fully decide against it, Marcus found himself standing up again. This time, he walked right up to the desk. He didn’t tug Matthew’s sleeve; instead, he set the half-built Lego base on the edge of the desk, right next to Matthew’s papers, hoping the sight would be too awesome for Matthew to ignore.

“Look! I put a trap door in for the astronauts,” he whispered, unable to keep the eagerness out of his voice. Maybe if his father saw it up close, he’d wrap up the call faster.

For a second, Matthew didn’t react—he was still listening to Chris. Marcus’s heart sank a little bit. He didn’t see. Marcus reached out and gently tapped Matthew’s forearm.

“Dad,” he whispered again, louder this time, “please. You promised we could build legos this morning…” There was a faint tremble in Marcus’s voice—half frustration, half the beginnings of a childish whine.

Suddenly, Matthew closed his eyes and took a slow breath. Marcus realized a moment too late that he’d pushed too far. Matthew never liked being interrupted on calls, and this was the third time. Marcus took a half-step back, clutching a Lego piece nervously.

Matthew’s chair scraped as he stood up from behind the desk, phone still pressed to his ear. He looked down at Marcus with a stern frown. Marcus’s heart thumped anxiously. He could tell his father was upset, even though Matthew was controlling his voice for the sake of the call.

“Excuse me a moment, Chris,” he said, pressing the mute button. Then he pinned his son with a very firm glare.

Marcus’s pulse raced. He had been interrupting, and Matthew had warned him. The adult part of his mind screamed at him to shut up and apologize before he really got into trouble. But the mix of embarrassment and residual irritation churned inside him, tangling his thoughts.

Instead of calming down though, Marcus found himself blurting out defensively, “It wasn’t that big a deal... You’re overreacting.”

He regretted it the instant it passed his lips. Matthew’s jaw tightened, and a vein throbbed faintly at his temple. Marcus braced himself to be bent over his father’s desk or knee to have his bottom smacked.

When the older vampire finally spoke, his tone remained calm but hard as granite. “Since you can’t seem to control your tongue or your temper,” he said, “you can go stand with your nose in the corner silently until I’ve finished this call.”

Marcus’s heart sank straight to his sneakers. A timeout. Lovely. Heat rushed to his face in a mix of embarrassment and annoyance. He opened his mouth to protest being treated like a naughty little kid, but Matthew simply inclined his head and pointed toward the corner, eyebrows raised. It wasn’t a loud command, but it was definitely a command. Marcus knew there was no point in arguing.

With a dramatic groan, he made a show of shuffling very slowly toward the corner, feet dragging on the floor. If he had to do this, he wouldn’t do it happily. Behind him, he could feel Matthew’s gaze still on him, making sure he complied. Marcus’s ears burned. This was so unfair. Sure, he’d been interrupting, but he wasn’t a toddler!

A part of him wanted to snap, “I’m not even really a kid, you know!” but that wasn’t entirely true right now, was it? Of course, physically he was a little kid right now, but inside he still felt older, at least most of the time. It was confusing, and being disciplined like this just made him feel younger.

Physically ten-year-old Marcus reached the corner, faced the wall, and stood there with arms crossed tightly over his chest, scowling. His throat felt tight, and he struggled to blink back a prickling sensation in his eyes. He was frustrated and embarrassed, but he wasn’t going to let himself cry. Instead, he silently flipped off his father, the rude gesture hidden by his chest and the two walls he was forced to stare at.

Behind him, Matthew’s voice gradually resumed its polite tone as he resumed his conversation with Chris.

Time moved at a snail’s pace. Every few seconds, Marcus would impulsively begin to turn his head, hoping the call was finally over, but each time he stopped himself. Matthew had told him to stand facing the wall until he was finished. Marcus didn’t want to risk further trouble by sneaking a look too soon. So he counted the tiny dots in the paint instead. One… two… three… He lost count around thirty when he started imagining shapes in the random texture of the wall. That blob looked a bit like a dog if he squinted. The next one, maybe a duck?

Huffing and shifting his weight from one foot to the other, Marcus resisted the urge to stomp. It felt like ages, though in reality probably only a few minutes had passed.

It was humiliating being put in a corner as punishment. Marcus’s cheeks burned anew at the thought of it. He bit his lip and sighed. Deep down, beneath the indignation, he did feel a prickle of guilt. Matthew had given him chances to behave. And Marcus had ignored them. He hadn’t exactly left Matthew any choice. But acknowledging that to himself just made him more grumbly.

At long last, Marcus heard Matthew’s tone change. “...Alright. Thank you, Chris. We can discuss the ideas with the full team tomorrow.”

The call was ending. Marcus’s ears perked up at the sound of the phone being set down on Matthew’s desk. He stood up a little straighter, still facing the corner, unsure if he was allowed to move yet. His small fingers uncrossed from his arms and began nervously picking at the hem of his t-shirt. He wasn’t sure if Matthew intended to spank him or not.

Footsteps approached behind him. Marcus bit his lip in anticipation—what if Matthew was still mad? But then, he felt a familiar, steady hand rest gently on his small shoulder.

“Alright, Marcus,” Matthew said quietly from right behind him. The sternness from earlier had melted into a calmer, softer tone. “The call is finished.” He gave Marcus’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “You can come out of timeout now.”

Marcus turned hesitantly as peered up at Matthew’s face. Matthew looked tired, but there was a reassuring warmth in his eyes. He wasn’t glowering anymore. In fact, the corners of his father’s mouth were curved in the hint of a sympathetic smile. Marcus exhaled in relief.

“Thank you for waiting.” He squeezed Marcus’s shoulder again, a reassuring gesture that melted most of the remaining tension out of Marcus without him even realizing.

“Didn’t have much of a choice…” Marcus shrugged one shoulder, trying to appear nonchalant, though his voice came out in a mumble.

Matthew’s lips twitched further into a smile. “Fair enough.” He tilted his head, catching Marcus’s eyes. “Do you understand why I sent you over here?”

“...’Cause I was interrupting your call,” he muttered. Marcus tried to hold his father’s gaze, but his own eyes darted away to the floor. He scuffed a toe against the carpet. There was no point denying it.

“And because I asked you to stop and you didn’t,” Matthew added evenly. “You kept pushing, even after I warned you. That call was really important, and I needed you to be patient for a little while. We’ve talked about this, remember?”

Marcus swallowed and nodded. He did remember. Matthew had gone over the “rules” for when Marcus was in the office during calls: quiet activities only, no interrupting unless it was an emergency. At the time, Marcus had agreed. It seemed easy enough. In practice... well, today proved otherwise.

“I remember,” he said in a small voice. His cheeks felt hot again, this time with regret nibbling at him. “I’m sorry,” he added, barely above a whisper. Marcus folded his arms around himself ashamed to meet Matthew’s eyes fully.

As soon as he said it, the last bits of Matthew’s stern expression eased into relief. The grip on Marcus’s shoulder relaxed, and Matthew pulled him into a brief, gentle hug against his broad chest. Marcus’s face ended up tucked against Matthew’s shirt for a second. The embrace was warm and steadying; Matthew smelled faintly of cologne over his usual cinnamon and clove scent, with a hint of coffee. Marcus closed his eyes for a moment, comforted despite himself.

“I forgive you,” Matthew said softly. He released Marcus, hands settling on the boy’s upper arms as he leaned back enough to look at him. “I know it’s hard for you to wait quietly. It’s no fun sitting still, huh?”

Marcus shook his head, a few stray locks of blonde hair swishing. “It was so boring,” he admitted with a pout, but there was less fire in it now, more lingering whine.

A quiet chuckle escaped Matthew before he could stop it. He brushed a hand through Marcus’s mussed hair, smoothing it fondly. “I can imagine. Boring or not though, you have to listen when I ask you to behave. Understood?” His tone was gentle, but Marcus recognized the underlying firmness.

“I’m sorry I interrupted.” Marcus apologized again Matthew crouched down so he was at Marcus’s eye level. His hand stayed on Marcus’s arm, steady and comforting.

“I know it’s hard to wait when you’re excited. But when I’m on a call—especially an important one—you have to wait your turn, understood?” Matthew’s voice was firm on the last few words, and Marcus nodded quickly.

“Okay,” Marcus murmured. He felt a hot tear cling to his eyelashes and wiped it away hurriedly with the back of his hand. “I just… I just wanted you to see the spaceship. I thought maybe you forgot you said we could play.” The confession tumbled out, and Marcus flushed to the tips of his ears. It sounded even more childish out loud.

A quiet sigh escaped Matthew, and his expression softened further. “I didn’t forget,” he said. “I promise I didn’t. I’m sorry I had to make you wait, but I had to take Chris’s call. It was important.” He paused, then added in a warm murmur, “And you are important too, Marcus. I was looking forward to playing with you. I still am.”

Marcus finally met Matthew’s gaze. “Really?” he asked, sniffing once.

Matthew’s slight smile broadened. “Really,” he assured. He reached out and gently ruffled Marcus’s hair. “On one condition: you have to show me everything you built so far. I heard mention of a spaceship?”

At that, Marcus couldn’t help but beam, dimples deepening. He grabbed the Lego spaceship from Matthew’s desk and held it up.

“It’s right here! See? I made it a rocket booster and lasers,” he said, excitement rushing back into his voice. He pointed at the various parts as he described them. Matthew listened with an attentive expression that made Marcus’s chest warm with happiness.

Matthew nodded seriously, as if discussing a real spacecraft. “Impressive. That’s a fine looking ship,” he said, sitting on the floor next to the pile of Lego bricks.

Marcus joined him, leaning against his side. Matthew wrapped an arm around his son’s shoulders, pulling him in a little more tightly. “Tell me what else you’ve got planned for the base.”

Chapter Text

Marcus stood in front of the mirror in his room, glowering at the small charcoal-gray suit laid out neatly on the bed. The jacket’s shoulders were perfectly squared, the trousers freshly pressed, the tie already knotted in a tidy half-Windsor, waiting for him to slip on. The sight alone made his stomach tighten—not because of the suit itself, but because tomorrow he wouldn’t fit into it anymore.

Diana had explained the magic enough times for him to understand. One year older in the blink of an eye, another step toward reclaiming his proper age. He wanted to want that. He did want that. But the tight coil of nerves in his chest didn’t care about logic. They made him restless, prickly, searching for anything he could control. The suit was as good a target as any.

“I’m not wearing it,” he muttered, arms crossed, chin tipped up in challenge.

“You are wearing it,” came Matthew’s voice from the doorway. Calm, certain, and dangerous in that way his father could manage without even raising his voice.

“It’s too much,” Marcus pressed, shrugging toward the bed. “It’s a suit, Dad. For church. No one else is going to look like they’re about to get sworn into office.”

“That’s because,” Matthew said, stepping inside, “no one else has a bespoke suit made to fit them exactly.” He moved to the bed and picked up the jacket, brushing a nonexistent speck of lint from the sleeve. “You will look appropriate. You will look like my son.”

Marcus’s fingers curled into his palms. That last bit wasn’t fair—tying it to family pride. “I could look like your son in something less suffocating.”

“You could look like my son in a potato sack,” Matthew said evenly. “That’s not the point.”

Marcus glared. “Then what is the point?”

Turning to face his son fully, Matthew crossed his arms in a mirror of Marcus’s stance. “The point, Marcus Raphael,” he said, using his middle name in a tone that said you’re treading on thin ice, “is that you are going to put on this suit and get in the car for Mass.” He let the words hang before adding, “Or I can turn you across my knee, then you can put on the suit and spend Mass sitting on a sore bottom and reflecting on your behavior.”

Marcus felt his ears heat, part embarrassment, part outrage. Matthew didn’t make idle threats, and the mental image of squirming through an entire service with a stinging backside in the hard wooden pew was enough to make him glance back at the bed.

For a moment, they just stared at each other—the child trying to reclaim a shred of control, the parent holding the line. Then Marcus huffed out a sharp breath, snatched up the trousers, and muttered, “Fine.”

“Good choice,” Matthew said mildly, turning toward the door. “We leave in ten minutes.”

When he was gone, Marcus sat heavily on the edge of the bed, trousers in his lap. The rebellion had fizzled, but the knot in his stomach hadn’t. Maybe tonight would go smoothly. Maybe it wouldn’t. Either way, at least for now, he knew exactly what he was doing: wearing the suit, getting through Mass, and keeping the rest of his fears buttoned up as neatly as the jacket he was about to put on.

When he came downstairs, Diana was herding the twins toward the door, each clutching a small picture book for the car ride. She took one glance at him and smiled warmly. “You look very handsome.”

Marcus shrugged, pulling at his cuffs. “Whatever.”

Matthew, waiting by the front door with the keys, raised one eyebrow but said nothing—perhaps because they were already running behind. He simply gave his oldest a warning look and gestured toward the driveway.

“Shoes on. In the car.”

The Volvo was already warm from the late-summer sun, the faint scent of Diana’s lavender hand cream mixing with the leather upholstery. The twins chattered in their car seats, Pip enthusiastically retelling a story about a squirrel, while Becca hummed to herself. Marcus climbed into his seat, pulling the built in booster down. Maybe tomorrow he’d be tall enough that he wouldn’t need the stupid thing.

“You’re sulking,” Matthew observed as he started the engine.

“I’m not sulking,” Marcus said, glaring out the window. “I’m… conserving energy.” His excuse felt flimsy even to his own ears.

“For what?” Diana asked from the passenger seat, glancing back with a small smile.

Marcus hesitated. He wasn’t about to admit that Mass felt like a prelude to something far more nerve-wracking—that wearing the suit and sitting still might be the only things he could actually control today.

Instead, he muttered, “For the part where I have to sit perfectly still and not mess up your perfect family image.”

Matthew’s eyes met his in the rearview mirror, warning him that he was tiptoeing perilously close to the line. “Our family image,” he corrected. “And it’s not about perfect, Marcus. It’s about showing respect—for the place we’re going, and for yourself.”

“Whatever,” Marcus muttered again, but his tone wasn’t quite as disrespectful this time.

The church was already filling when they arrived, the stone steps warm under the late-summer sun. Inside, sunlight filtered through the stained-glass windows of the stone church, painting the aisle in dancing hues of blue and gold. The Feast of the Assumption Mass was underway, the gentle drone of the priest’s voice echoing off vaulted ceilings. Marcus knelt beside his father in the wooden pew, hands folded tightly together. He fought the urge to squirm or tear the tie from his neck. To his left, Diana gently bounced Pip on her knee to keep the toddler calm, while Becca dozed against her shoulder. But Marcus barely registered the small movements of his mother and siblings. Instead, his focus kept drifting to the tangled knot of fear and anticipation in his chest. Tonight, if everything went according to plan, he would age up from ten to eleven through the spell. It was all he could think about, even in this sacred space.

Marcus squeezed his eyes shut, trying to join in the congregation’s response to the prayers, but the words caught in his throat. What will it feel like? Will I still be… me? He snuck a glance up at Matthew. His father was kneeling as well, broad shoulders bowed and head bent in reverence. Matthew’s hands were clasped so tightly that the tips of his fingers had gone pale. Marcus noticed the subtle tension in his father’s posture, the slight furrow of Matthew’s brow, the way his jaw was set in a firm line even as he prayed.

His father was worried too. In a strange way, that realization comforted Marcus: he wasn’t alone in his fear. At the same time, seeing his unshakeable father look so grave made Marcus’s stomach twist. Matthew was always the steady one, the protector. If he was anxious, then the unknowns of the spell must be truly serious.

A soft hymn began to float from the choir loft, the melody of Ave Maria rising like a gentle plea. Marcus opened his eyes and let the music wash over him. He tried to slow his breathing, matching the tempo of the hymn. The afternoon light streaming through an image of the Virgin Mary above the altar caught his attention. In the stained glass, Mary was depicted with arms open and a tender expression, being assumed into heaven. The image was peaceful and trusting. Marcus wondered how she felt at that moment of leaving the world behind. Did she know what waited for her, or was she afraid of the unknown, just like he was now?

He wasn’t usually one to pray—that was his Dad’s department—but in this moment Marcus swallowed and formed a silent, earnest plea in his mind: Please, let everything go okay tomorrow. Please don’t let me change in a bad way. The prayer was simple and halting, but it was real. He hoped maybe someone out there heard it.

As the priest continued with the readings, Marcus’s gaze drifted downward. He noticed his own hands trembling slightly where they rested on the pew in front of him. He quickly flattened them against the glossy wood to hide the shake. His dress shoes dangled off the edge of the kneeler–they were just a bit too big, and his feet didn’t fully reach the floor. The sight made him feel small and younger than ever.

Tomorrow, in a literal blink of an eye, he’d be a year older. It was only one year, 11 instead of 10, yet it felt like standing on the edge of a vast unknown. Would he shoot up taller overnight? Would his voice change? Would his mind change, slipping another year further away from the adult he used to be? That last fear was the one he hadn’t dared say aloud. Marcus remembered being grown, remembered centuries of life and knowledge. But ever since the accident with the time spell, that lifetime of memories sometimes felt distant, like a half-remembered dream. What if with each magical “age-up” he lost a little more of who he had been?

Marcus bit down on his lower lip, absently rubbing a thumb over the smooth wood of the pew to ground himself. He felt Matthew shift beside him and glanced over. His father had risen to his feet with the rest of the congregation for the Gospel reading, so Marcus stood up too, a bit hastily. Matthew’s hand reached out to steady him, his large palm resting briefly against Marcus’s back.

Grateful for the contact, Marcus managed a weak smile before turning his attention to the front. They sat for the homily. The priest began speaking about the meaning of the Assumption—something about faith and embracing God’s plan even when faced with uncertainty. The words flowed over Marcus without fully sinking in, but he caught fragments: “Do not be afraid… trust… new life.”

He wondered if Matthew believed those words applied to them right now. Marcus watched the way his father’s shoulders rose and fell with each controlled breath. In the dim light, Matthew’s profile looked calm to an outside eye, the very picture of composed faith. But Marcus knew him too well. He saw the tension still in Matthew’s frame. He kept running his hand absently through his hair. Marcus recognized it; Matthew only did that when deep in worried thought.

Carefully, Marcus shifted closer on the bench, until his sleeve just barely touched Matthew’s. He wasn’t sure if his father noticed, but a second later Matthew lowered his hands from his face. He let out a quiet sigh and settled a hand lightly on Marcus’s shoulder, pulling him in so their sides touched. Marcus leaned into that touch ever so subtly. In that gentle press of Matthew’s hand, Marcus felt the message: I’m here. We’ll get through this. And in response, Marcus tilted his head a little to rest against his father’s upper arm. It was the smallest, most hesitant motion, but Matthew shifted to accommodate him, turning slightly so Marcus could lean more comfortably. The scent of his father and the distant hint of incense clung to Matthew’s shirt, a comforting mix that Marcus associated with safety. He closed his eyes for a moment, absorbing the steady presence of his dad by his side.

Diana glanced over at them then, taken by the rare sight of her proud son snuggled up against Matthew in the middle of Mass. Marcus caught her warm, gentle smile from the corner of his eye. She gave Marcus a soft, encouraging nod, a silent assurance that she knew he was anxious, and that it was okay to seek comfort. Matthew must have sensed her gaze as well, because he offered Diana a faint smile over Marcus’s head, his hand still resting protectively on Marcus’s shoulder.

Matthew looked down at Marcus and their eyes met. Marcus saw his own fear reflected in Matthew’s gaze, but he also saw love there, firm and steady. It made his eyes burn with threatening tears, so he quickly blinked and looked down before they could fall. Matthew’s hand gave his shoulder a tender pat as if to say I understand.

The rest of the Mass passed in a blur for Marcus. He stood, sat, and knelt at the right moments by habit, but his mind was miles away, cycling through worries and prayers in equal measure. He felt Matthew’s watchful presence at his side all throughout, like a steady anchor keeping him from drifting entirely into panic.

When Matthew went up to receive Communion, Marcus slipped out of the pew to follow; he had gone through his First Communion years ago, after all, even if those years felt hazy and long ago to him now. He walked just a step behind his father in the line, staring at the subtle design on the back of Matthew’s suit jacket and using it as a focal point to stay present. After they returned, Marcus knelt and tried to mimic his father’s posture of quiet reflection. He noticed Matthew’s lips moving almost imperceptibly—a private prayer. Probably praying for me, Marcus thought with a swell of emotion. Please… please let me be okay. He added his own silent plea again, hoping maybe God or the universe would hear two voices better than one.

Finally, the priest gave the final blessing and the closing hymn began. As people began to file out of the pews, the church gradually filled with a low murmur of whispers and shuffling feet. Diana stood and gathered the twins, one bleary-eyed and the other still snoozing against her shoulder. She glanced at Matthew and Marcus, who remained sitting for a moment.

“I’ll meet you outside,” she whispered.

She seemed to sense that father and son might want a few minutes alone. Matthew gave her a grateful nod. Marcus watched his mother carry Rebecca and hold Philip’s hand as they joined the slow-moving stream of parishioners heading to the doors. A few kind strangers paused to admire the cute twins or offer a friendly greeting, but soon the family of five had distilled down to just two in the quiet pew.

Marcus sat back, exhaling a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The final hymn’s last notes faded, and a gentle silence settled in the nearly empty sanctuary. Beside him, Matthew ran a hand through his dark hair and then rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture of weariness. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. They simply listened to the soft rustling of pages as an altar server tidied up the missals a few rows away, and the distant click of the candles on the altar being extinguished one by one. The smell of melting wax and lingering incense hung in the air. In that hush, the weight of the day—and the apprehension of tomorrow—pressed on them both.

Matthew was the one to break the silence. He turned to look down at Marcus, studying his face.

“Are you alright?” he asked quietly.

His voice was gentle, but Marcus could hear the undercurrent of worry. Up close, Marcus noticed how tired his father’s eyes appeared; there was a slight redness to them, as if Matthew too had been fighting back tears or had spent long hours awake thinking about all of this.

Marcus opened his mouth to say I’m fine, but the words caught in his throat. He wasn’t fine. He was scared. And here, in the hushed sacred space with just his dad, he didn’t have to pretend otherwise. Marcus swallowed hard, his small fingers picking at a loose thread on his trousers.

“I… I’m not sure,” he admitted in a whisper. His voice echoed faintly off the wooden pew in front of them. “Dad… what if something goes wrong with the spell? What if—” His breath hitched, and he felt the sting of tears threatening again. He ducked his head, staring down at his scuffed dress shoe toes. In a smaller voice he finished, “What if I change and… I’m not myself anymore?”

The confession hung in the air between them. Marcus’s heart pounded; saying it out loud made it feel more real, and tears blurred his vision of the floor. He hastily wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand, angry at himself for crying, but the fear was out now. A moment later he felt Matthew’s arm wrap around him, strong and sure, pulling him into a sideways embrace. Marcus didn’t resist. He turned into his father’s chest, clinging to the lapel of Matthew’s suit with trembling fingers. Matthew held him close, one large hand cradling the back of Marcus’s head.

“Hush, it’s alright,” Matthew murmured, bending his head over Marcus’s. His voice was thick with emotion, vibrating in his chest under Marcus’s ear. “I’m scared too, my boy.”

The admission was whispered into Marcus’s hair. Marcus felt a gentle kiss pressed to his temple, the rare softness in that gesture nearly undoing him completely. He hadn’t heard Matthew’s voice so unguarded in a long time. It somehow made him feel better and worse at the same time—better, because it was comforting to know his father understood exactly how he felt; worse, because hearing Matthew, the strongest person he knew, say he was scared made the whole thing undeniably real.

Matthew drew back just enough to look into Marcus’s face. He kept his hands firmly on the boy’s shoulders, grounding both of them.

“Listen to me, Marcus,” he said, steady and low. “Your mother and I, we have planned this spell very carefully. Diana knows what she’s doing.” He searched Marcus’s eyes, as if willing him to believe. “We would never let you go through with it if we didn’t think it was the right thing—and the safe thing—to do.”

Marcus sniffled and nodded, trying to tamp down his tears. He knew all that logically. Diana did know what she was doing. If anyone’s magic could be trusted, it was hers. And he also knew how badly his parents wanted him restored, step by step, back to himself. It’s just that knowing didn’t fully chase away the butterflies in his stomach.

“I know,” he whispered, voice unsteady. He dared to meet Matthew’s gaze. “But I’m still scared. I don’t want to mess anything up. And I don’t want to lose who I am.”

There it was, the deepest fear, spoken plainly.

His father’s expression crumpled softly, pain and love mingling there.

“Oh, Marcus.” He pulled his son into another tight hug, enveloping him in a cocoon of paternal strength. Marcus felt Matthew’s cheek press against the top of his head for a long moment. “You are not going to lose yourself,” Matthew said, almost a rumble. “Not on my watch, alright?”

There was a fierceness to those words, a vow. Marcus felt the vibration of them in his own ribcage. He pressed his face into the cool fabric of Matthew’s suit jacket, breathing in the familiar scent, and let it steady him. A few silent seconds passed. When Matthew eased back again, he kept one arm around Marcus, his hand rubbing soothing circles between the boy’s thin shoulder blades.

“I won’t pretend I’m not anxious,” Matthew confessed, offering a small, wry smile. “You’ve probably noticed I haven’t exactly been a picture of calm.” Marcus managed a wet little laugh at that, and Matthew’s smile grew just a fraction.

“But,” his father continued more seriously, “we have to have faith in Diana, and in ourselves. And if my faith ever wavers…” He reached out and gently tapped a finger under Marcus’s chin, prompting him to lift his head. “I’ll have faith in you. You’re braver and stronger than you know, son.”

Marcus felt his throat tighten up again, but this time it wasn’t from fear. It was from the swell of emotion at his father’s words and the earnest pride shining in Matthew’s eyes. He took a shaky breath.

“I just… I don’t feel very brave right now,” he confessed. His voice was so quiet it barely rose above the whisper of the nearby candles. It was hard to admit—he wanted to be brave, if only to make his parents worry less.

Matthew’s gaze softened even more. He cupped Marcus’s cheek in one cool palm, his thumb brushing away a tear track that Marcus had missed.

“Being brave doesn’t mean not being afraid,” he said. “It means doing what you must despite the fear. You’re here, facing this, even though it scares you. That makes you brave.” He paused, swallowing. “And you’re not facing it alone. I’ll be right there with you tomorrow, every step. Your mother too. We’ll face whatever comes together—as a family.”

Marcus managed to smile at that, a tiny curve of his lips but genuine. Together. That word alone lifted a little of the weight from his shoulders. He dared to hope, just a bit, that maybe things really would be alright. With a final sniff, he leaned once more into his father’s embrace, this time simply seeking the warmth without the desperation of earlier. Matthew hugged him close, resting his chin atop Marcus’s head. For a moment, Marcus allowed himself to be a ten-year-old finding refuge in his dad’s arms—not an adult trapped by magic, not a boy on the cusp of an uncertain transformation, just a son who needed his father.

They stayed like that for a quiet minute in the emptying church. Eventually a gentle cough sounded from the aisle—the kindly old usher, waiting patiently to finish his duties. Matthew gave the man an apologetic nod and squeezed Marcus’s shoulders one more time before releasing him.

“Come on,” he whispered to Marcus, brushing back a blonde lock of the boy’s hair that had fallen over his forehead. “Let’s go home.”

Marcus took a deep breath and stood. He realized his legs weren’t shaking quite as badly now. The two of them made their way out of the pew and down the side aisle. The church doors had been propped open, and the late afternoon sun streamed in, golden and warm.

As they stepped outside, Marcus blinked against the brightness. The summer air was hot and still, cicadas buzzing in the distant trees of the churchyard. He spotted Diana under the shade of an oak, loading the twins into their car seats in the family car. Upon seeing Marcus and Matthew emerge, she lifted a hand in a little wave, taking her time with the buckles to allow them to catch up.

Father and son walked side by side across the churchyard. Matthew kept his arm around Marcus, not in a hurry to let go just yet. Marcus didn’t mind in the slightest. He felt Matthew’s fingers give his shoulder a tender, reassuring squeeze as they neared the car.

“Feeling a bit better?” Matthew asked softly, tilting his head down to search Marcus’s face.

Marcus considered the question. The fear was still there—a flutter in his stomach that hadn’t fully settled—but it no longer felt so overwhelming. He felt lighter, buoyed by the understanding that his dad shared his worries and would carry them with him.

“Yeah,” Marcus replied, and this time he could smile properly. “A bit better.” He hesitated, then added in a shy mumble, “Thanks, Dad.”

The words didn’t seem enough for all that Matthew had done, for the comfort, the promises, but Matthew seemed to understand. He pulled Marcus in for one more quick, fierce hug, pressing another kiss to the top of his head.

“Anytime, my boy,” Matthew whispered.

There was relief in his voice, and pride, and unwavering love. As he released Marcus and opened the car door for him, his eyes flicked heavenward for just an instant, as though offering a silent prayer of thanks. Perhaps he was grateful, as Marcus was, that here on the Feast of the Assumption, a day of trust and transition, they had found a measure of peace in their uncertainty.

Marcus climbed into the back seat next to a snoozing Philip, gently taking his baby brother’s hand in his for a moment. Diana caught Marcus’s gaze in the rear-view mirror and offered him an encouraging smile, clearly sensing the subtle change in the air. Matthew settled into the driver’s seat and, before starting the engine, glanced back at Marcus. Their eyes met once more. In his father’s steady gaze, Marcus saw a reflection of his own determination beginning to bloom. They shared a small nod, barely perceptible, but full of meaning. Whatever tomorrow brought, they would face it together.

Chapter Text

Marcus’s transition had gone as smoothly as Diana could have hoped, though “smoothly” was relative when it came to the de Clermont household. Matthew had worried over every heartbeat and every change in height, checking Marcus’s temperature twice more than was strictly necessary, and there had been the minor incident of Marcus’s pajamas splitting at the seams in the middle of the night. But aside from those hiccups, the age-up spell had held.

So when Friday morning dawned, Diana decided to take the twins to visit Sarah for the weekend. They would be helping with a local coven gathering—part herb exchange, part moonlight ritual, part chance for Sarah to boss people around under the guise of “coordination.”

At the door, Diana gave both Matthew and Marcus a hug and kiss, then coaxed the twins to do the same. “We’re going to have fun with Sarah,” she told them, “and I expect to hear all about the fun you’ve had when we get back.”

The night before, she had taken Matthew aside. “It’ll be good for you two to have time together. Take him to see a movie, build some more of his Legos, let him eat something fun. Just… spend time with him.”

Now, after seeing Diana and the twins off at the airport, Matthew and Marcus stood by the window in the terminal as the plane taxied. They stayed until it lifted off and disappeared into the pale morning sky.

“Looks like it’s just the two of us now,” Matthew said as they walked back to the car.

“I don’t remember the last time we spent more than a day alone together,” Marcus replied.

That's probably why Diana was pushing for this solo time. Matthew thought. “What should we do for our guys’ weekend?”

“I don’t know,” Marcus admitted. “The last time I had a guys’ weekend I was taller and could drink my friends under the table. And it’s not like I got to have guys’ weekends the last time I was this size.”

“We’ll just have to see where the weekend takes us,” Matthew said as they pulled into the driveway.

Once inside, Marcus flopped dramatically onto the couch and switched on the television, landing on a slow-paced documentary about butterflies.

“What do you want for dinner?” Matthew asked from the kitchen. “Pasta or grilled chicken?”

“Pasta,” Marcus answered, maybe a little too quickly. Grilled chicken usually came with vegetables, and Marcus wasn’t in the mood to risk Brussels sprouts. Pasta, at least, could hide any stray bits of greenery in the sauce.

“Perfect,” Matthew said, pulling a pan from the cupboard. “It’ll be ready soon.”

Dinner was… awkward. Without Diana steering the conversation or the twins’ nonsensical chatter filling in gaps, the silences were noticeable. Matthew tried going through the mental list of “safe” talking points Diana had suggested the night before—hobbies, funny news stories, the shows Marcus had been interested in—but Marcus answered in short sentences, more focused on twirling pasta around his fork than elaborating.

When his plate was empty, Marcus rose, took it to the sink, and rinsed it. “Thanks for dinner,” he said dutifully.

“Of course,” Matthew replied, just as stilted.

A vibration in his pocket pulled Matthew’s attention.

How's it going? Diana had texted.

He hasn't tried to run away, yet.

He's not going to run away. You just have to find something to talk about. What's he doing right now?

Watching TV, I suspect.

Then go watch it with him. I've got to go. Sarah is stressing herself out over this pie. Love you.

Love you too.

Sliding his phone away, Matthew walked back into the living room and took in the screen. Marcus was halfway through what appeared to be a marathon of children’s ghost stories, myths, and legends.

“Ghosts are never this helpful,” Marcus declared as the one on screen obligingly led its living relatives to a hidden deed in a crumbling estate.

“Oh, really? And what do ghosts actually do then?” Matthew asked, settling into the armchair.

“Mostly a lot of nothing. Sarah’s house is super haunted, but all that ever happens is bath towels go missing and random trinkets fall out of the chimney.”

Matthew laughed, a real laugh, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and one of his rare unguarded smiles stayed on his face as he watched his oldest.

As a special treat for “guys’ weekend,” Marcus was allowed to stay up an extra thirty minutes to watch the Loch Ness Monster episode.

“Marmaduke was such a twat,” Marcus muttered as the credits rolled.

“Language,” Matthew warned, eyebrow arched.

“It’s true. You don’t know how many times I thought about turning him into a snack just so I wouldn’t have to hear about how clever he was with that stupid surgeon’s photo.”

Matthew couldn’t help but chuckle.

The episode finished and Marcus handed over the remote without protest, knowing his future bargaining power for later bedtimes depended on him obediently heading to his room.

Upstairs, he went through his nighttime routine and was surprisingly exhausted when he crawled into bed. Matthew appeared a moment later to get Marcus settled, picking up the book from the nightstand.

“So—where were we?” he asked, opening to the bookmarked page.

He read in his low, measured cadence, the words carrying Marcus along until his eyes closed. By the time Matthew reached the chapter’s end, the boy was breathing evenly, one hand curled loosely against the pillow.

Back in his own room, Matthew sent another message to Diana.

He's asleep. How are our other two?

Also asleep. Sarah chased them around for over an hour and then all three went to sleep quickly.

And how are you, mon coeur?

Pretty tired, but good. What about you?

Missing you.

What are you two doing tomorrow?

Chores.

Matthew.

Fine. We will do something fun. I still don’t believe he is doing enough chores.

Matthew set the phone aside, smiling faintly. Tomorrow, he decided, they could both use something that counted as fun.

Matthew was up early—one of the benefits of not actually needing sleep—to make Marcus’s breakfast.

When Marcus sat down at the table, a plate slid in front of him. The eggs were sunny-side up, staring back like eyes. Strips of bacon formed a crooked grin, toast was arranged on top in a way that might have been hair, or maybe a hat, and a single strawberry sat in the middle as a nose.

Marcus couldn’t help but laugh at the sight of the happy face breakfast. It was probably the silliest thing Matthew had done in the last few weeks.

“My breakfast has a face,” he said, glancing up at his father. “Does it have a name too?”

“No names,” Matthew said, settling in with his breakfast blend of Columbian dark roast and B positive blood. “If you name it you will want to keep it as a pet.”

Over breakfast, Matthew reminded him of the plan: a trip to the hardware store to get the last supplies for the birdhouse they were going to surprise Diana with. Marcus brightened at the thought. He hadn’t done any woodworking with his father in a long time.

It had been raining for days, the kind of cold rain that seeped into the air, making it slightly chilly, so Marcus dressed in jeans, a t-shirt, and his favorite zip-up hoodie—a deep red one with tiny devil horns on the hood. Diana had found it for him. Matthew had hated it on sight, which of course made Marcus love it more.

Matthew watched him struggle into his sneakers and decided—for once—to follow Diana’s advice and not pick a fight over the hoodie. It gives him autonomy, darling. He’ll wear it less if you don’t make it a battle. He ran a hand through his hair as Diana’s words echoed in his mind. Unfortunately, his face tended to come with subtitles. Even without a word, the pinched look made it clear exactly how much he disliked the hoodie.

“All set?” Matthew asked, while doing a quick check for wallet, phone, and keys.

“Yep.” Marcus was already halfway out the door.

They’d barely made it a mile toward the hardware store when Matthew’s phone rang through the car’s system.

“Hello, Miriam,” he said.

“Matthew,” came her abrupt greeting, “we need you at the lab immediately. There’s been an incident.”

That didn’t sound good. Matthew immediately signaled and turned the car in the opposite direction.

“We’ll be there shortly. I have Marcus with me.”

Marcus made a quiet, put-out noise but didn’t argue. Matthew glanced at him.

“We’ll see what Miriam needs, and then we’ll get back to our project, all right?”

“Fine,” Marcus muttered.

Marcus huddled under a large black umbrella as he stepped out of the car onto Yale’s campus. Even in the rain, the campus was beautiful. Ivy-covered stone buildings and sleek modern facilities stood side by side. He had to half-jog to keep up with Matthew’s long strides, splashing through shallow puddles on the brick walkway. They were heading toward the new science building—a contemporary glass-and-steel structure that gleamed even under dreary skies. Marcus’s sneakers squeaked on the wet granite steps as they entered, and he felt his heart flutter with nerves.

He hadn’t really stopped to think about how big and imposing campus and the lab would feel in his smaller body. Swallowing hard, Marcus followed his father inside, determined to be brave and adult about this visit despite the butterflies in his stomach.

When they got to his father’s lab, Matthew led him into one of the small offices—a cozy corner room with glass partitions. “You can wait in here, Marcus,” Matthew said, gesturing to a chair by a round table. Rain pattered against a narrow window, muffled by the thick glass.

“I need to check on an experiment with Miriam. It won’t take long.” He gave Marcus a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder. Knowing Marcus liked to keep his mind busy, Matthew handed him a few research reports and a notepad from a shelf.

“Here are some papers you might find interesting. Why don’t you review these while I’m gone? Just like old times.”

Marcus managed a small smile. Old times, indeed. Before his little brother had trapped him as a child again. Mentally, he retained all his knowledge, but focusing was hard when his child’s body jittered with leftover energy and anxiety.

“Sure, Dad,” he replied quietly, taking the reports. The text was dense with scientific jargon, but Marcus welcomed it. It made him feel like himself—like the educated adult he truly was inside. He settled into the chair, feet dangling above the floor, and watched Matthew disappear into the hallway with a brisk stride.

Uncapping a pen took more effort than he was used to, but he started skimming the first report. It was about genetic markers in blood samples. He underlined a line that caught his interest, trying to ignore how eerily quiet the office felt now that Matthew was gone. The only sounds were the soft whir of an air vent and the distant hum of machines from the main lab. A fluorescent light above cast a harsh white glow, making the pages almost too bright. Marcus fidgeted, shifting in the adult-sized chair. His feet swung nervously; they couldn’t reach the ground.

With a frustrated sigh, he pushed back from the table and stood up to stretch. Through the glass wall of the office, he could see part of the lab: empty stools at lab benches, a centrifuge flashing its status lights, a rack of test tubes waiting for someone’s attention. Maybe I should wait out there instead, he thought. The office suddenly felt too isolated, and anxiety was starting to gnaw at him. He wanted to be closer to where Matthew had gone, just in case.

He stepped into the lab, looking around, before sitting down at one of the work stations. He took a deep breath and refocused on the top report, determined to prove to himself he could do this. The words started to blur less as he adjusted to the smaller print. For a few minutes, Marcus lost himself in reading about cell cultures, even jotting a note in the margin. The normalcy of research calmed him—until a sharp voice snapped him out of his thoughts

“Hey! You—kid! What do you think you’re doing here?” a voice barked from the doorway.

Marcus’s head jerked up. A tall, thin figure in a wrinkled lab coat was striding towards him. He recognized the man as Edwin Worthington, one of the graduate students who worked under Matthew. Edwin’s dark brows were furrowed in irritation over eyes that fixed on Marcus with open disapproval.

“I…I’m just waiting for Dr. Clairmont,” he said, voice smaller than he intended.

He instinctively straightened, clutching the bundle of reports tighter to his chest. He cleared his throat, willing it not to tremble. The last thing he wanted was to sound like a scared little kid, even if that’s exactly what he felt like.

Edwin stopped a few paces away, towering over Marcus. Up close, Marcus could see the grad student’s face was flushed with annoyance—or maybe he’d been running. Edwin jabbed a finger toward the stack of reports in Marcus’s arms.

“Are those confidential lab documents? They’re not for you. This isn’t a daycare where you can play with papers,” he snapped. “Put those down! You have no business touching that stuff.”

Flinching at the harsh tone, Marcus tried to explain. “I-I was told to review these,” he said, tilting his chin up in what he hoped was a confident manner. “Matthew—Dr. Clairmont—gave them to me. I’m just—”

But Edwin cut him off with a derisive snort. “Don’t lie to me, you little brat. Do you even know what you’re reading? Or are you just doodling on important research?”

He stepped forward and snatched one of the pages from Marcus’s grasp to inspect it. Marcus stumbled back a half-step, heat flooding his cheeks in humiliation. On the page, his few penciled notes were visible in the margins. Edwin’s eyes flicked over them and he let out a sharp, scornful laugh.

“Unbelievable. You think you understand any of this? Who even let you wander around here? Where are your parents?”

Marcus felt his eyes sting in as tears threatened to spill over. He fought them back fiercely. Don’t cry, don’t cry, he begged himself, throat tight. Edwin’s words confirmed every fear Marcus had about being here. To him, and probably to everyone else, Marcus was just a stupid kid meddling where he didn’t belong. He opened his mouth to protest that he did understand, that Matthew was his father and had given him the reports—but his voice failed him. Only a choked squeak came out.

“I– I’m not lying,” he finally managed in a whisper. But Edwin had already lost patience.

The grad student rolled his eyes dramatically and shoved the crumpled page back at Marcus. “Get out of here,” Edwin hissed, voice low and seething. “Go wait in the lobby or something. Labs are for researchers, not for children who get underfoot. I don’t care whose kid you are. You’re in the way.”

Marcus’s vision blurred as a hot tear escaped despite himself. Mortified, he wiped it quickly with the back of his hand, hoping Edwin hadn’t noticed. His entire face burned with shame. He felt frozen in place, like a small animal caught under a predator’s gaze. Edwin loomed over him, expecting an answer.

When Marcus didn’t move immediately, Edwin’s expression twisted with anger. He raised his voice, echoing down the corridor: “Didn’t you hear me? Are you deaf? Get out! Now! If I catch you messing with lab materials again, you’ll regret it.”

That shout broke the spell. Marcus jolted as if slapped, heart pounding wildly. Fear shot through him, pure and overwhelming. “I-I’m sorry!” he stammered, voice breaking, and without thinking another second, he turned and fled.

The reports slipped from his arms, papers scattering across the ground like fallen leaves. But Marcus didn’t dare stop to gather them. The sound of Edwin’s angry muttering chased him as he ran around the corner, tears now streaming freely down his cheeks.

Marcus ran blindly, not sure where he was going, only that he had to get away. He dashed through an open double door that led to the building’s central atrium area. A few startled faces looked up as he passed, but Marcus couldn’t see clearly through his tears. His chest felt tight with panic and humiliation. Stupid, stupid, he berated himself, I shouldn’t have left the office. I shouldn’t even be here.

He rounded another corner and found a door with an exit sign. Panicking, he pushed it open, hoping it might lead to a stairwell where he could hide. The heavy door thunked shut behind him, and suddenly the noise of the science building was cut off. Marcus found himself on a landing in a stark concrete stairwell. The space was cooler and smelled of cement dust and something metallic. The only light came from a small square window on each landing, grey daylight filtering in weakly.

Marcus gulped down ragged breaths, his pulse racing. He sat down on the stair, legs trembling too much to stand. The cold step beneath him grounded him slightly. With shaking hands, he wiped at his wet cheeks. But the moment he tried to steady his breathing, a sob bubbled up, and he pressed a hand over his mouth to stifle the sound.

In the relative solitude of the stairwell, the full weight of what had happened crashed down on him. He felt utterly helpless. Marcus curled his knees up to his chest, hugging them tightly. He hadn’t felt this kind of frightened misery in a long, long time. The embarrassment of being yelled at like a misbehaving child burned almost as much as the fear. Part of him was also worried that Matthew would be furious with him for running off and causing trouble.

He imagined Matthew’s disappointment, even anger, and a fresh sob hiccupped from his throat. He buried his face against his knees, shoulders shaking. The reports he’d dropped were surely still strewn back there; the idea of facing anyone to retrieve them—let alone facing Edwin again—was unbearable.

After a few minutes, Marcus realized he should try to find his way back or find help. Sitting here wouldn’t solve anything. He stood and sniffled hard, swiping his sleeve over his face. Did he come up or down? He had bolted through multiple halls in blind panic and now he wasn’t sure. If he went down, maybe he could reach the ground floor lobby and wait for Matthew there. That thought gave him hope.

Marcus descended one flight, pushing open the door on the next landing. It opened into a quiet corridor that looked similar to the one he’d left, but something was off. He didn’t see the atrium or lab office—just closed doors and a dimly lit hallway. This might be the wrong floor, or a different wing altogether. Anxiety spiked again. He let the door close. Maybe he needed to go down another level.

The stairwell lights were on a motion sensor and flickered to life with each landing he reached, then faded behind him. It was eerie being alone here; each step he took echoed emptily. Finally, he reached what he thought was the ground level. The sign on the door said “1”. Marcus exhaled in relief and pushed the heavy door open.

To his dismay, this floor’s hallway was deserted and dark. The overhead lights were dimmed to an energy-saving mode, and no one was around. Marcus’s hands began to shake again as he realized he was disoriented and still lost. The thought of going back into the stairwell and wandering more made him want to sink down and cry again.

He stepped back into the stairwell, letting the door shut with a heavy clang. The sound reverberated, emphasizing his isolation. Marcus crept to the corner of the landing between first and second floor, where a small square window looked out onto the rainy world outside. Raindrops trailed down the glass.

Another set of sobs shook through him, and Marcus pressed his face into his knees, tears soaking through the fabric of his jeans. He stayed like that, a small, miserable bundle between flights of empty stairs, as the minutes stretched on.

Meanwhile, two floors above, Matthew sat in a conference room amid a circle of anxious colleagues, trying to focus on the discussion at hand. Miriam was at the head of the table, explaining the lab emergency—a freezer malfunction that threatened valuable samples. They had called in a few staff on short notice to transfer specimens and check data integrity. Matthew had been drawn into the problem-solving meeting as soon as he’d left Marcus, and he was doing his best to concentrate on temperature logs and backup power supply plans.

Yet, a nagging feeling kept pulling his thoughts away. He tapped his pen on the table, eyes unfocused as Miriam spoke. Something felt wrong. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but an uneasy prickle crawled up the back of his neck. Perhaps it was just guilt for leaving Marcus alone out there, knowing how unsteady his son felt in this adult environment. He’s fine, Matthew reassured himself for the third time in five minutes. He’s reading the reports right where I left him. Still, he couldn’t shake the image of Marcus’s anxious eyes as he’d walked away.

At last, Matthew couldn’t ignore his instinct. He quietly pulled out his phone under the table and sent a quick text to Marcus: You okay, buddy?He watched the screen, expecting the little “...” of a reply to appear. Nothing. The text showed as delivered, but no response. Matthew frowned. It had been a good ten minutes since he’d left Marcus. Usually Marcus would text back promptly.

Distracted, Matthew almost missed Miriam directing a question at him. He cleared his throat. “We should transfer them to the secondary unit in Lab 3B,” he replied automatically, before standing. “Excuse me,” he offered to the group, turning to the door. Miriam followed, asking one of their other colleagues to take point.

When he got to the lab, he realized immediately it was too quiet. Matthew’s gaze flicked immediately to the small office where he’d left Marcus. Through the glass panel, he saw the chair empty and the table bare except for a few scattered pens. The bundle of reports he’d given Marcus was gone. A ripple of unease ran through him.

He stepped inside, scanning the corners, then checked the lab space adjacent to the office. “Marcus?” His voice echoed off the glass and tile, but there was no answer. His unease sharpened into a thin thread of alarm.

At first, he assumed Marcus had simply wandered off, as he sometimes did when bored—probably exploring the corridor or poking his head into the equipment rooms. Annoyance stirred, a sigh rising in his chest. I told him to stay put. He stepped into the office anyway, scanning the corners, then crossed into the adjoining lab space.

As he looked around, he noticed the reports scattered on the ground. Seeing those, Matthew wondered if perhaps Marcus hadn’t just wandered off. The thin thread of alarm snapped into something sharper.

“Miriam, check the lab and the office,” Matthew ordered, already striding rapidly down the hall. “See if he went back there. I’ll search this way.” His voice was tight with barely controlled panic. Miriam nodded and split off, her phone already in hand to call other lab members to help look.

Matthew’s heart pounded as he hurried through the hall, scanning for any sign of his son. He dashed through the atrium where a couple of people looked at him in surprise. No sign of Marcus.

Matthew yanked out his phone as he jogged toward the elevators and staircase. He punched Baldwin’s number—his brother was off-site, but Baldwin had a knack for quick solutions and, importantly, had immediate access to the security system. As it rang, Matthew kept moving. He pushed open a door to a stairwell and called, “Marcus!” hearing his voice echo down the concrete shaft. Only silence answered.

Baldwin picked up on the third ring. “What is it, Matthew?” came Baldwin’s brisk voice.

“It’s Marcus,” Matthew said, strain clear in his tone as he took the stairs two at a time down to the lobby level. “He’s missing in the building. I need eyes on him—now. Can you access the security cameras for the science building at Yale?”

There was a pause in which Matthew could picture Baldwin’s expression turning grim. “On it,” Baldwin replied curtly. “Stay on the line.”

Matthew hit the ground floor and pushed out into the main lobby, scanning the area wildly. A campus security guard at the reception desk looked up in alarm as Matthew stalked by, phone pressed to his ear, but Matthew paid him no heed for the moment.

“Camera at the corridor outside your lab shows Marcus running at 10:42 AM,” Baldwin’s voice crackled through the phone speaker. “He went toward the central atrium, then took the east hallway. Matthew, he’s crying.”

His heart clenched, and he checked his watch reflexively; it was now 10:50 AM. Those minutes must have felt like an eternity to Marcus.

“I’m near the atrium now,” Matthew said, dashing back into that open space.

Baldwin spoke in his ear, “Switching cameras... Got him. He’s in a stairwell between the first and second floor, east side. He’s just sitting there. He looks distressed.”

Relief and fear flooded Matthew simultaneously. Matthew could imagine Marcus alone and crying too vividly.

“I’m close,” he said tersely, already moving. He knew the east side stairwell entrance was just around the next hallway junction. “And Baldwin? Thank you.”

He ended the call and shoved the phone in his pocket. In front of him was the grey metal door of the east stairwell. Matthew took a deep breath, steeling himself for what he was about to find on the other side of that door.

For a split second, his temper flared again. Marcus had run off, disobeyed him, scared the life out of him. A part of Matthew was ready to march the boy out and deliver a stern lecture and maybe even a spanking. But as he pushed the door open gently and stepped inside, another image overpowered the anger.

Marcus was curled up tightly, face buried in his crossed arms atop his kneecaps. Even from here Matthew could see him trembling with quiet sobs. The sight pierced Matthew’s heart. How could he even have considered…

“Marcus,” Matthew called softly, descending the steps slowly. His voice echoed gently in the concrete space. Marcus’s head snapped up at the sound of his name. In the faint light, Matthew could see his son’s face streaked with tears, eyes red and wide with fear. The boy gasped, startled, and scrubbed at his face with his sleeve hastily, as if trying to hide the evidence of his breakdown.

“M-Matthew?” Marcus croaked, his voice hoarse from crying. He blinked rapidly, as though unsure if he was really seeing his father or imagining him.

“Oh, Marcus,” he murmured, and closed the remaining distance, wrapping the boy in his arms without waiting another second. Marcus let out a little cry and practically collapsed against Matthew’s chest, clinging to him.

“I’m sorry,” Marcus sobbed against Matthew’s shirt. “I’m s-sorry, I didn’t mean to… I got lost…I’m so sorry, Dad.” The word “Dad” came out in a wail that broke Matthew’s heart. Hearing it in such a pleading, frightened tone unraveled Matthew completely.

“Shh, it’s okay. You’re okay now,” Matthew soothed, one hand cradling the back of Marcus’s head, fingers carding gently through his son’s blond curls. Matthew closed his eyes, pressing his cheek atop Marcus’s head and taking a shaky breath. The panic that had gripped him began to wane now that he could feel Marcus’s small, warm body safe against him.

“I was so worried about you,” he whispered, voice thick. “I’m sorry I left you alone. I’m sorry, Marcus.”

Marcus shook his head vigorously, pulling back just enough to look up. “It w-wasn’t your fault,” he managed between gulps of air. “I r-ran ‘cause Edwin yelled at me. I tried to stay, I did, but he s-scared me and I… I’m sorry I didn’t stay where you said. Please don’t be mad.” Fresh tears welled up as he spoke, as if the memory of Edwin’s shouting was hitting him all over again.

“I’m not mad at you,” he said firmly, looking straight into Marcus’s eyes so he would see the truth. “Not one bit. I was worried, and I’m angry that someone made you feel like you had to run. But you did nothing wrong, Marcus.”

“I tried to handle it,” he said softly, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “But everything’s just… so big and different now. I feel so stupid that I got scared.”

“You’re not stupid,” Matthew said, almost sharp with sincerity. “This place can be overwhelming even when you’re a full-grown adult. And Edwin…” He bit back the harsher comment that sprang to mind. “…Edwin was out of line.”

Matthew’s jaw clenched at the thought of the grad student’s behavior, but he kept his tone gentle for Marcus’s sake. “You didn’t deserve that. No wonder you ran—anyone would, being treated that way.”

Matthew gently eased back and got to his feet, keeping one arm around Marcus. “Let’s get you out of here,” he said softly. “How about we go back to my office for a bit?”

Marcus nodded, swiping the last wetness from his face. Matthew put a supportive hand on his back as they climbed the stairs together, keeping Marcus close by his side. The boy stayed quiet, but he leaned into Matthew’s side with a kind of weary trust that made Matthew want to carry him. So he reached down and scooped his son into his arms. Marcus didn’t protest, only wrapping an arm around Matthew’s shoulder for balance.

When they emerged from the stairwell door near the lab, Miriam was waiting in the corridor, worry etched on her face. At the sight of Marcus, her shoulders relaxed in relief.

“Thank goodness,” she breathed, hurrying over. Marcus tensed for a second, burying his face in Matthew’s shoulder—his recent embarrassment still fresh. But Miriam offered him a gentle smile. “You gave us a scare, kiddo,” she said softly, her tone warm.

“S-sorry,” Marcus mumbled, cheeks coloring.

“I heard what happened,” she said quietly. “Edwin was completely out of line. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to stop him.” She reached out and squeezed Marcus’s shoulder. “Are you okay, Marcus?”

Marcus bit his lip and nodded, though a tremor in his voice betrayed him. “I… I am now. Matthew found me.” His arms tightened around his father’s neck.

Gently setting Marcus down and guiding him with a protective arm, Matthew led them back into the small glass-walled office where this ordeal began. He shut the door behind Miriam, affording them a bit of privacy. The scattered reports Marcus had dropped had been retrieved by someone—Miriam had thoughtfully gathered them into a neat pile on the table, Matthew noticed.

Looking up at Miriam, Marcus swallowed hard. “Thank you for coming to find me.”

Miriam gave him a gentle smile. “Of course. You’re family. We were all worried.” Her eyes flicked to Matthew, and there was a knowing glint. “Your dad here was ready to tear the building apart to find you.”

Now that the crisis had passed, the reality of how frantic he’d been made Matthew feel a bit sheepish. He ruffled Marcus’s hair affectionately. “I was indeed. Nothing matters more to me than you, Marcus.”

Marcus ducked his head, hiding a shy, pleased grin in his cup as he sipped. The warmth of their concern seeped through him, pushing away the last of the chilling fear that had gripped him earlier.

Miriam let them have a moment, then cleared her throat. “So, Matthew, I assume you’ll want to handle the Edwin situation now?” Her tone had an edge to it at the mention of the grad student. Clearly, she was not happy with him either.

“Yes. I will be having a very pointed conversation with Mr. Worthington.” Matthew’s expression cooled into a steely calm. The way he said it made Marcus almost feel sorry for Edwin. Almost.

“He’ll learn very quickly that bullying my son is a grave error in judgment.”

Miriam nodded approvingly. “Good. In that case, I have a suggestion.” She turned her gaze back to Marcus.

“How about you come with me for a little while, Marcus? We can leave Dad here to do what he needs to do, and you and I can get out of this stuffy lab.” She gave a conspiratorial smile. “I was thinking ice cream. There’s a great ice cream shop just off campus that’s still open, even in this weather. What do you say? A little treat to help you feel better?”

Marcus’s eyes widened in surprise at the offer. He glanced at Matthew, instinctively not wanting to be separated from him so soon after being found. Matthew noticed and gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

“It’s okay, I’ll be right here,” he said. Marcus nodded. Truthfully, he was glad to leave the lab building now; the idea of lingering while Matthew confronted Edwin made him anxious.

He felt a slight tug of reluctance as he prepared to leave Matthew’s side, but he mustered a small smile. “Will you… will you meet us after?” he asked.

Matthew stood as well and brushed a kiss to Marcus’s temple. “Absolutely. I’ll finish up here quickly and come meet you. Then,” he added, “we still have a certain hardware store to visit, don’t we?”

Marcus’s face brightened just a touch, recalling their original plan. “Right, birdhouse supplies,” he said softly. The fact that Matthew still intended to go, as if to reassure that their day wasn’t ruined, made Marcus feel lighter.

As Miriam led Marcus out of the office, Matthew watched them until they disappeared down the hallway toward the elevators. Only once they were gone did he allow his expression to harden, his eyes flashing with the anger he’d held back. Edwin was about to get a very memorable lesson in manners and respect. Matthew straightened his shoulders and headed off to find the grad student, determined to ensure no one ever dared treat Marcus that way again.

Chapter Text

Marcus hopped out of the car, the late morning sun finally peeking through as the grey, rain-drenched morning gave way to a brighter afternoon. The parking lot smelled of fresh-cut lumber even before he and Matthew reached the doors of the hardware store. Inside, the air was cooler, carrying the mixed scents of sawdust, metal tools, and rubber hoses. Marcus inhaled deeply, savoring the earthy aroma of wood—cedar planks stacked high in the lumber aisle—that he could pick out even with his mostly-human senses.

“Alright, what’s first on the list?” Matthew asked, pulling a small handwritten list from his pocket.

His voice was gentle and brimming with warmth, the kind that he knew put Marcus at ease. It struck Marcus that Matthew sounded more relaxed now that they were away from the lab—excited, even, to be doing a simple project together. The boy smiled, retrieving a pencil from behind his ear and pretended to scrutinize the list.

“Well, wood seems like a solid start,” Marcus quipped with a grin. He couldn’t resist a little joke. Matthew chuckled and nudged him playfully.

They strolled down the lumber aisle, lights humming overhead. The shelves towered above Marcus, rows of timber in various lengths and types. Matthew lifted Marcus up by the waist for a moment so he could inspect the labels on the higher shelves, eliciting a surprised laugh from Marcus.

“How about cedar?” Matthew suggested, lowering Marcus back down gently. “It weathers well for outdoors and has a nice smell. Diana will appreciate that.”

Marcus ran a small hand along a 1x6 cedar plank, feeling the rough but sturdy grain under his fingertips. “Cedar is perfect,” he agreed thoughtfully.

A faint memory drifted through him: ages ago when he’d helped Matthew repair a barn with wood that smelled just like this. He smiled to himself, amazed at how scents could bridge centuries. His father, aware that Marcus’s mind sometimes wandered down long, historical paths, placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. Marcus looked up to meet Matthew’s eyes, which were filled with quiet understanding.

They selected a few straight cedar boards with minimal knots. Marcus insisted on checking each board’s straightness by sighting down its edge, a trick he’d learned from Matthew.

An older store clerk noticed and gave an approving nod. “You’ve got an eye for good lumber, young man,” the clerk said cheerfully, helping them load the boards onto the cart.

Next they headed to the hardware section. The sound of their footsteps echoed on the polished concrete floor as they walked past aisles of gleaming tools and neatly packed bins of nails and screws.

Marcus was momentarily distracted by a display of colorful bird feeders and wind chimes that tinkled softly when a vent blew air across them. He reached out to still a particularly noisy wind chime shaped like a little bird, and its copper pieces felt cool against his skin. Focus, he reminded himself with a grin—he was here to build a birdhouse, not buy one pre-made.

Matthew cleared his throat theatrically when he noticed Marcus eyeing the wind chimes. “Don’t worry, we’ll make something even better from scratch,” he promised.

Marcus rolled his eyes in good humor. “I know, I know. We need nails, right?”

“Exactly,” Matthew said as he nodded.

In the fasteners aisle, Marcus examined the small boxes of nails, reading labels carefully. “These ones are galvanized so they won’t rust in the rain,” he pointed out, handing a box to Matthew.

The packaging said 1-1/4 inch finishing nails. A nearby customer raised an eyebrow, seemingly impressed that an eleven-year-old knew about galvanized nails. Marcus pretended not to notice the look, but inside he felt a mix of amusement and pride.

Matthew ruffled Marcus’s hair affectionately, aware of the little moment, and dropped the nails into the cart.

They gathered a few more items: wood glue for extra reinforcement, a small can of outdoor paint in a shade of soft green-blue (“Diana’s favorite color,” Marcus had insisted with a shy smile), and a brush. Matthew made sure they also picked up sandpaper to smooth the edges of their cuts.

Marcus added a small brass hook to their cart so the finished birdhouse could hang from a branch. When Matthew raised an eyebrow, Marcus grinned.

“For hanging it up. We want it to actually go on a tree, right?”

Matthew chuckled. “Of course. Good thinking.” It often amazed him how Marcus’s mind worked—part childlike enthusiasm, part seasoned wisdom.

Watching Marcus carefully consider each item, Matthew felt a warmth spread through his chest. This errand had turned into a cherished memory in the making. It wasn’t long ago that Marcus had been an adult companion on his adventures rather than a child holding his hand. And although the situation was strange, Matthew found he relished this chance to share a piece of childhood with his son.

At the checkout counter, the cashier smiled at the sight of Marcus helping to lift the wood onto the counter. “Building something fun?” she asked kindly.

Marcus beamed back, pushing a lock of curly hair off his forehead. “We’re building a birdhouse. It’s a gift for my mom.”

He didn’t hide the excitement in his voice. It rang with a pure, boyish eagerness that made Matthew’s heart skip. That tone was something new—when Marcus had first been de-aged, he’d been sullen and frustrated, his adult temper flaring at his reduced stature and new rules. And it was definitely something adult Marcus had never let show. But over time, moments like this—genuine and unguarded—had begun to shine through.“

That’s very sweet,” the cashier said. She handed Marcus a small lollipop along with the receipt. “For the little carpenter,” she winked.

Marcus accepted it with wide eyes, and Matthew bit back a laugh. Marcus’s centuries-old sensibilities battled with the eleven-year-old’s delight at a cherry lollipop. For a second Marcus hesitated, then with a laugh at himself he unwrapped it and popped it into his mouth.

Matthew carried the longer planks, and Marcus held the bag of supplies in one hand and his lollipop in the other as they walked back to the car. The bright sun made the still-slightly-wet pavement shimmer.

“I can hold something else, you know,” Marcus offered, feeling the need to be useful. The bag of nails and paint was light.

“I think you’ve got it covered,” Matthew replied, juggling the wood into the trunk.

He looked over and smiled at the sight of Marcus’s contented face, red lollipop in cheek. “How’s that candy?” he teased as they buckled in.

Marcus took the lollipop out with a soft pop and gave it an appraising look. “Delicious, actually,” he admitted. “I’d forgotten how intense flavors can be.”

Matthew’s expression softened as he opened the door and let Marcus climb into the backseat of the car. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it.”

He reached over and gently squeezed the back of Marcus’s neck. Marcus leaned into the touch for the brief moment it lasted, feeling an emotional warmth even more satisfying than the candy.

As they drove home with the materials rattling softly in the trunk, Marcus gazed out the window. The summer breeze through the open window ruffled his hair. He felt a flutter of anticipation in his chest. This wasn’t just about building a birdhouse; it was about building a memory. And for the first time in a long while, Marcus felt truly present in the now—a kid on an outing with his dad, about to start a fun project. It was a feeling he cherished, and one he intended never to take for granted.

Back home, father and son set up shop in the garage with the door wide open to let in the afternoon light. The family’s old wooden workbench was already cleared off and waiting. Matthew had laid out some tools: a handsaw, a hammer, a ruler and pencil, a clamp, and a small power drill. Outside, a gentle breeze carried the scent of freshly cut grass from the lawn, and the sound of chirping birds filtered in, as if the local sparrows already sensed a new home was being made for them.

“Now repeat the rules back to me,” Matthew said firmly, arms crossed. The last twenty minutes had been a lecture that sounded less like woodworking and more like preparation for war—complete with dire predictions about what could happen if Marcus so much as glanced sideways at the tools.

Marcus rolled his eyes but dutifully recited: “Wear goggles at all times. Don’t get my hands anywhere near the blade. Don’t touch the power tools unless you’re literally standing over me. Keep gloves on so I don’t end up with splinters. And measure seventeen times, cut once.”

Matthew arched a brow. “I could do with a little less cheek, but yes.”

“Come on, Dad,” Marcus said with a lopsided grin. “You’ve made it sound like I’m about to lose a limb instead of build a birdhouse.”

“That is precisely why you will follow my instructions,” Matthew replied dryly, handing over the pencil.

They spent the next hour hunched over the workbench, drawing out neat outlines on the cedar boards that would soon become walls and a roof. Matthew’s lines were sharp and exact, while Marcus’s tended toward crooked with enthusiasm. But under Matthew’s watchful eye, and a few corrected measurements, they began to take shape.

Together they double-checked their measurements. Marcus felt himself slip naturally into a methodical focus. He couldn’t help noticing how small his hand looked guiding the pencil alongside his father’s larger, steadier hand. It was in moments like this that the reality of his situation hit him.

A flicker of frustration crossed his face before he mastered it. I know how to do this, I just need to let my body catch up, he reminded himself silently. Matthew seemed to read the concentration and slight tension in Marcus’s features. Without a word, he handed Marcus the saw for the first cut, a tacit vote of confidence.

Marcus positioned the saw on the penciled line. The metal teeth glinted as a sunbeam fell across the bench. He began to saw, slowly, using his arm strength to press and pull. The saw bit into the wood with a satisfying scratchy sound, releasing the rich scent of cedar shavings into the air. It wasn’t as easy as he remembered—his arms were thinner, and he had to work harder to keep the blade straight. After a few strokes, the line started to waver. Sweat beaded on his forehead from the effort of controlling the tool.

“Here, let’s do it together,” Matthew said gently, stepping behind Marcus. He placed his large hands over Marcus’s smaller ones on the saw’s handle. Side by side, they guided the saw back and forth in a steady rhythm. Marcus leaned into his father’s solid presence, feeling the surety of Matthew’s movements guiding him.

With their combined effort, the first cut was clean and straight. A plank piece fell to the floor with a clatter.

“Nice work,” Matthew praised. Marcus let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and grinned widely. There was a tiny smudge of sawdust on his nose, which Matthew affectionately brushed off with a swipe of his thumb.

They continued this way, cutting out each piece. Marcus insisted on trying a few cuts by himself, and Matthew let him, keeping a watchful eye but offering help only when Marcus’s frustration began to mount.

At one particularly stubborn cut, the saw snagged and jerked, causing Marcus to nick a corner off a piece that wasn’t meant to be cut away. The boy froze, expecting a reprimand—memories of his strict upbringing centuries ago and his own perfectionist nature bracing for failure.

But Matthew only picked up the piece, examined the minor flaw, and said, “It’s nothing a bit of sandpaper can’t fix. Or we make this the back side where no one will see.” His tone was light, reassuring.

Marcus felt a lump in his throat at that. He nodded, blinking fast and looking away for a moment under the guise of grabbing the sandpaper. He’d forgotten how patient Matthew could be. It was a revelation that still made his heart squeeze with gratitude.

They sanded the edges of each wooden panel until they were smooth to the touch. Marcus enjoyed the tactile work, watching rough edges turn soft under his effort.

“I think that’s smooth enough for even the pickiest bird,” Matthew joked, running a hand over a sanded edge. Marcus felt another surge of pride.

Before assembly, they decided to drill the entry hole on the front panel. Matthew showed Marcus how to clamp the board securely to the workbench. The power drill whirred loudly, startling a few sparrows outside into flight. Marcus’s hands were not quite strong enough to hold the drill steady, so Matthew helped, guiding the bit as it bit through the wood. The vibration made Marcus’s arms tingle. In short order they had a clean round hole about the size of a ping-pong ball through the plank. Marcus peered through it from the backside and made a silly face.

“How do I look?” he asked, one blue eye visible in the opening.

Matthew laughed, the sound echoing in the garage. “Like a very large bird trying to move into a very small house,” he replied. Marcus snorted a laugh and stepped back, brushing wood dust from his hands.

As they worked to assemble the bird house, they talked about Diana and how surprised she’d be. “She thinks we’re just out doing father-son errands and chores,” Matthew said with a conspiratorial grin.

“She has no idea. I can’t wait to see her face when we give it to her,” Marcus said, eyes shining, as he carefully wiped a drip of excess wood glue from a seam. A drop landed on his finger, sticky and smelling sharply of resin. His father passed him a rag.

“You know, she’s been worried about you,” he said gently, after a pause.

Marcus looked up questioningly.

“She knows this hasn’t been easy for you,” Matthew continued, lightly clearing his throat. Emotional topics still sometimes made the older vampire a bit hesitant. “I think that’s part of why she’ll love this gift. It’s not just a birdhouse. It’s you, doing something kind and thoughtful. It’ll mean the world to her.”

Marcus felt his cheeks warm at the praise, and he focused intently on rubbing off the glue. Over the past weeks, Diana had indeed been supportive—bringing him books she thought he’d like, sitting with him through some of the tougher days when frustration got the better of him. He realized he wanted to make her happy, to reassure her that he would be okay.

“I—I just want to say thank you to her,” Marcus said softly. He kept his eyes on the birdhouse, fiddling with the little brass hook he was now screwing into the roof’s peak for hanging. “For everything. And I like doing this with you, Dad.” The last word came out quieter than the rest. He still wasn’t entirely used to calling Matthew “Dad” aloud, but it felt natural and right today, especially after the morning they’d had.

Matthew’s hand stilled on the hammer. Marcus dared a glance up and saw his father’s eyes shining with emotion. “I like doing this with you too, son,” Matthew replied, voice warm and a touch husky. He reached out and rested a hand on Marcus’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze. They stayed like that a second—just soaking in the closeness—until a chirping outside broke the spell and made them both chuckle, easing the thick emotion in the air.

With the main structure assembled, they stepped back to admire their handiwork. It looked charming: a classic little birdhouse, with a peaked roof and a neat round doorway. It was still unpainted, the fresh cedar wood a pleasant golden color in the sunlight. Marcus could already imagine it hanging in the backyard oak tree, maybe with a family of sparrows or bluebirds taking up residence. The thought made him grin.

A rumble in Marcus’s stomach interrupted the moment—a hungry grumble that was impossible to miss. Marcus blinked in surprise at himself. Even after several weeks, he was still caught off guard by basic human needs like hunger sneaking up on him. He glanced at the wall clock; it was well past lunchtime and edging into late afternoon. They’d been so absorbed in building that time flew by.

Matthew’s eyes crinkled in amusement. “Sounds like someone could use something to eat.”

Marcus opened his mouth to protest that he was fine, but his stomach gave another traitorous growl. Both of them burst out laughing.

“Alright, alright,” Marcus conceded, hands up in surrender. “Maybe we can paint tomorrow and… I don’t know, watch a movie with dinner?” His tone was hopeful, almost tentative, as if testing how much fun his father would allow.

Giving his son a sidelong glance, as if weighing the request, Matthew reached over and grabbed the car keys from the pegboard by the door. “Come on. Let’s get cleaned up.”

They washed their hands at the utility sink, the cool water running brown for a moment as it carried away sawdust from Marcus’s small fingers and Matthew’s larger ones. Marcus hopped ahead down the short walkway, shaking out his hoodie as if that might rid him of the layer of dust, while Matthew locked the side door and pocketed the key.

When he turned, Marcus was already waiting by the car, leaning against the passenger door with arms folded dramatically across his chest, the perfect picture of a boy who wanted to seem nonchalant but was really eager to be on the move. Matthew pressed the fob, and the car chirped in response. He gave Marcus a pointed look until the boy slid obediently into the back seat. Matthew slid in behind the wheel, started the engine, and pulled out of the driveway.

“Alright,” Marcus said. “So, what’s the plan?”

Matthew’s lips twitched. He didn’t answer right away, only guided the car through two quiet intersections before making a sharp, unexpected turn into the extremely organized chaos of the Chick-fil-a drive-thru lane.

Marcus blinked at the sign outside his window. “Wait—we’re really—?”

“Just this once. Don’t tell your mother,” he said conspiratorially, as if he wasn’t the one who turned into a tyrant about healthy eating habits.

Marcus grinned from ear to ear, delighted, though Matthew was still Matthew and ordered with his usual precision: “One grilled chicken sandwich meal. Sprite for the drink.” He set the bag in the passenger seat as he muttered mostly to himself, “The last thing he needs is caffeine.”

Back at home, Marcus practically danced his way to the breakfast table, delightedly unwrapping his sandwich as he sat. The scent of fried potatoes and toasted buns filled the kitchen, cozy and familiar against the backdrop of freshly sawn wood from the birdhouse project still lingering on his clothes.

“Can I have sauce?” Marcus asked through a mouthful of waffle fry, his eyes bright.

“What kind of sauce?” Matthew asked dryly, already halfway to the refrigerator.

“I don't know, something to dip the fries in.”

Matthew pulled open the fridge and retrieved the infamous sauce bin that Diana kept stocked. He set it on the table with a clunk. Inside was an almost comical collection of options: BBQ, burger, taco, garlic, horseradish, honey mustard, yum yum, “chicken sauce,” and at least a dozen others. If a condiment existed, Diana had it.

By the time Marcus licked the last of the sauce off his fingers, Matthew had poured himself a glass of wine. The crumpled Chick-fil-A bag sat in the middle of the table, proof of their rare indulgence.

A faint barbecue sauce mustache clung to his upper lip, which Matthew wordlessly wiped away with a napkin like it was the most normal thing. It was such a small, ordinary gesture, but it made Marcus’s chest ache with gratitude and love. Ordinary was exactly what he needed more of in life.

Matthew collected the trash with his usual efficiency, but there was no sting in his voice when he said, “Go wash your hands, Marcus. Grease doesn’t belong on the furniture.”

Marcus scrambled to the sink, splashing more water than necessary in his eagerness, then bounded into the living room. His father was already settling on the couch, wine glass in hand, flipping through the streaming options on the television.

“What’s it going to be?” Matthew asked as Marcus plopped down beside him.

Leaning against the arm of the couch, legs tucked up, Marcus considered his options. “Something spooky? No—Mom would kill us. How about funny?”

“Paddington 2,” Matthew read aloud as he stopped scrolling on a brightly colored title. “Your mother says it’s delightful.”

Marcus groaned automatically, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward. “Fine. But only if there’s popcorn to go with it.”

“You drive a hard bargain,” Matthew murmured, clicking play.

By the time the opening credits rolled, Marcus had migrated closer, his head pillowed against his father’s shoulder. The rhythm of Matthew’s steady breathing and the warmth of the living room lulled him into comfort. When Paddington bumbled into his first mishap, Marcus snorted with laughter, earning a quiet smile from Matthew.

Finishing the birdhouse could wait until morning. For now, it was enough to sit together, father and son, sharing fast food and a film that fit them both perfectly.

The next morning began much like the last, though this time Marcus’s breakfast was oatmeal decorated into a face with slices of fruit. Two banana rounds for eyes, a strawberry for the nose, and a crooked blueberry grin.

“Did Mom put you up to this?” Marcus asked, eyebrow arched as he dug his spoon into one of the “eyeballs.”

Matthew didn’t answer, simply raised his coffee-and-blood blend to his lips with a serene expression. His silence spoke volumes.

Marcus laughed. “Well, thanks anyway.” He shoveled in another bite, savoring the strawberries.

Halfway through his meal, he finally noticed what was off about the scene. It wasn’t the oatmeal—it was Matthew. His father was rarely anything less than polished, ready at a moment’s notice to walk into a lecture hall, a council chamber, or a fancy restaurant. Yet this morning, Matthew was wearing jeans. Jeans. And work boots. And a plain gray tee shirt.

Marcus nearly choked on a blueberry as the image hit him: some poor Savile Row tailor, forced to design custom denim for a medieval vampire. He burst out laughing at the thought, drawing a puzzled glance from Matthew.

“Sorry,” Marcus wheezed. “Just picturing your tailor having to make those jeans.”

Matthew gave a long-suffering sigh and muttered something about practicality, but the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed amusement.

“Once you finish your breakfast, we can head outside to start painting the birdhouse,” Matthew said, gesturing with his mug.

That was all the incentive Marcus needed. He shoveled down the rest of his oatmeal at lightning speed, determined to get started before something pulled Matthew away.

Back at the workbench, they spread out old newspapers on the floor to catch any paint drips. Marcus pried open the small can of paint they’d bought, a lovely robin’s egg blue, with just a touch more green, that Diana adored and often incorporated in her scarves and stationery. The color seemed fitting for her birdhouse.

Matthew handed Marcus a wide brush. “Think you can handle the first coat?”

Nodding eagerly, Marcus dipped the brush and began to paint broad strokes across the roof panels. The blue-green paint spread smoothly, transforming the birdhouse with each pass. He was careful, tongue peeking out from the corner of his mouth in concentration. Matthew tackled the smaller areas around the entry hole with a thinner brush, blending where Marcus’s strokes left off. Soft bristles whispered against wood as they worked.

Soon, the birdhouse was entirely coated in the cheerful teal hue. Marcus stepped back, leaving the brushes in a jar of water. A few smudges of paint speckled his forearms and one on his cheek where he’d accidentally swiped an itch with a wet hand. He didn’t notice, but Matthew did and chuckled.

“What?” Marcus asked, then realized and wiped at the spot on his face, only smearing the paint more.

Matthew gently took a clean rag with a bit of turpentine and scrubbed the smudge off his son’s cheek. “Hold still, you’ve turned into a work of art yourself,” he teased. Marcus wrinkled his nose but smiled through it, standing patiently until the paint was gone.

They left the birdhouse to dry on the bench, propping it up so air could circulate. It was gleaming, looking already beautiful. Marcus could hardly contain his excitement for Diana to see it once it dried. He imagined presenting it to her: how her face might light up, how she might exclaim at the color and the fact that they’d made it. He hoped she’d understand the unspoken message of it too—that he appreciated her unwavering love during this strange chapter of his life.

Back inside, Marcus peeled off his paint-speckled shirt and headed for the kitchen in search of juice. He froze in the doorway.

There, seated elegantly at the breakfast table, was Freyja. A crystal glass dangled from her fingers, half full of deep red wine. The bottle beside her was an 1865 Château Lafite Rothschild, one of Matthew’s favorites.

“Aunt Fanny?” Marcus blurted out.

“Darling nephew.” She raised the glass in greeting, her lips curving in a faint, amused smile. “I came to see how my favorite troublemaker was doing.”

He could practically hear her squealing, “It’s a baby!” in her mind, and he was grateful that she had refrained from expressing that particular sentiment again.

Behind Marcus, Matthew stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes went straight to the bottle. “Freyja,” he said, voice dangerously low, “that bottle is one of the oldest in my cellar here.”

Freyja took another leisurely sip, ignoring his tone. “Mmm. And it has aged beautifully. Don’t pout, brother—it’s unbecoming.”

Marcus glanced nervously between them, sensing the weight in Matthew’s voice. He half-expected a lecture, but Freyja only smiled like a cat with cream. She set the glass down deliberately, the faintest click of crystal against wood.

“Well,” she said, brushing imaginary dust from her skirt, “since your father is too busy scowling at me, I’ll direct my attention to you instead.” Her gaze flicked toward Marcus, sharp and assessing.

Freyja’s eyes glinted as they caught on the flecks of paint still in Marcus’s hairline. “So you’ve been reduced to birdhouses?” she mused. “Marcus, you used to do better work with your hands, much less like your father’s preferred hobbies.”

Marcus blinked. “Used to?”

“Clay suits you more than cedar boards ever did.” She set the glass down and rose gracefully. “Come. There’s a studio in town. You still remember how to center the wheel, don’t you?”

The words lit something in Marcus’s face. “Wait—pottery?” His voice was nearly shrill with excitement.

Matthew frowned, his gaze darting between them. “What exactly are you talking about?”

“Oh, don’t look so alarmed,” Freyja said lightly, brushing past him to collect her purse. “Marcus and I used to slip away to the Saint-Cloud workshop when you were too busy with war and whatever it was you were brooding over at the time.” She glanced back at Marcus, her expression softening. “He was a natural. Messy, of course, but natural.”

Marcus’s grin stretched wide, boyish and utterly unguarded. “I thought I was terrible!”

“You were terrible at cleaning up,” Freyja corrected dryly. “But you had a good feel for the clay.”

A flicker of something complicated crossed Matthew’s face as he stood rooted to the spot. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. He’d had no idea. How had he missed it?

“Can we go, Dad?” Marcus asked breathlessly, eyes shining. He didn’t notice the way Matthew’s jaw tightened. “Just for a little while? Please?”

Matthew hesitated, the word no on the tip of his tongue. He wanted to keep Marcus to himself, wanted to finish the weekend Diana had insisted they spend together. But that hopeful look—so rare, so bright—made the refusal die in his throat.

“Stay with your aunt, listen to her, and don’t come home covered head-to-toe in mud,” he said finally, voice resigned.

Marcus bolted upstairs for a clean shirt, leaving his father and aunt alone in the kitchen. Freyja tilted her head at her brother, her smile all sharp edges.

“Don’t sulk, Matthew. You’ve had him all weekend. I’ll only steal him for a few hours.”

“I’m not sulking,” Matthew said, though his jaw was tight. He watched as Marcus thundered back down the stairs, pulling on his hoodie, cheeks flushed with excitement.

“Back later!” Marcus shouted as he followed Freyja out the door.

The house grew quiet again. Matthew stood in the kitchen a moment longer, staring at the abandoned wine glass and the half-empty bottle. Then he sighed, collected the bottle, and carefully replaced it in the cellar.

He told himself he should enjoy the silence, maybe finish his book, maybe even clean up the garage. But the truth was, the house felt emptier than it should have. For the first time all weekend, Matthew missed the chatter and the company, and he realized just how much he’d been looking forward to this time alone with his eldest son.

When they finally returned from town, Marcus came barreling through the door, sleeves dusted with clay and hair sticking up in dried paint-and-clay-flecked tufts. He was still grinning from ear to ear as he cradled a lopsided bowl like it was a priceless relic. Freyja followed with regal composure, utterly unbothered by the mess.

Matthew stood waiting in the foyer. He accepted the crooked pottery with careful hands, then looked at his sister. “Thank you for taking him,” he said quietly. Then, turning to Marcus, he added more briskly, “And you, go upstairs. Wash the paint and clay out of your hair before dinner.”

Marcus groaned good-naturedly and clomped toward the stairs, muttering something about “artistic suffering.”

Freyja waved a hand as if to dismiss the thanks, but she was clearly pleased with their reactions. “Anything for my favorite nephew and my favorite brother,” she said lightly. Then she added with a smirk, “Of course, technically Marcus is my only nephew and you’re my only brother present company, but let’s not ruin the moment.” She gave Matthew a playful elbow nudge, which made Marcus laugh.

Matthew feigned a wounded look. “I’ll try not to let Baldwin or Gallowglass know you rank us highest,” he teased.

“Oh, Baldwin already assumes he’s everyone’s favorite,” Freyja scoffed dramatically. “And Gallowglass would probably just laugh and pick me up in a bear hug. At least you react with proper indignation.”

When Marcus bounded upstairs to scrub the clay and paint out of his hair, the kitchen finally went still. Freyja lingered by the counter, swirling the wine Matthew had just poured in her glass. She didn’t need vampire senses to notice the way Matthew’s gaze lingered on the doorway, or the faint tension in his jaw.

“You didn’t want him to go,” she observed softly, breaking the silence.

Matthew’s eyes flicked to hers, sharp and defensive. “I had planned other things,” he admitted at last. His voice was clipped. “It was meant to be our weekend.”

Freyja tilted her head, studying him with the kind of patient clarity only centuries of siblinghood afforded. “I know.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, not mocking. “But you should also know, all he talked about at the studio was you.”

Taken aback, Matthew fixed his sister with a confused stare.

“Every story, every joke, every spin of the wheel—it all circled back to what the two of you have been doing,” she continued. “The birdhouse. The movie. The ridiculous fast food. The lab.” Her expression darkened dangerously at the last one. You were all he talked about. He may have been sitting at the wheel with me, but his mind was still with you.”

Matthew’s shoulders eased, though the flicker of sadness didn’t quite leave his face. He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. “I suppose I worry that I’ll lose the thread with him the way I did once before.”

Freyja’s expression softened in rare sympathy. She laid a hand on his arm, firm but steady. “You won’t. He’s bound to you now, tighter than you realize.”

Footsteps clattered on the stairs, Marcus’s voice calling out something about “the best lopsided bowl ever.” Freyja’s hand slipped away, her composure smoothing back into amusement.

“See?” she murmured as Marcus burst back in, proudly holding up his crooked clay creation for Matthew to inspect. “He’s still yours.”

And Matthew, watching his son beam with glowing eyes, had to admit she was right.

Chapter Text

Nearly a week had passed since Marcus’s first—for lack of a better term—age up, and the novelty of his new situation had thoroughly worn off. He was officially stuck in this body, a much smaller frame than he was used to, and the days spent cooped up at home were driving him stir crazy.

In the past week, he had already burned through every Lego set Matthew could find for him, assembling them with a speed that left Diana in a bit of awe. Now those completed models lined the shelves of his room, and Marcus found himself drumming his fingers on the table, bored out of his mind. If he had to spend one more afternoon coloring with crayons or watching cheesy cartoons, he felt he might just lose it.

From the living room floor, Pip and Becca were staging an enthusiastic, if incoherent, puppet show with their stuffed animals. Their giggles echoed through the house as one of the plush dinosaurs “attacked” a teddy bear with exaggerated growls. It was adorable, really, but Marcus barely cracked a smile. He knew he should be patient—after all, to everyone else he was just another kid now—but it was hard when internally he felt so much older. Still, he couldn’t completely ignore the twins’ antics. When Becca toddled over and tried to hand him the yellow dinosaur, he smiled and slid to the floor to join in. He grabbed the toy, making the dinosaur nuzzle her cheek.

“Rawr! I’m a hug monster!” Marcus growled playfully. Becca squealed in delight as Pip clapped excitedly. Diana looked over from the couch where she was folding laundry and gave Marcus a grateful smile for entertaining the twins. It was a small, cute display of normalcy that momentarily lifted Marcus’s spirits.

But the brief distraction didn’t last long. Soon the twins scampered off to find other toys, and Marcus was left alone with his thoughts again. He wandered into the kitchen, hoping to find something interesting to do or eat. If he was going to be stuck as a kid, he figured he might as well enjoy all the foods kids enjoyed. Why not? he thought bitterly.

Being a child had to have some perks, right? Candy, ice cream, sugary cereal, all the things he wanted to try before were now constantly within reach. No one could blame an eleven-year-old for having a sweet tooth. Marcus opened the pantry and his eyes lit up at the assortment of snacks: chocolate chip cookies, fruit gummies, a family-sized bag of cheese puffs. His stomach gave an excited little flip. Don’t mind if I do.

Marcus grabbed a handful of cookies and tore open a packet of gummies. The burst of artificial fruit flavor was an experience that he still wasn’t quite used to yet. He leaned against the counter, snacking, when a stern voice behind him nearly made him jump out of his skin.

“What are you doing?” Matthew’s tone was more weary than angry, but it still carried Matthew’s stern patriarchal authority. Marcus spun around, sheepishly hiding his half-eaten snacks behind his back. Matthew stood in the doorway, arms crossed. He was still wearing his work clothes, though he had loosened his tie and rolled his sleeves up. His polished appearance was a sharp contrast to Marcus with crumbs sprinkled across his shirt.

“Uh… having a snack?” Marcus offered, trying to sound nonchalant. A few betraying cookie crumbs fell to the floor. He hadn’t exactly asked permission, and judging by Matthew’s expression, that was a mistake.

Matthew sighed and stepped forward, plucking the gummy packet from Marcus’s hand. “Dinner is in an hour. You know the rule: no sweets beforehand.” His voice was firm, though not as stern as Marcus normally heard when his behavior was being corrected.

Ever since Marcus’s transformation, Matthew had been straddling the line between stern and supportive, enforcing household rules to keep up appearances and for Marcus’s own good. But to Marcus, it just felt like another freedom taken away.

“Come on, one pack of gummies won’t ruin my appetite,” Marcus protested. He hated how whiny his voice sounded—it matched his childish body. It was frustrating. Three weeks ago, he was an adult, and no one could tell him when or what to eat. Now a simple snack required approval.

Matthew shook his head, unfazed. “Rules are rules. Put the cookies back, too.” He held out his hand expectantly for the hidden stash. Marcus’s shoulders slumped as he surrendered the cookies. Across the kitchen, the twins peeked around the corner, drawn by the minor commotion. Pip had a crayon in one hand and his thumb in his mouth, while Becca was still clutching her dinosaur plushie.

They watched with big curious eyes.

Diana entered the kitchen behind them, carrying the basket of laundry. “What’s going on here?” she asked lightly, sensing the tension.

“Marcus was spoiling his dinner,” Matthew replied, giving Diana a glance that was equal parts exasperated and amused. He ruffled Marcus’s hair gently, trying to soften the scolding. “I caught him with the cookies."

A tiny giggle escaped Pip. “Buvver, cookie please!” he sang, in a silly toddler way, and held out his hand expectantly. Even Matthew cracked a grin. Marcus felt his cheeks heat up—part embarrassment, part begrudging amusement at Pip’s nickname. Diana hid a smile behind her hand as she set the laundry basket down.

“He’s just hungry,” Diana told the twins softly, “but Matthew’s right, Marcus. We’re having chicken and veggies soon. You wouldn’t want to miss out because you’re too full of cookies, would you?” Her tone was gentle.

Marcus forced a nod. “I guess not,” he mumbled. In truth, chicken and veggies sounded a lot less appealing than cookies and candy, but he knew better than to push it with both of them standing there. He allowed Matthew to take the sweets away and put them back in the pantry. The injustice of it all bubbled in his chest. Marcus was trying to play the part of a normal kid, but moments like this made him want to scream. Instead, he clenched his small fists and took a deep breath.

Diana seemed to pick up on his simmering frustration. As Matthew turned away to answer his ringing phone in the next room, she stepped closer to Marcus and crouched down to his eye level.

“Hey,” she said kindly, brushing a crumb off his chin, “I know it’s hard, but your dad and I are just looking out for you. We care about you, sweetheart.”

For a second, Marcus met her eyes. There was such earnest concern there that it made something pang in his chest. He managed a tiny smile. “I know,” he replied quietly.

And he did know. But that didn’t make being treated like a little kid any easier. As Diana straightened up and ushered the twins back toward the living room to wash up for dinner, Marcus trudged behind, feeling thoroughly caged by all of the stupid rules. When he was confident neither of his parents could see him, he raised his middle finger at the closed door to Matthew’s study. It wouldn’t change anything, but it at least made him feel a little better.

That night, Marcus lay in bed wide awake, staring at the plastic glow-in-the-dark stars he’d insisted Diana help him stick to his bedroom ceiling. The house was quiet. Down the hall he could hear the faint sound of the twins’ white-noise machine and the soft murmur of Diana saying goodnight to Matthew in their room. By all accounts, it was past bedtime for everyone under the age of thirty. And for the past three weeks, that had included Marcus.

He huffed and turned on his side, the bedsheets rustling. Matthew had tucked him in at 9 PM sharp, an absolutely ridiculous hour in Marcus’s mind. It was infuriating.

“Bedtimes are for babies,” he had muttered a few days before when Matthew turned off the light. Marcus still stood by that statement, even if his father had rewarded his impertinence with a sharp smack to Marcus’s backside. As he’d pointed out, he didn’t feel the least bit tired. His mind was buzzing with pent-up energy and rebellious ideas.

As the minutes ticked by, an idea began to form, a wonderfully bad idea that made his heart pound with anticipation. If he couldn’t sleep and his parents wouldn’t help him with anything fun, what was stopping him from making his own fun? Diana was asleep by now, and the twins definitely were. Matthew had gone hunting and would be gone for hours. If he was careful, he could slip out of bed and no one would be the wiser. No rules, no bedtime, no one telling him no. The thought was exhilarating.

Marcus slid out from under the covers, being sure to arrange his pillows in a lump under the blanket. In the darkness, it looked passably like a small body curled up asleep. Just in case Matthew checks on me when he gets back,Marcus thought with a smirk. His heart pounded in his chest, adrenaline starting to surge. He tiptoed to the corner where his sneakers lay and quietly pulled open his bedroom door.

The hallway was dark. Marcus’s ears strained for any sign of movement. All he could hear was the faint snore of one of the twins and the creak of the house settling. He crept forward, carefully avoiding the spots on the floor he knew would groan underfoot. All those afternoons exploring the house in his new smaller body had paid off. He was learning how to move lightly and stay under the radar.

At the top of the stairs, he paused. A soft glow from the living room night-light cast long shadows. Marcus held his breath as he descended each step slowly. Halfway down, one stair emitted a traitorous creak. He froze, heart in his throat. A moment passed… then another. No one stirred. Matthew and Diana’s door remained closed. Marcus exhaled in relief and continued down to the ground floor.

In the kitchen, the digital clock on the microwave read 11:17 PM. Marcus grinned to himself, this was probably the latest he’d been up all week. Now for phase two of his master plan: snacks. If he was going to indulge in a forbidden late-night horror movie marathon, he needed proper provisions. In the pantry, he carefully retrieved the very same cookies and gummy candies that had been confiscated earlier, along with the bag of cheese puffs for good measure. He also snagged two cans of soda from the fridge.

Marcus knew Matthew wouldn’t let him have caffeinated soda during the day, let alone at night, but Matthew was out hunting and Diana was asleep. Frankly, what his father didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

With his arms full of junk food contraband, Marcus quietly unlocked the back door. The night air was cool against his face as he snuck out into the backyard. Overhead, a waning moon peeked through the clouds, lighting the way toward the far corner of the yard where the old oak tree stood. Nestled among its sturdy branches was the twins’ treehouse. Tonight, it would serve as Marcus’s private midnight movie theater.

Marcus carefully climbed the wooden rungs nailed into the trunk, mindful of the rustle of leaves. The treehouse door was a bit stiff; he had to shove it open with his shoulder, causing a tiny thump. He winced and waited again, but thankfully there was still no sign of movement from the house. He was in the clear.

Inside the treehouse, Marcus settled into a pile of old cushions with a triumphant grin. This was perfect. Through the little window, he had a view of the quiet, dark backyard and the faint outline of the house. It felt like he was miles away, on his own. He dug out his tablet, which he’d cleverly stashed under his pajama shirt. Thankfully, Matthew hadn’t thought to put parental controls on it, yet. It was only a matter of time, Marcus knew, especially if he kept pushing boundaries. But tonight the tablet was blissfully free to access whatever he wanted. And what he wanted was a good, gory horror movie—the kind no one would ever let an eleven-year-old watch.

After scrolling through a streaming service, the profile still logged in under Matthew’s account, which had all the adult content enabled, Marcus found what he was looking for, a trashy 80s slasher flick he remembered watching years ago.

“Perfect,” he murmured. The movie began with its signature spooky synth music, and Marcus popped open a soda can with a hiss, feeling more relaxed than he had in days.

He munched on cookies and cheese puffs, washing them down with sugary soda, completely reveling in the junk food feast. Each crunch and slurp felt like an act of independence.

On screen, a group of boisterous teenagers wandered into an abandoned carnival, oblivious to the masked killer lurking in the shadows. Marcus knew a jump scare was coming, but he still felt a thrill as the tension built. This was freedom, he thought, grinning ear to ear.

Outside, a breeze whispered through the oak leaves, and somewhere a cricket chirped. Marcus pulled the blanket he’d dragged up with him tighter around his shoulders and focused on the tablet screen.

The killer in the movie was chasing a screaming girl through a haunted house now. Marcus absently reached for more candy, his fingers encountering only empty wrappers. He glanced down. A small sea of wrappers and crumbs was strewn around him. He had devoured almost everything without realizing it. A rational voice in his head, one that sounded annoyingly like Matthew, noted that he might regret this junk food binge later, but he pushed that thought aside. It felt so good to just indulge.

Back in the movie, the scene had shifted to a more intimate moment. Two characters had snuck away from the rest of the group and were kissing in a dusty bedroom of the abandoned house. Marcus smirked. He remembered this trope. In slasher movies, the couple that snuck off for fun always ended up dead.

Sure enough, the music turned ominous. The teenage couple on screen started shedding clothes, utterly unaware of the figure with a knife approaching. The camera panned, not-so-subtly lingering on the girl’s bare shoulders sliding out of her dress. Marcus’s eyes widened a bit; he’d forgotten just how much nudity was in this movie. The adult in him knew it was nothing he hadn’t seen before, but his new body reacted with a bashful heat creeping up his neck. He felt strangely awkward watching this scene now, as if he were doing something wrong—which, of course, he was, but not for the reasons his cheeks were flushing. He shook his head, trying to focus. It was just a movie scene. I’m still me, I’ve seen this all before, he reminded himself, chomping another cookie to distract from the awkwardness.

Suddenly, a loud creak sounded from just outside the treehouse door. Marcus nearly jumped out of his skin, the tablet slipping from his grasp onto the cushions. For a split second, his mind conjured up the image of the masked slasher from the movie bursting through the door. His heart hammered. But the figure that appeared was arguably even more frightening at that moment—Matthew.

Matthew’s tall frame filled the small treehouse doorway, lit faintly by the glow of the tablet’s paused scene, which, unfortunately for Marcus, still showed the half-dressed horror movie characters. He had climbed the ladder and now he stood there, one hand on the doorframe. The expression on his face was a mix of relief, anger, and disbelief.

Marcus’s mouth went dry. He was so, so busted.

Marcus was frozen like one of those doomed horror movie teens—caught mid-mischief with no escape. Matthew’s eyes swept over the scene: Marcus huddled in the corner with a blanket, surrounded by candy wrappers and junk food debris, the tablet brightly displaying the paused movie. Marcus could see Matthew’s jaw clench when he noticed the particular content on the screen. A scantily clad actress was frozen mid-scream, and it didn’t take a genius to guess what kind of movie it was.

“What,” Matthew began, his voice simmering, “do you think you’re doing out here?”

Marcus’s mind scrambled for a plausible excuse, something beyond the obvious sneaking out to gorge on junk food and horror films. Nothing came. He finally squeaked, “I… I couldn’t sleep.”

Matthew stepped fully into the treehouse, ducking slightly under the low ceiling. Up close, he could see that Matthew wore an expression that was more shaken than Marcus expected. Was that worry in his eyes? It flickered into anger soon enough.

“So your solution was to sneak out of the house in the middle of the night?” Matthew hissed. He kept his voice low, but the intensity made Marcus shrink back. “You had us scared half to death! I got home and your bed was empty!”

Marcus hadn’t considered how his midnight adventure might have appeared to others. In Matthew’s mind, a missing child at midnight was a nightmare scenario. A pang of guilt flared in Marcus’s chest. He hadn’t meant to cause them to actually worry.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” he stammered, pulling the blanket up as if it could shield him from Matthew’s wrath. “I just needed some air. I was going to come back, I swear.”

Matthew ran a hand over his face, and that’s when Marcus noticed how pale he looked in the tablet’s light. Matthew really must have been terrified when he found Marcus’s bed empty. That realization made Marcus feel even smaller than his current height. Still, Matthew was clearly torn between hugging him out of relief and yelling his head off out of anger.

The anger, for the moment, was winning. Matthew’s gaze fell on the tablet again. With a frown, he snatched it up before Marcus could protest. One look at the screen and Matthew’s eyes flashed with fresh outrage.

“Is this what I think it is?” he demanded, though it was obvious it was exactly what it looked like. On screen, the paused image showed the hapless movie victim cowering in a corner, her torn dress hanging off her shoulders. A knife-wielding killer’s shadow loomed in the background.

Marcus swallowed hard. “It’s just a horror movie,” he mumbled, trying to sound casual, but it came out more of a whimper. “It’s not real…”

“It’s not appropriate, Marcus!” Matthew snapped, keeping his volume constrained to an angry whisper. “Good grief, this is R-rated at least. Blood and—” he grimaced, “—nudity and who knows what else! You know you shouldn’t be watching this.”

Marcus bristled at that. There it was again, the endless list of what he was and wasn’t supposed to do in this pint-sized body. The guilt in him began to mix with defiance. “I’ve seen it all before!” he retorted, a little too loudly. “I’m not some little kid who’s gonna have nightmares. I can handle it.”

Matthew’s eyes narrowed. “Keep your voice down,” he warned. He took a deep breath, visibly trying to rein in his temper. “Whether you think you can handle it or not, Marcus, the point is you deliberately disobeyed me, sneaking out, binging on junk food, and watching this garbage.”

He shook the tablet for emphasis, then tapped the screen to shut off the movie. The treehouse fell into darkness, except for a faint glimmer of moonlight through the window.

In the dark, Marcus felt tears of frustration prick at his eyes. He blinked them away furiously. Crying was the lastthing he wanted to do right now. It would only prove Matthew’s point that he was acting like a child. He steadied his voice.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” he said quietly. “But I’m fine. I just… I needed to feel normal. To feel like myself.” His voice caught despite his efforts. “Ever since… this,” he gestured down at himself, “I’ve been stuck being treated like, like a baby.”

Matthew’s expression softened a fraction, but his tone remained firm. “Being ‘yourself’ doesn’t mean putting yourself in danger or breaking the rules you know are in place.” He crouched down so he was more at Marcus’s eye level, much as Diana had earlier that day, but there was no gentle smile on his face. Marcus scowled in return

“Do you realize what could have happened? What if you wandered off the property? What if someone had seen you out here alone? You’re a child, Marcus. Physically, at least. It’s not safe for you to be by yourself at night.”

Marcus opened his mouth to argue that he hadn’t wandered off and that the backyard was hardly dangerous, but Matthew held up a hand to stop him. “I know. You think I’m overreacting. But until you’re back to normal, we have to take precautions.”

Brow furrowing, Marcus looked like he was about to snap a retort that would only land him in more trouble. Matthew sighed, the fight draining out of him a bit. He ran a hand through his hair, and in a quieter voice added, “Your mother almost called the police when she found you gone, Marcus. Diana thought you’d been kidnapped.”

Hearing the tremble in Matthew’s usually steady voice made Marcus’s anger evaporate. He hadn’t imagined Matthew returning or Diana waking up to an empty bed, or the panic they must have felt. His rebellious late-night escapade suddenly seemed incredibly selfish.

Marcus looked down at his feet, which were dusted with cheese puff crumbs. “I won’t,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

Matthew exhaled slowly, nodding. “Okay.” He stood up and placed the now-locked tablet under his arm. “We’ll discuss this inside. Let’s get you back to the house.”

He held out his hand. Marcus hesitated, then took it, allowing Matthew to guide him out of the treehouse. Climbing down the ladder one-handed was tricky, but Matthew was right behind him, steadying him with a hand on his back. Within minutes, they were walking across the dewy grass toward the house. The night was cool for August and full of cricket songs, but Marcus barely noticed. The adrenaline had worn off, leaving him drained and anxious about what punishment awaited him once they got inside.

As they slipped quietly through the back door and into the kitchen, Matthew finally flipped on a light. Marcus winced at the sudden brightness. In the stark light of the kitchen, Matthew looked every bit a disheveled, worried parent. His hair was askew, lines of fatigue on his face, clutching the tablet and a half-empty candy bag and various other wrappers he’d grabbed on the way out of the treehouse. He set all of it on the counter with a heavy sigh before turning toward the mischievous tween standing barefoot on the tile floor, arms tight around himself.

“You snuck out of the house,” Matthew scolded. “You ignored bedtime, deliberately disobeyed our rules, watched content you know is off-limits, and stuffed yourself sick with sugar. On top of that, you scared us half to death.”

Marcus looked down, his face hot. “I said I was sorry.”

“And sorry counts for something,” Matthew said. “But I have never once tolerated your disobedience, and I will not be starting now.”

Color splashed across Marcus’s cheeks. His toes curled against the tile as he traced the grout line, hanging his head. The shame in his stomach churned with the remnants of gummy candy and soda. His heart thudded in his chest—because he did know what came next. He knew the rules, knew the risks. He’d just thought he wouldn’t get caught.

“You knew what the consequences would be if you were caught.” Matthew walked to the utensil drawer and opened it. Marcus held his breath. Then Matthew reached in and withdrew a long-handled wooden spoon from the drawer. It was the same one that Diana used to stir soup and that Matthew occasionally threatened to use for… other purposes.

Marcus’s eyes went wide. “Wait—seriously?” he squeaked.

Matthew closed the drawer. “Yes,” he said. “Seriously.” With that, Matthew walked to the breakfast table, turned a chair to face the middle of the room and sat down, setting the spoon on the table.

“Come here,” Matthew said, patting his thigh.

Mortified, Marcus hesitated. The tips of his ears were burning. “But—” he began, then stopped. Arguing or begging would only make it worse.

Shoulders slumping, Marcus turned and stepped slowly towards his father, cheeks blazing. He didn’t dare stomp, but his feet felt leaden with embarrassment. He felt like he was walking toward his own execution—or at the very least toward a very sore backside. When he reached Matthew’s side, his father gently took him by the wrist and guided him across his lap.The cool air prickled his skin as Matthew lowered his pajama pants and underwear. Marcus groaned in mortification and tried to bury his face in his arms.

“Do we have to?” he muttered into the crook of his arm.

“Yes,” Matthew said simply, picking up the spoon and wrapping his other arm around Marcus’s waist.

The first crack of the spoon against the lower curve of his backside made Marcus jerk with a startled yelp.

“Matthew—!” he cried.

“Marcus,” Matthew answered calmly, punctuating it with a matching swat on the other side.

Then the spanking began in earnest. Each swat stung with a fierce, focused heat, and Marcus wriggled despite himself, breath catching in his throat. The sting was different from a hand—firmer, snappier, the flat wood delivering quick bursts of fire to his upturned backside. It felt like every smack wrote a word across his skin: Don’t. Sneak. Out. Of. The. House. Again.

As the spoon painted shades of crimson across the scorched landscape of his bottom, Marcus squirmed, fingers clenching into the fabric of Matthew’s trousers.

“Ow—stop! I get it!” he yelped, twisting against the grip holding him in place.

Matthew didn’t answer. He just raised the spoon again, brought it down with a sharp flick of the wrist, and delivered another series of stinging smacks that made Marcus squeal and kick his feet harder.

“It hurts!” Marcus exclaimed, struggling to keep his voice from breaking. “I said I was sorry!”

“And I said,” Matthew responded, never missing a beat, “that sorry counts, but actions have consequences.”

The next swats landed lower, on the tops of Marcus’s thighs. The fire blazed uncontrollably, both in his butt and behind his eyes. The next slap of the spoon caused his legs to kick out. His breath hitched, his body betraying him even as he tried to stay composed.

The spoon smacked down sharply right on the tender undercurve, and Marcus let out a high, strangled gasp. His legs kicked once more before he laid limply over his father’s knee. His fingers unclenched. His head dropped.

Matthew didn’t speak, but Marcus could feel the intensity behind each remaining spank. The swats weren’t fast, but they hurt, and they were clearly being delivered with a message: I love you too much to let this slide.

At that realization, Marcus couldn’t hold back the tears anymore. The wooden spoon came down in steady rhythm until Matthew finally set it aside, carefully restored his son’s pajama pants, and rested a cool hand on Marcus’s lower back. He sat there for a moment, holding his son across his lap as the tears slowly subsided. The kitchen was still, filled only with the sound of Marcus’s quiet crying and the rhythmic rise and fall of Matthew’s breath.

He gently pulled Marcus upright and into a seated position on his lap, wrapping one arm around his son’s trembling shoulders. Said son sniffled, wiping at his cheeks and eyes with the back of his hand.

Marcus pressed his face into Matthew’s shirt, ashamed, bottom throbbing, and so very tired. “I’m sorry,” he choked again, his voice muffled.

“I know,” Matthew said, his hand rubbing slow circles on Marcus’s back. “It’s done now. You’re forgiven.”

Matthew pulled his son tighter into his chest, letting Marcus bury his face in Matthew’s shirt. Neither one spoke, they just held on to one another.

“Go on up to bed,” he instructed Marcus, voice firm but weary. “I need to clean up out back. I’ll be up in a minute.”

Marcus nodded meekly. “Yes, sir,” he murmured, an automatic response that seemed to surprise Matthew. He couldn’t remember Marcus calling him “sir” in earnest since before he’d been reborn.

Turning toward the stairs, Marcus padded out of the kitchen and up the stairs, feeling every bit a chastened child. Matthew couldn’t keep the slight smile from his face as his 250 year old child disappeared up the stairs, trying to covertly rub the sting out of his blistered bottom, acting every bit the eleven-year-old he currently looked like.

Chapter Text

Morning came far too quickly. Marcus woke to pale sunlight filtering through his curtains and the distant sound of cartoons playing downstairs. For a moment, he awoke hopeful, thinking perhaps the previous night had been just a bad dream. He groaned and buried his face in his pillow, wishing he could rewind time and make last night’s decision not to sneak out… or at least to not get caught.

Eventually, the smell of breakfast—pancakes, maybe?—coaxed Marcus out of bed. He trudged downstairs, not quite ready to face Matthew or Diana, but the rumbling in his stomach gave him little choice. How was he even hungry after all that junk?

In the kitchen, Diana stood at the stove flipping chocolate chip pancakes, while the twins sat at the table, kicking their feet impatiently as they waited. Pip was making airplane noises with his fork, and Becca was drawing shapes in spilled orange juice with her fingers. The normalcy of the scene was comforting. Diana looked up as Marcus entered, her expression warm but a bit wary.

“Good morning, Marcus,” she said, perhaps a touch more carefully than usual. “Why don’t you have a seat? Breakfast is almost ready.

Marcus slipped into his chair at the table with a slight wince. “Morning,” he replied quietly. He noted that Matthew’s usual coffee mug was on the counter, but Matthew himself wasn’t in the room. Possibly he was in the living room with the TV, which Marcus could hear softly, or maybe he had stepped out. Marcus’s heart skipped nervously. Maybe Matthew was still upset and needed space.

He didn’t have to wonder long. A moment later, Matthew walked into the kitchen from the den, carrying a couple of electronic devices in his hands—Marcus’s tablet and what looked like one of the family laptops. He gave Marcus a nod.

“Morning. Sleep okay?” His tone was warmer than Marcus expected, given that Marcus was relatively sure his father was about to dole out more consequences.

Marcus swallowed. “Yeah. I guess.”

Matthew set the devices on the counter and cleared his throat. “We have something to discuss after breakfast.” He tapped the tablet meaningfully. “New rules.”

A lump formed in Marcus’s throat. Here it comes, he thought. Child locks on everything, no doubt, just as Matthew had threatened.

Marcus’s eyes dropped to the table. “Okay,” he murmured, bracing himself.

If the twins noticed the tension, they were too busy drowning their pancakes in syrup to care. Diana brought the platter over and began cutting up another pancake for Rebecca.

“We can all talk in a bit,” she said gently, shooting Matthew a look that said give him a minute. “Let’s eat first.”

Breakfast was a quiet affair, at least for the adults and Marcus. The twins happily chattered between mouthfuls of pancake, oblivious to the somber mood hanging over the table.

At one point, Pip proudly proclaimed, “I’m a syrup face!” when Diana wiped a sticky blob off his chin. Becca giggled and tried to stick a piece of pancake on her finger like. It was so absurdly cute that Marcus couldn’t help but crack a small smile despite everything. Diana caught his eye and her own lips twitched in encouragement, as if to say it’s going to be alright.

When the twins had finished (insofar as “finished” meant smearing the remains of pancake around their plates), Diana excused them to the living room to watch their cartoon. “Go on, you two. I’ll be there in a minute to clean you up.” The twins scampered off, leaving the adults and Marcus alone at the table.

Marcus busied himself pushing a stray pancake piece back and forth on his plate, stomach too knotted to eat more. Matthew cleared his throat, breaking the silence.

“So,” he began, folding his hands in front of him. “About last night.”

Eyes still downcast, Marcus flinched. Diana took the seat next to him, placing a comforting hand on his back. Matthew’s voice was calm but stern. “We talked and we’ve decided on a few new rules to make sure nothing like that happens again.”

Here it comes, Marcus thought, steeling himself. He forced himself to look up at Matthew. “Okay.”

Matthew picked up the tablet from the counter and set it in front of Marcus. “First off, this is now set with parental controls.” As expected. “I’ve created a kids’ profile for you on the streaming services—ones with only age-appropriate shows and movies.” He looked at Marcus, expecting pushback. “No more horror flicks or R-rated movies without explicit permission. In fact, you won’t even have access to them.”

Marcus felt heat rise to his cheeks, equal parts embarrassment and resentment. It was humiliating to have a “kids’ profile” like he was truly just eleven years old mentally. But he knew he’d brought it on himself. “Alright,” he said softly.

“Same goes for the laptop and any other device in the house. I’ve installed software that will block inappropriate websites and content. And the Wi-Fi is now on a schedule that turns off at bedtime for your devices.”

Marcus’s eyes widened. He hadn’t expected that level of lockdown. “You’re turning off the internet for me?” It came out almost as a squeak.

Diana gave a small sigh. “Marcus, you snuck out to watch things you know you weren’t allowed to. We have to take precautions.” Her tone was sympathetic but firm.

“Think of it as until you can show you’re responsible enough to follow rules, we’ll make it so you can’t break them so easily.” Matthew tried to catch Marcus’s eyes. “It’s not permanent. But for now, it’s necessary.”

Marcus blinked rapidly, trying to hold back a surge of tears. It was all so frustrating. He wanted to yell that it wasn’t fair, that he wasn’t really a child, that this whole situation was absurd. But he had no real leverage. Physically, he was a child at the moment, and last night he’d certainly acted like one. He had to choose his battles. So he just nodded again, looking away so they wouldn’t see the angry tears welling up.

Matthew and Diana exchanged a glance. Matthew cleared his throat once more. “Also, we’re adding an alarm to the back door,” he said. “So if it opens after a certain hour, it’ll chime. Same for the front door.”

Marcus’s head snapped up at that. They were literally alarm-proofing the house because of him. The guilt weighed heavy. “I… I understand,” he managed to say.

“We don’t want to cage you in, sweetheart. But we do need to keep you safe. Last night gave us a real scare.” Diana squeezed his shoulder gently. She paused, then added in a softer voice, “Marcus, we care about you. We know you’re going through something incredibly hard. But you have to trust us to take care of you right now. Can you do that?”

Finally, Marcus allowed himself to meet her gaze. Diana’s eyes were kind, full of concern and earnest love, just like they’d been the day he found himself shrunk down and terrified. She had been the one to hug him and promise they’d figure it out together. Matthew had been the one to lay down the practical plans. Together, they’d stepped up for him in ways he never expected.

Marcus felt a tear escape and roll down his cheek. He quickly wiped it with the back of his hand and took a shaky breath, frustrated with himself for being so emotional. “Okay,” he said, voice cracking slightly. “I’ll try to trust you. And to follow the rules.” He swallowed. “And I’m sorry. For last night. Really.”

Matthew’s face finally gentled into something like relief, and Diana pulled Marcus into a side-hug against her. She pressed a kiss to the top of his head, the motherly gesture still catching Marcus off guard sometimes, but he found he didn’t mind. It felt comforting.

“Good. Now, enough serious talk for now,” she said, giving him a soft pat. “Why don’t you go see what the twins are up to? I think they’re watching that silly cat cartoon they love. Maybe you can join them.”

Marcus knew she was gently giving him an out, a way to ease the tension. He nodded and slid off his chair. “Alright.” In truth, a silly cartoon with the twins sounded like a welcome mental break.

He shuffled toward the living room. Behind him, he heard Matthew start to speak in a low tone to Diana—something about “I think that went as well as it could” and Diana replying “poor thing, he’s really trying.”

Marcus pretended he didn’t hear. It was embarrassing enough to be talked about like that, but another part of him was glad to know they understood he was trying.

In the living room, the twins were curled up on the rug, eyes glued to the TV where a brightly animated cat in a detective hat was singing a song about catching a mouse thief. Upon seeing Marcus, Becca immediately brightened.

“Marcus! Come watch!” she lisped, patting the spot next to her.

She had a smear of syrup in her hair, which made Marcus smile. She looked utterly carefree, no worries beyond whether the cartoon cat would solve the mystery.

As Marcus lowered himself to the rug and crossed his legs, Pip promptly clambered into Marcus’s lap with uninhibited boldness. The almost two-year-old shoved a plush bunny into Marcus’s arms.

“You hold Bun-Bun, kay?” Pip commanded, as if this were a great honor.

Marcus accepted the well-loved stuffed bunny, holding it dutifully. “Okay, I’ve got Bun-Bun,” he replied, and Pip beamed, snuggling back against Marcus. The warmth of the little boy on his lap and the soft pressure of Diana’s side-hug still lingered on Marcus’s shoulder. It struck Marcus that he hadn’t truly appreciated until now just how loved and included he was in this family, odd circumstances and all.

Becca leaned against his side, plopping her dinosaur toy into Marcus’s hands as well, so now he was holding both the bunny and the dinosaur while the twins nestled against him. On the TV, the detective cat tripped over a conveniently placed banana peel, sending the twins into peals of laughter.

Maybe it was the absurdity of the cartoon, or the ticklish way Pip’s hair brushed his chin, or just the release of tension, but Marcus laughed too. It felt good to laugh. Becca looked up at him with a gap-toothed grin, delighted that he was enjoying the show too.

In that moment, Marcus felt something ease inside him. Being stuck in a child’s body was undeniably hard, and there would be more rough days ahead. He knew that. But right now, in a sunlit living room with two sticky, giggling toddlers using him as a cushion, and Matthew and Diana talking quietly in the next room about how to care for him, Marcus felt… safe. Safe, and strangely content.

He gave the twins’ toys a playful little bounce, making the bunny and dinosaur do a goofy dance to the cartoon’s jingle. Philip and Rebecca dissolved into laughter at Marcus’s impromptu puppet show. Marcus grinned, finding himself actually having a bit of fun.

From the kitchen doorway, Matthew and Diana watched this scene unnoticed. Diana sighed softly, leaning her head on Matthew’s shoulder for a second. “Looks like someone made a full recovery from last night’s misadventure,” she whispered wryly.

Matthew slipped an arm around her, relief evident in his posture. “Kids,” he murmured with a faint chuckle, “they bounce back fast.” He knew Marcus wasn’t like most kids, not really, but seeing him smile and laugh was a victory he’d gladly take.

Back on the rug, Marcus caught Matthew’s eye for just a heartbeat. Matthew gave him a subtle nod—a mix of we’re okay and behave yourself. Marcus nodded back just as subtly, clutching Bun-Bun like a silly trophy of truce.

As the detective cat wrapped up his case on TV amid triumphant music and credits, Becca tugged on Marcus’s sleeve. “Marcus, build a fort?” she asked, her earlier cartoon excitement shifting to a new idea. “A blanket fort!”

Pip jumped up and down in Marcus’s lap, seconding the idea. “Yeah! Fort, fort!” he chanted.

Marcus hesitated a moment, instinctively thinking of the many other things he might rather do, then stopped himself. What else did he have to do right now? Nothing, really. And a blanket fort with two adorable munchkins actually sounded kind of nice. Maybe being a kid for a while longer wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, at least in small doses.

He flashed the twins a conspiratorial grin. “Captain Marcus approves this plan,” he declared, throwing in a dramatic flourish that made them giggle. “To the linen closet! We have fort-building supplies to gather!”

The twins cheered as Marcus got up, their laughter echoing through the house. As they scampered off in search of blankets, with Marcus following at a dignified “captain’s” pace, Matthew and Diana exchanged one more look.

There would be challenges ahead—new rules to enforce and surely more bumps in the road. But in that morning’s small victory, as Marcus embraced his new reality just enough to laugh and play, they all found hope that things would be okay.

And if Marcus occasionally still insisted that “bedtimes are for babies,” well, Matthew and Diana would be there to remind him that even big kids needed care and boundaries.

Chapter Text

Matthew was pacing in the kitchen in a slow, spiraling orbit of agitation, wearing a dress shirt with only one cufflink and muttering something about emergency contacts and infant CPR. Diana was nursing her second cup of coffee with the resignation of someone who had already lived this morning twice and would likely need to live it again before noon.

At the kitchen island, Marcus sat with one foot tucked under him, working his way through a bowl of Lucky Charms, the spoon clinking with each sugary bite. Matthew paused mid-pace, gesturing vaguely at the cereal box with the half-disdainful, half-defeated posture of a man who knew he’d lost the war, but was still adamant that he was in the right. “I don’t know why we buy that. It’s literally a bowl of sugar.”

“No, it isn’t,” Marcus corrected, picking the marshmallows out of the bowl with his spoon. “See, it says it right here: Lucky Charms. It doesn’t say “sugar cereal”. You have to read the label.”

“Same thing,” Matthew muttered, retreating to the sink.

“They’re magically delicious,” Marcus said dryly, mouth half-full. “That’s the brand promise. You can’t fight branding, Matthew.”

Diana, who had just finished packing her workbag, smirked into her mug. Before Matthew could respond, Marcus changed the subject.

“What did you tell Baldwin about me?” he asked, suddenly wary. He suspected the real reason Matthew was pacing had little to do with the contents of the diaper bag Diana had packed for the twins, and more to do with who was being left in charge today.

But a babysitter or nanny was pretty much out of the question. How could they possibly explain to a noncreature that the twins sippy cups weren't filled with strawberry milk in a way that didn’t make them sound insane at best or like unhinged serial killers at worst?

Honestly though, Marcus understood and shared his father’s trepidation. Marcus could goad Matthew as much as he wanted and be reasonably sure the only consequences would be a sore bottom and lecture. Baldwin though…Marcus wouldn't be shocked if his uncle dropped him in an oubliette for the most minor of infractions.

“That you’re just as naughty as you’ve ever been,” Matthew replied.

Marcus choked on his cereal, blushing at the use of the word naughty. “You what?”

Diana reached over and gently patted his back as he coughed.

“And that you’re a bit smaller than the last time he saw you.”

“Understatement there,” Marcus muttered into his cereal bowl.

Despite his current physical state, Marcus hadn’t quite lost the instinct that warned him another predator was nearby. His hackles raised just as the front door opened, and Baldwin de Clermont swept in without knocking, as though the house were a hunting lodge he owned and had briefly loaned out to peasants.

Matthew finally gave up on pretending he wasn’t stressed and set a sheet of paper containing emergency contact information on the counter. “This is for you, Baldwin,” he called out, though his brother was still making his way to them. “Medical numbers. Pediatrician. Diana’s office number. The lab number. Chris and Miriam’s office numbers—”

Walking into the kitchen, Baldwin barely glanced at Matthew’s carefully annotated stack of papers. “I was more than capable of keeping people of all ages alive long before the cursed day you were reborn,” Baldwin said flatly.

“I also included instructions for handling tantrums, projectile vomiting, and twin-related magical anomalies. You’d be surprised how relevant they are.”

Baldwin raised a brow. “I was a Roman centurion, Matthew, not a wet nurse.”

Matthew ignored his brother’s comment. “Marcus still requires a firm hand, though perhaps not quite as firm as a month ago.”

The corners of Baldwin’s lips twitched in slight amusement. Marcus scowled at the oddly-colored milk in his cereal bowl as heat crawled up his neck in embarrassment.

Diana gave him another affectionate pat on the arm. “He’ll be fine. You’ll be fine,” she said to Matthew.

Standing up, she ruffled Marcus’s hair, kissed the twins, handed over a massive tote bag filled with snacks and toys that Marcus privately called the 'Bag of Bribes,' and turned to Matthew, nudging him toward the hallway.

“Come on, darling. If we don’t leave now, you’ll just start listing every hospital within fifty miles.”

Matthew grumbled, “I still don’t like this.”

Diana tugged his sleeve gently. “You don’t have to like it. You just have to go.”

They left in a flurry of keys, work bags, and lingering instructions shouted over Diana’s shoulder. The door clicked shut. Silence fell. Then Baldwin exhaled dramatically and turned to Marcus.

“So,” he said, glancing at his nephew, who was still in pajamas, halfway through a second bowl of cereal. “You’re smaller.”

Marcus stared up at him, spoon mid-air. “You’re taller.”

Baldwin didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he glanced toward the hallway where the twins had vanished, then back at Marcus. “Where do they keep the chocolate?”

If anyone had told Marcus this would end up being the best day of his entire re-childhood so far, he’d have laughed.

It started with candy. Then soda. Then discovering that Baldwin—ancient, terrifying Baldwin—had a completely unironic love for hot dogs, black licorice, and root beer floats. He made a spectacular mess of the kitchen, cooking things Marcus was pretty sure would cause Matthew to have a stroke. Philip had ice cream before lunch. Becca painted Baldwin’s sleeve with glitter glue, and he let it happen.

At some point, Baldwin made a phone-call and an hour later, the barn on the property was bustling with the arrival of two Shetland ponies and a quarter horse. Marcus promptly named his Angus, thinking through all of the horse names in the Disney movies he’d watched in recent weeks. He thought about naming it Philippe after the horse in Beauty and the Beast, but he didn’t want to poke that particular wound in his uncle or his father. After some urging by their older brother, the twins named theirs Shrek and Fiona.

After a few hours of horseback riding, they headed back to the barn. That was when Baldwin opened up a wooden case full of throwing knives, which Marcus was sternly informed “must not be mentioned to your parents.” Baldwin had set up a target against the far barn wall and demonstrated proper grip technique with all the flair of a general describing battlefield tactics. Marcus, flush with sugar and adrenaline, managed to sink one cleanly in the outer ring.

Becca, to no one’s surprise, made her plastic throwing knives levitate, and Pip tossed his toward the target like a beanbag. Baldwin simply nodded and said, “Respectable.”

Marcus couldn’t remember the last time he’d had this much fun. By the time Diana and Matthew returned that evening, Marcus was still riding the high, metaphorically and literally, as he slid off the couch where he’d been lounging like a cat with a sugar hangover. He was still wearing the faded shirt Baldwin had given him after he popped a paint-filled balloon with one of the throwing knives. The twins were curled up in a pile of new plushies and rainbow blankets in the den.

Matthew froze the second he stepped inside. “Why does it smell like steel?”

“Ask your brother,” Marcus mumbled, flopping back onto the couch with a wince. His shoulders and back ached from horseback riding. His throwing arm was sore. And his stomach was regretting the three sodas and the countless marshmallows since mid-afternoon.

Matthew narrowed his eyes at Baldwin, who was lounging in a wingback chair and drinking something amber out of a crystal tumbler.

“What happened to the outfit I laid out for you?” Diana asked, taking in Marcus’s grass-stained jeans and the too-big T-shirt.

“It got messy.”

Before either parent could scold him, Marcus yawned. The day was catching up to him, heavy and warm and strange. He was sore and slightly sun-burnt, but somehow that made everything better. He hadn’t felt that kind of free in weeks.

Sitting beside his oldest on the couch, Matthew gave him a slightly stern look. “Did you behave?”

Marcus didn’t answer. He just reached up, tugged gently on Matthew’s arm, and without thinking climbed into his lap.

It surprised them both.

Hesitating for a moment, Matthew wrapped his arms around his son without a word, settling Marcus against his chest. Marcus tucked his face into his father’s collarbone and sighed. After the chaos and excitement of the day, he needed the safety and comfort of his father more than he realized.

“I take it,” Matthew said dryly, “you had fun.”

“Best. Uncle. Day. Ever,” Marcus mumbled into his shirt.

Matthew arched a brow at Baldwin.

“I only threatened to spank him once,” Baldwin said, raising his glass.

Diana kissed the top of Marcus’s head as she passed. Marcus was already drifting off, curled in Matthew’s lap, breathing deep, the sweet scent of licorice and sunlight clinging to his skin.

Chapter Text

On the night Diana was going to age Marcus from eleven to twelve, his parents put him to bed in one of Matthew’s old T-shirts. Diana said it would save them from another torn pajama incident. And, she added quietly to Matthew, “He always sleeps better in your clothes anyway.”

Maybe that was true. But Marcus sure as hell wasn’t going to admit it. He was a little apprehensive as he fell asleep, but both his parents were there, Matthew gently rubbing his back as he sat on the bed next to his oldest waiting for him to fall asleep.

“Just a little more,” Diana whispered over Marcus’s sleeping form, hands glowing faintly with the delicate spell she’d woven into his growth. Something between alchemy and restoration, it nudged his body toward the next milestone, coaxing him gently from eleven toward twelve. Not enough to undo the entirety of the spell. Philip’s threads were still tangled around Marcus like a stubborn bramble, but Diana’s gentle unwinding of some of those threads was enough to make his limbs stretch, to inch him closer to himself.

But with the growing came the memories. He’d been surprised when Diana made him eleven how the memories rushed back in vivid detail, as though he’d just experienced them.

Soft ones, first: running through sunlit fields with his sister chasing behind him, laughter echoing against summer air. The smell of his mother’s biscuits, fresh from the oven. The worn leather of his childhood shoes. Running, always running. A boy’s joy, unburdened and uncomplicated.

But happiness never came without darkness. The good blurred into the bad, and the nightmares started around two in the morning.

Matthew was sitting in his bed, beside Diana, one hand folded behind his head, debating whether turning on a lamp to read would disturb her. He was considering heading to his study to do a bit of work when he heard faint whimpering.

Listening a bit more intently, Matthew froze. It wasn’t the twins. Philip’s breathing was slow and even through the nursery wall. Rebecca snored softly in her crib, the occasional flutter of toddler magic making her witch’s blood sing harmlessly in her sleep.

In an instant, Matthew was out of bed and halfway down the hall to Marcus’s bedroom. The whimpers were much louder and far more distressing as he approached his son’s cracked door. He peeked through the small opening.

The room was dimly lit by the soft glow of the nightlight near the bookshelf. Marcus was twisted in his sheets, tangled in his too-long shirt, his expression knotted in anguish. His slightly older features looked flushed and damp with sweat. He cried out again, low and pained, as he battled demons he had long ago buried.

Matthew had wondered if this might happen. Philip’s magic had pulled long-dormant pain to the surface. The emotional wounds, the memories plaguing his son, were the kind that Marcus had never spoken of. The kind that only Matthew knew about because of Marcus’s bloodlore. The kind that Marcus’s human body had tried desperately to keep in a sealed box.

But now the box was open. And Marcus was drowning inside it.

Instinct and vampiric speed had Matthew sitting on Marcus’s bed, scooping his oldest into his arms before he’d even thought through the action. The boy fit against his chest like he’d always belonged there. He was so much lighter than he should be. And so much warmer, too. Like this, there was no denying that Marcus’s current form was all human. Matthew had never felt this protective over him.

Marcus didn’t wake, but he clung to his father instinctively. His hands wrapped around Matthew’s neck as he whimpered again, curling inward, still caught in whatever horrors held him. Matthew adjusted his hold, one arm under his knees, the other around his shoulders, and began to rock.

Bracing his back against the headboard, Matthew stretched his legs out along the mattress. Marcus’s head was tucked under his chin, his hair damp with sweat. Matthew ran his hand slowly through it, fingers combing gently, again and again.

The whimpers began to slow. The tense shudders in Marcus’s limbs eased into small, residual flinches. Matthew kept rocking.

A minute passed. Then another.

Finally, Marcus stirred with more awareness. He blinked, bleary and red-eyed, and realized where he was. His head lifted just slightly from Matthew’s chest.

“I…” Marcus started, before immediately falling silent. His cheeks flushed darker. He tried to sit up, squirming in embarrassment. Matthew squeezed him a little tighter.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked quietly, resting his chin gently atop his son’s head.

Marcus shook his head fiercely. He didn’t want to remember it. He didn’t want to speak it into the world. Some memories were better left buried. Thankfully, his father understood.

“Would you like a story?” Matthew offered, surprising Marcus.

If Marcus had been fully awake, or in his right mind, he would’ve scoffed and protested on the grounds that he was a grown man and no one his age, whatever that age currently was, needed a bedtime story.

But in the dark, still shaken by vivid memories of hunger, alcohol-soaked fury, and horse reins, he was wrapped in a too-large shirt and the arms of the father who had never stopped loving him, and a story sounded like the best idea in the world. He gave the smallest of nods, his hair brushing lightly under his father’s chin, before snuggling himself tighter into Matthew’s arms.

Matthew shifted his hold, tightening one arm around Marcus’s back. He angled them slightly so the boy’s head rested comfortably against his chest. Then he began to speak, voice just above a whisper.

“Once there was a medic,” Matthew began, “who had more compassion than sense…” Marcus groaned slightly, but didn’t pull away, didn’t shift in his fathers embrace.

Matthew told him stories about a soldier-turned-healer, a man who ran toward danger instead of away from it. A man who patched wounds with his bare hands and carried bleeding strangers out of the chaos, who refused to leave the battlefield while anyone else remained behind.

Matthew gave him misadventures so absurd they made Marcus’s breath catch with half-laughter, despite his still racing heart and the adrenaline his father could smell coursing through his veins. He let the story meander, pausing when Marcus stirred, continuing when he settled.

After recounting the medic’s fifth tale of naughtiness, Matthew glanced down. Marcus was asleep.

His face, no longer twisted with fear, had softened with peace. His hands, which had clenched earlier in distress, now rested lightly against Matthew’s chest. His breathing had deepened.

Matthew could have laid him back in bed. He shouldhave.

But instead, he stretched the blanket from the foot of the bed up over both of them, shifted to make room, and leaned his head back against the headboard. His fingers continued to card gently through Marcus’s hair.

Marcus could hate him for this later—could tease him, could stomp away red-faced and grumbling about “overreactions” and “paternal smothering” or whatever sassy remark he could come up with

But for now?

Matthew would keep him safe

Chapter Text

Summer was rapidly coming to an end, and Marcus had been begging his parents for at least a month to take him to the local water park before it closed for the season. On the second-to-last week of operations, his parents finally gave in. At breakfast that morning, they shared the happy news.

“So, after you finish your Cheerios, we can head out,” Diana said with a smile. Marcus’s face lit up instantly. He started shoveling cereal into his mouth as if speed-eating might magically get them to the park faster.

“Slow down—if you choke, we’ll have to go to the ER instead,” Matthew warned in a stern tone, raising an eyebrow.

When they arrived at Splash World, a manager met them at the gate. Marcus was not at all surprised when the manager greeted them by name and escorted the family to one of the large private cabanas. Of course if Matthew was going to be forced to spend a day around so many screaming children, he was going to guarantee he had a place he could retreat to. Tucked in a quieter corner of the park, the cabana was a large canvas gazebo with comfy lounge chairs, a table, and curtains that could be drawn for privacy. A ceiling fan spun gently overhead, and a flat-screen TV hung in the shade.

As they stepped inside, the manager introduced them to Paul, their cabana attendant (or “cabana butler,” as the park called him). Paul handed them plush towels and pointed out the mini-fridge stocked with cold drinks. He also showed them the remote controls for the fan, the TV, and even misting sprayers that could cool them off with the push of a button.

Matthew picked up the cabana menu from the table and scanned the options for lunch. Before Marcus could plead for his weight in french fries and chicken strips, Matthew went ahead and placed a pre-order with Paul for a balanced meal.

“We’ll have the family combo—grilled chicken wraps, a fruit platter, and one order of fries,” Matthew requested, making sure fries were included but in a reasonable amount.

Marcus opened his mouth to object (he had really wanted those chicken strips), but a single warning glance from his father changed his mind. Truth be told, Marcus was far too excited about swimming to care much about lunch at that moment. He bounced on his toes as Matthew finished up the lunch order and Paul noted down their preferences for drinks. The cabana was stocked with a couple of sodas and juice boxes for the twins, which Diana appreciated.

In no time, Marcus had ducked into the changing room at the back of the cabana and swapped his t-shirt and shorts for his bright blue swim trunks. Matthew and Diana helped Becca and Pip, into their adorable matching shark-themed swimsuits and water shoes. The twins were already squealing with excitement, though at nearly two years old their idea of water park fun would be limited to the toddler splash zone.

“Alright, are we ready?” Diana asked, slipping on her sunhat and sunglasses.

“Ready!” Marcus chirped, practically leaping out of the cabana. He could hear the whoosh and roar of water from the slides and pools all around. The air smelled like sunscreen and chlorine—the smell of fun, as far as he was concerned.

Diana gave a little wave and headed off toward the shallow toddler area with Pip and Becca toddling along beside her. “You boys have fun. I’ll text if I need you,” she told Matthew, who nodded.

Matthew turned to his eldest son with a grin that was half excitement and half please-don’t-make-me-regret-this. “Alright, Marcus, where to first?”

Marcus surveyed the giant tangle of colorful slides towering above them. One particularly bright yellow slide caught his eye. It was a family raft slide, wide and winding, and relatively gentle as an introduction to the bigger rides.

“That one!” he announced, pointing eagerly at the yellow slide.

It wasn’t the tallest or fastest, but it would fit both of them together. Matthew smiled, seemingly relieved that Marcus hadn’t chosen the most extreme option right off the bat.

“Good choice. Let’s start with a nice easy one,” Matthew agreed.

They climbed a wooden staircase up to the slide’s launch deck, carrying a large circular inflatable raft between them. Marcus was practically vibrating with excitement. His smaller hands gripped the handles of the raft tightly as they ascended, step by step.

Matthew, noticing Marcus’s exhilaration, chuckled, “Hang on tight, buddy.”

There was a short line at the top, and as they waited, Marcus peered over the side of the tower. From up here he could see the entire park: the sparkling blue wave pool, the lazy river snaking around curves of palm trees and lifeguard chairs, and dozens of brightly colored slides looping and twisting around each other. It was a perfect summer day, sunny with a few puffy clouds, and the sounds of splashing and distant laughter filled the air.

When it was their turn, the lifeguard helped steady their raft at the top of the slide. Marcus climbed in front, and Matthew got in right behind him.

“Ready, you two?” the lifeguard asked.

“Ready!” Marcus shouted. With a gentle nudge, they were off.

The raft slid forward and immediately dipped into the first curve. Water splashed up around them as they gained speed. Marcus let out a high-pitched whoop of delight. Matthew, gripping the side handles, couldn’t help but laugh at Marcus’s pure joy. They banked around a wide turn, sunlight flashing in their eyes, and Marcus felt the light spray of water on his face. He loved the sensation of being pushed around by the rushing water, the raft bumping and gliding along. In front of him, the mouth of a tunnel approached—part of the slide was enclosed.

“Here comes the tunnel!” Marcus yelled back to his dad.

They plunged into semi-darkness for a moment. In that enclosed section, their raft picked up a little more speed. Marcus’s stomach did a flip (the good kind), and he could hear Matthew’s deep laugh behind him. It was rare to hear his father laugh like that; the sound made Marcus grin even wider.

They whooshed out of the tunnel into daylight again, spiraling down the final twist. In a split second, the raft hit the final splash pool at the bottom with a mighty splash, sending a curtain of water over them.

Marcus came up sputtering and laughing, wiping water from his eyes. Matthew’s hair was soaked and sticking up at odd angles, but he was smiling too. Together, they guided the raft toward the exit and climbed out into the knee-deep water.

“That. Was. Awesome!” Marcus declared, hopping out and already looking up at the slides again for what to tackle next.

Matthew chuckled, slicking back his wet hair. “It was pretty fun,” he admitted. He wasn’t usually the adventurous type when it came to rides, but seeing Marcus so happy made it worthwhile. Marcus beamed, thrilled that his dad was actually enjoying himself too.

They spent the next hour racing from one slide to another. Marcus hardly stopped to catch his breath; as soon as they splashed down in a pool, the boy was tugging Matthew’s arm toward the next set of stairs. They tried a set of side-by-side racing slides, where Marcus insisted they go at the same time so he could try to beat his dad to the bottom. Marcus won by a nose, despite his lighter weight and he was extremely proud of that victory.

Matthew good-naturedly pretended to be disappointed, saying, “Must have gotten a head start,” which made Marcus laugh.

With each slide, Marcus grew more confident and eager for bigger thrills. Finally, they stood at the bottom of the tallest attraction in the park: The Plunge, a towering near-vertical speed slide that dropped riders from a dizzying height. Marcus craned his neck up at it, watching a few brave souls rocket down the almost-straight drop, screaming all the way.

Adrenaline still coursing from all the fun, Marcus thought he was ready for this grand finale. “Dad, let’s do that one next!” he exclaimed, pointing to the towering Plunge.

Matthew followed his gaze and immediately shook his head. “No. Absolutely not,” he said firmly.

The sight of that slide made his stomach flip, and not in a good way. It was the kind of extreme slide meant for older teens and adults, and even then it required a lot of nerve. Marcus’s face fell.

“Aw, why not? I’m tall enough! Look, the sign says you have to be 54 inches and I’m way over that,” he pleaded.

While Marcus might meet the technical requirements, Matthew wasn’t about to let his very human son hurl himself down a five-story drop. And Marcus knew very well his father didn’t abide pleading.

Matthew crossed his arms over his chest, giving Marcus the look. “I said no. It’s too dangerous.” His voice had that stern, no-nonsense edge that usually ended any debate. But Marcus was riding the high of all the slides they’d already done and suddenly being told no stung.

“You always treat me like a little kid,” Marcus muttered, lower lip sticking out in a pout. He kicked at an imaginary pebble on the concrete.

It was frustrating—Marcus felt capable of so much more than his parents allowed since he got stuck in this stupid body. But he also knew deep down that Matthew was trying to keep him safe.

Sensing his son’s disappointment and trying to prevent the frustration in both of them from bubbling over, Matthew offered an olive branch. “Tell you what—we haven’t gone to the wave pool yet. Why don’t we catch some waves to cool off?”

He stood back up and gestured toward the large wave pool at the center of the park, where a huge artificial beach area was filled with families bobbing in the gentle surf. Marcus shrugged. The wave pool looked fun, though in his mind it wasn’t as thrilling as the big slide. Still, it was better than sitting around sulking.

“Alright, wave pool,” he agreed softly.

The wave pool looked inviting as they approached—a big blue pool with a sloped entrance, going from zero depth gradually deeper toward the far end. A machine at the back generated waves every few minutes, sending a surge of water that made everyone in the pool bounce and shriek with laughter. Children with brightly colored life vests dotted the shallower area, and farther in, teenagers and adults without vests were bobbing in inner tubes or swimming. Marcus was about to charge in when he felt Matthew’s hand on his arm.

“Hold on,” Matthew said. He pointed to a rack by the lifeguard stand, which held an array of loaner life jackets in different sizes. “You need to put one of those on.”

Marcus’s face immediately scrunched up in protest. “What? Dad, I don’t need a life vest. I can swim!” he objected.

“You can swim, yes. But you’re not as strong as you were before, and I’m not going to fish you out because you wanted to prove a point.” His tone left zero room for argument.

“But I’ll look stupid. None of the other big kids are wearing them,” Marcus mumbled, trying anyway, arms crossed as he eyed a group of boys who looked around his age splashing freely without any flotation. Matthew calmly selected a vest in Marcus’s size—a blue one to match his trunks—and held it out.

“You can either wear it, or we don’t go in. Your choice,” he said firmly.

A confrontation here would only end with him sitting out entirely, Marcus realized. With a dramatic sigh, he snatched the vest and yanked it on.

“Fine,” he muttered. Matthew helped buckle it snugly around him, checking twice to ensure it was secure.

They waded into the pool together. The water was a perfect cool relief against the heat. Marcus tried to hang onto his annoyance, but the first gentle wave that rolled in lifted him off his feet in an unexpectedly fun way. The vest kept him bobbing on the surface effortlessly. He found he could actually ride the waves by kicking off the bottom a little as each swell came.

Within minutes, he had forgotten about how “uncool” the vest was and was laughing and jumping into each wave. Matthew stayed right by his side in the deeper water, never more than an arm’s reach away. At one point a larger wave came and Marcus got a mouthful of water. He sputtered and wiped his face, but he hadn’t gone under at all thanks to the life jacket.

Matthew placed a steady hand on Marcus’s back for a moment. “You okay, son?” he asked. Marcus nodded vigorously and coughed once.

“I’m fine! That was a big one,” he said, already grinning again. Matthew gave a half-smile as he shot a knowing look towards his son, but thankfully didn’t comment. Every ten minutes the waves would cycle on for a couple of minutes, then off again to give everyone a break. During the calm periods, Marcus and his dad would wade back to the shallow end where the water only came up to Marcus’s knees. Marcus would then dash forward laughing when the horn sounded and the waves began anew, trying to get to the deeper part as the first swell hit. Matthew stuck close, occasionally even lifting Marcus a bit over an especially strong wave.

They had been resting during one of the breaks, when a small plastic pail floated by Marcus. He grabbed and with a cheeky grin, splashed its contents right into Matthew’s face.

The water hit with a satisfying smack.

Matthew froze mid-step. Slowly, he shook his head, water dripping from his dark hair. “Marcus Raphael—” he started, using Marcus’s full name in mock warning. But then his pretend glare melted into a helpless smile. How could he possibly stay mad?

“You think that’s funny, do you?” he rumbled. In a flash (using just a hint of vampire speed), he scooped Marcus up around the waist and swung him playfully over one shoulder. Marcus squealed, half laughing and half protesting as he suddenly found himself upside-down, viewing the world from behind Matthew’s back.

“Put me down!” Marcus gasped between giggles. But Matthew moved forward as the waves started, tossing Marcus into the deeper water.

Marcus came up spluttering and laughing and made a motion like he was going to splash his father again.

“Alright, alright. Consider us even for that splash attack.” Matthew lifted his hands in truce.

Eventually, Matthew noticed the boy’s energy began to wane. He’d never admit it, but the constant climbing of slide stairs, followed by bobbing in waves, was tiring him out. When Matthew suggested they take a break for lunch, Marcus didn’t argue.

“Yeah, I’m kinda hungry,” he agreed, realizing his stomach was rumbling.

They left the wave pool, and Marcus peeled off the life vest, carrying it back to the cabana. He was glad to be rid of it, but he also secretly understood why his father had made him wear it. He wasn’t about to voice that part out loud, though.

Back at the cabana, they found Diana already there with the twins, who were bundled in fluffy towels and nibbling on some crackers. Becca had a few wet locks of hair stuck to her cheeks and looked sleepy in Diana’s lap, while Pip was babbling happily, clutching a toy seahorse. The toddler area had clearly been a hit with them.

“How was the kiddie splash zone?” Matthew asked as he grabbed a towel to dry himself off.

Diana smiled, “Oh, they loved it. We went on the mini slide about twenty times, didn’t we?” she asked the twins.

Marcus flopped onto one of the lounge chairs, breathing hard but grinning. “Dad and I did all the big slides except the Plunge,” he announced to his mom, omitting why they hadn’t done that one.

“All of them? That’s awesome, sweetie!” she said. She knew Marcus well enough to guess that Matthew had put his foot down at the really extreme slide, and she shot her husband a knowing glance.

Right on cue, Paul arrived with their lunch. He carried a tray loaded with food: neatly wrapped grilled chicken and veggie wraps for the adults, chicken strips for Marcus (Diana should really be considered for sainthood, he thought to himself), a basket of golden fries, and a colorful bowl of fresh fruit salad. There were also bottles of water and a couple of juice pouches for the twins.

“Lunch is served,” Paul announced cheerfully as he set the dishes on the cabana’s table. “Anything else I can get you at the moment?” Matthew thanked him and requested a couple of extra napkins, but otherwise they were all set.

Marcus suddenly realized he was starving. He practically inhaled two chicken strips and a handful of fries before Matthew could even uncap his water bottle.

“Slow down, Marcus,” Diana gently scolded, “you’ll give yourself a stomach ache.”

Remembering Matthew’s earlier joke about choking at breakfast, Marcus reluctantly paused and took a sip of water. The food was really good, especially after all that exercise. Matthew slid the fruit bowl over to Marcus after a few more bites.

“Here, have some fruit too,” he said.

Marcus poked a fork into a cube of watermelon and popped it in his mouth. It was sweet and refreshing, so he had a few more bites.

Meanwhile, the twins picked at pieces of grilled chicken from Diana’s wrap and munched on the fries until Diana distracted them with blueberries from the fruit bowl. The family chatted in the comfortable shade of the cabana as they ate. Marcus animatedly recounted the funniest moments from the slides, like how Matthew had yelped unexpectedly loud on one steep drop.

Diana laughed along, and even Matthew’s eyes crinkled with amusement at Marcus’s retelling, though he lightly protested, “I did not yelp, I was just...surprised, that’s all,” which made Marcus cackle “Sure, Dad.” It felt good—all of them together, enjoying the day. These moments had become more precious lately.

As lunch wrapped up, the combination of full tummies and the midday heat caused the twins’ eyelids to grow heavy. Becca had actually fallen asleep halfway through gnawing a fry; she was curled up on Diana’s lap, sucking her thumb. Pip was fussy, rubbing his eyes and whimpering softly.

“Someone’s ready for a nap,” Matthew remarked, wiping ketchup from Pip’s cheeks with a napkin.

A quick conversation with Diana and it was decided that the twins should have a little rest. The cabana was quiet and shaded—perfect for a nap spot. Diana laid a soft blanket down on one of the reclined lounge chairs and gently transferred Becca onto it.

Matthew took Pip, who was fighting sleep with half-hearted whines, and rocked him in his arms as he paced slowly around the cabana. Within minutes, the boy went limp and heavy, fast asleep drooling on Matthew’s shoulder. Marcus observed this with a kind of detached interest; it always amazed him how quickly the little ones could crash. Then again, he felt a pang of his own fatigue creeping in. His limbs were starting to ache pleasantly from the morning’s adventures.

“Marcus, why don’t you take a little break too? You’ve been going non-stop,” Diana suggested, noting his quietness. Marcus, however, wasn’t at the point of admitting any tiredness.

“I’m okay. Can I go on the lazy river while they nap?” he asked.

Through the open side of the cabana, he could see the lazy river circling leisurely around the park, just a short walk away. It called to him invitingly with its gentle current—one of the few attractions he hadn’t hit yet today.

Matthew had just finished laying Pip down on the lounge chair next to Becca. He double-checked that both twins were safe and comfortable, then adjusted the curtain flap to dim the light. Turning to Marcus, he considered the request. A lazy river was calm and safe, basically a loop that he could float on an inner tube. It was the sort of thing even you g kids could do with supervision. After the incident with the wave pool vest, Matthew was inclined to be cautious, but he also knew Marcus needed some independence.

“Alright,” he said at last. “You can go in the lazy river while we stay here with the twins.” Marcus pumped a fist happily.

“But,” Matthew added, holding up one finger, “you keep your life jacket on the whole time, and you stay in the lazy river area. No wandering off to other slides while we’re not with you. Got it?”

Marcus tried not to roll his eyes. Another vest? Seriously? he thought. But he nodded quickly. “Got it. I promise.” In truth, the lazy river was shallow and slow. He felt he didn’t need a vest there, but he also recognized that pushing back now might get his solo privilege revoked entirely.

So he grabbed the life vest he had worn earlier and shrugged it on. Matthew helped buckle it up snugly. “Good. And take one of the park tubes, don’t try to free-float,” Matthew instructed.

Marcus was already backing out of the cabana, eager to be off. “Yes, Dad, I know,” he said impatiently.

Matthew gave him a look but then simply said, “Have fun. And remember, we’ll be watching.”

He pointed to the lounge chairs in front of the cabana where the lazy river’s course was partly visible. Marcus wasn’t sure if that made him feel better or just more constrained. Either way, he flashed a thumbs-up and trotted off to the lazy river entrance.

The lazy river encircled the park in a wide loop, bordered by fake boulders, tropical plants, and the occasional waterfall feature that dumped water on passing floaters. Marcus picked up an empty inflatable tube from a stack at the entry and waded into the current. The water was only about three feet deep and very calm.

He hoisted himself onto the tube and settled in, belly down at first so he could paddle. Once he got going, he flipped over to sit properly in the donut hole of the tube, legs dangling over the side. With the life vest on, he was extra buoyant—it was almost comical how he bobbed along.

A few other people were drifting lazily as well: a couple on double tube floats, a dad with two young girls in front of him, and some teenagers splashing each other on their tubes. By comparison, Marcus looked like a lone blue marshmallow floating along, which made him grin. This is peaceful, he thought, leaning his head back.

After the thrills of slides and waves, the lazy river was a nice change of pace. Marcus let the slow current carry him under a bridge and through a shaded section where vines trailed from a faux cavern. He closed his eyes for a moment, enjoying the cool water on his hands as he trailed them beside the tube.

The sun felt warm on his face whenever he drifted back into open air. He could almost take a nap like this if he weren’t careful. But after completing the first full lap around, which took maybe ten minutes, Marcus was already itching for a bit more excitement again.

On his second lap, Marcus sat up straighter and looked around as he floated. From one bend of the lazy river, he had a clear view of the big slide tower where The Plunge and a couple of other high-thrill slides were. He could even see the splash pool of The Plunge where riders shot out like bullets into a massive spray.

Every time someone came down, a group of onlookers would cheer or clap. It was like the slide was daring him, still unresolved business in his mind. Maybe Dad will let me try it at the very end of the day? he wondered. Given Matthew’s earlier tone, probably not. But… what if he did it right now, on his own? His dad and mom were busy with the twins; they likely wouldn’t even notice if he slipped away for one quick ride. Marcus bit his lip, considering the idea with a mix of excitement and guilt.

He completed the second lap, floating back near the cabana. Peering over, he could see the curtain drawn and Matthew’s legs stretched out on a chair. He was probably reading emails on his phone or resting. The twins were napping; his mom might’ve even dozed off too or stepped out for a moment. Marcus didn’t see her from this angle. This might be his only chance to try the tallest slide without an automatic veto.

I know I can handle it. I’m not really a little kid, he told himself. The thought of conquering The Plunge by himself sent a thrill through him. Sure, it was a bit scary, but in a way that made him want to do it even more—to prove he could.

Decision made, Marcus paddled his tube toward the nearest exit stairs of the lazy river. He’d have to ditch the life jacket. It was against the rules to wear it on the big slides. Besides, Marcus was feeling confident enough in his swimming ability—he reasoned he’d only be in water for a second at the bottom of the slide, and he could swim without the vest just fine. He slipped the vest off his shoulders and left it with the tube on the pool deck.

For a moment, he hesitated. The vest was sort of like a symbol of his parents’ protection (and rules). Removing it made him feel both rebellious and a tiny bit nervous. He swallowed that nervousness quickly as he set the vest down. I’ll be back before anyone knows it, and I’ll put it right back on he promised himself.

Heart thumping a little faster now, Marcus scurried across the hot concrete toward the slide tower. He tried to look casual, as if he were just another kid going for another ride—nothing sneaky here. The park was busy, but not overly crowded, and nobody paid him any special attention. The roar of The Plunge grew louder as he got closer.

Standing at the bottom of the slide, he craned his neck up. It was really tall, much taller looking from right beneath than from far away. Marcus felt a flutter of fear in his stomach. I can do this. I can do this, he repeated in his head. He marched over to the entry gate and started up the spiral stairs of the tower, determined not to chicken out.

He had only ascended about one story when a large hand clamped down firmly on his shoulder from behind. Marcus nearly jumped out of his skin. He knew instantly who that hand belonged to—no one else had such a combination of big hands and perfect timing.

A too-calm voice spoke just above his ear: “Is this the lazy river, Marcus?” Matthew’s words were cool and controlled, but Marcus could hear the anger layered underneath.

Marcus’s stomach dropped.. He turned his head slightly to see his father’s face. Matthew’s jaw was set, and there was a fire in his eyes that made Marcus’s blood run cold. The fact that Matthew had not raised his voice at all made it even scarier.

He opened his mouth, a dozen excuses flooding to mind, but none of them found their way out. He closed his mouth again, face flushing with a mix of guilt and humiliation.

Without another word, Matthew removed his hand only to take a firm grasp of Marcus’s upper arm. He steered his wayward son back down the few steps he had managed to climb. Marcus’s heart pounded as he clambered down, guided by that unyielding grip. He didn’t struggle; what good would it do? Not only was Matthew far stronger, but Marcus felt the weight of dozens of eyes on them as they descended. To him, it felt like everyone in the vicinity must have noticed the disobedient kid getting caught.

They’re all staring. They all know I’m in trouble, Marcus thought miserably. His cheeks burned hot with shame. He kept his gaze firmly on the ground, avoiding any eye contact with the crowd around the slide. In his mind, he imagined what they saw: not a capable adult who could handle a big slide, but a naughty little boy who couldn’t follow the rules, being marched off by his dad.

Matthew said nothing as he led Marcus back toward their cabana, which in some ways was worse than if he had scolded him outright. He had to quicken his pace to keep up with Matthew’s long, furious strides. In a matter of moments they were back at the cabana, which was thankfully a bit removed from the busiest areas. Diana, seeing the look on Matthew’s face, said that she was going to grab a margarita. Matthew waved her on, tugged Marcus into the cabana, and drew the curtain closed behind them, granting them a bit of privacy. And preventing any park onlookers from witnessing what was to come, Marcus realized with dread.

The instant the curtain was closed, Matthew firmly swiveled Marcus by the shoulders and delivered three solid smacks to his son’s bottom. The sound was sharp, even muffled by the canvas cabana walls.

Marcus yelped at the first smack and bit his lip to hold back any further noise, born of a desperate desire not to wake his siblings or draw any outside attention. He hated how much smaller he was now, how Matthew’s large hand could cover practically his whole backside in a single swat.

When Matthew released him, Marcus rubbed his smarting behind, face hot with a mix of embarrassment, anger, and remorse. He couldn’t meet Matthew’s eyes. He stared at his feet, at the little puddles of water still around them from earlier coming and going, anywhere but at his father.

Matthew took a deep breath. Relief at finding his oldest before something bad happened had come out as anger in those few quick smacks. Crouching down so he could look into Marcus’s eyes, Matthew spoke in a low, firm tone.

“I don’t want to hear any excuses. You know what you did was wrong, and it was dangerous. You deliberately disobeyed me, Marcus.” Marcus’s eyes stayed glued to his feet, but he nodded slightly. There was no arguing it.

He pointed to one of the lounge chairs in the cabana, one that was set in the corner away from the sleeping twins. “Sit. Right there,” he instructed. “Your brother and sister are taking a nap, and you are going to sit there quietly until they are ready to play again. Am I understood?”

“Yes, sir,” he mumbled. Marcus sat back in the lounge chair, still in his damp swim trunks, and let out the softest huff of breath.

Great, he thought bitterly, a time-out. Nothing says “you’re just a child now” like having to sit and think about what you’ve done. He kicked his dangling feet a little, feeling utterly defeated and sulky, squirming slightly as his still-stinging bottom was forced to be in contact with the lounge chair. When he was sure that Matthew wasn’t looking, he flipped him off, his hand half hidden by the towel wrapped around him.

A few minutes passed. The only sounds were the faint park noises outside, muffled laughter and splashes, and the quiet buzz of Matthew’s phone as he scrolled through work emails.

Marcus’s initial anger slowly waned, leaving boredom and regret in its wake. There was absolutely nothing to do in this tiny corner of the cabana except silently count the wrinkles in the canvas roof or examine the pattern on the carpet. The excitement of the water park felt very far away now. He could hear it, but he was cut off from it, stuck on this chair as punishment. Marcus sighed and looked around for anything remotely interesting.

He spotted the mini-fridge that Paul had pointed out earlier. It had a glass front, so he could see some soda cans inside. Desperate for distraction, he began reading the ingredients on a can of Sprite from afar (carbonated water, high fructose corn syrup, citric acid…riveting stuff). That occupied maybe thirty seconds. Next his eyes wandered to the snack basket left on the table. There was a small bag of potato chips. He picked it up and skimmed the nutrition facts on the back, counting the calories and sodium content just for something to do. Another minute gone.

Marcus’s gaze then fell upon the park brochure that had come with their cabana. It was a colorful pamphlet illustrating all the attractions. He had already memorized the park map earlier, but now he opened it and read every tiny description of the slides, the safety rules section, even the ads for the park’s evening drive-in movie nights and season pass sales.

This is so painfully boring, he lamented internally. He sneaked a peek at his father. Matthew was engrossed in his phone, one leg crossed over the other, looking the picture of calm. But Marcus knew him well enough to detect the tension in the set of his shoulders. Marcus groaned softly and slumped further.

Ten minutes felt like an eternity. By the time fifteen minutes had crept by, Marcus had run out of things to read or count. He began tapping his fingers on the lounge chair armrest absentmindedly, then caught himself and stopped—worried even that soft drumming might violate the “quietly” rule. He gazed longingly toward the curtained entrance, imagining the cool water outside, the fun still being had by everyone else. This really was the worst.

Matthew, for his part, was trying to concentrate on clearing some emails, but he was very aware of the restless kid a few feet away. He could see Marcus in his peripheral vision, fidgeting and looking utterly pitiful. At first, Matthew hardened his heart—Marcus earned this boredom, and it was meant to be a consequence. But as the minutes ticked by, he started to feel a twinge of sympathy.

Marcus had been so excited this morning; he’d been having a great day and truth be told, Matthew had been enjoying it too, aside from the few scares. The kid had made a bad choice, yes, but now he was just sitting there looking like a sad little sponge that had all the fun wrung out of him. Matthew shifted in his seat, debating internally. He certainly didn’t want to undercut the punishment, but, making a child stare at the walls for an hour was a bit much.

Finally, pity—or at least the closest thing Matthew could muster to pity—won out. With a resigned sigh, he locked his phone and stood up. Marcus noticed movement and glanced over, confused as Matthew approached him. Without a word, Matthew reached into the pocket of the backpack they’d brought and pulled out Marcus’s own phone. Marcus looked at it in shock, as if it were a trick.

“Remember what I said: sit quietly,” Matthew reminded him in a low voice, giving a tiny emphasis to make sure Marcus knew this wasn’t a total free pass.

Marcus blinked, still holding the phone uncertainly. Was this real? His strict, no-nonsense father had just handed him a loophole. >em>He said I had to sit quietly, Marcus mused, but he didn’t say I couldn’t occupy myself. It wasn’t exactly spoken aloud, but clearly Matthew had decided that as long as Marcus remained quiet and seated, he didn’t mind him using the phone.

He curled up a bit on the lounge chair, turning the volume on the phone all the way down to mute, and opened one of the puzzle games. It was a number logic puzzle. Marcus found he could focus on it well enough, and it kept his mind from spiraling into how unfair life was. The familiar little digital tiles and quiet strategy of the game soothed him.

Time passed much more quickly with the phone in hand. By the time one of the twins began to stir and whine, Marcus had beaten two levels of the puzzle game and was engrossed in reading a short comic strip online. Matthew noticed the twins waking as well and went over to gently scoop up Pip, who was blinking sleepily. Diana reappeared through the curtain at that moment, holding a half-finished cup of green slush. By the relaxed smile on her face, she’d enjoyed her mini-vacation with a frozen margarita.

“Perfect timing,” she said softly as she saw the twins waking. “Did everyone behave?” she asked while making eye contact with Marcus and Matthew.

“Very well,” Matthew said. He glanced at Marcus. The sternness had eased; there was something thoughtful in his face now, a decision settling. He crouched so he was eye-level with his son.

“Alright,” he said quietly. “You broke a rule; you paid for it. What you do next matters.”

Marcus nodded, throat tight. “Yes, sir.”

“Okay, so now what should we do?” Diana asked, preventing any more tension from building.

He pointed his thumb gently toward Marcus. “I was thinking about taking this one to the big slides since he was so keen to go on them he tried to sneak past us.”

Marcus’s head snapped up. Shock, surprise, and hope flickered across his face so quickly it made him dizzy. He’d been sure the rest of the day would be relegated to kiddie areas and forced “quiet family time.”

“Sounds fun,” Diana said, eyes warm. She bent to scoop up a blinking Rebecca and kissed her sticky forehead. “What do you think?” she asked the twins. “Should we go watch your brother and Daddy go down the big slide? Do you think they’ll make a big splash?”

“Yes!” Rebecca chirped, clapping with sudden, fierce enthusiasm.

“Big splash!” echoed Philip, not to be left out, jabbing a determined finger toward the slides.

Diana laughed and turned back to Matthew. “Sounds like you have your orders, then.”

The line for the Plunge was practically nonexistent. The afternoon crowds had thinned, families gone to snack stands and shaded chairs. Marcus tried to keep his breathing even as they climbed the tower. From below, the slide had looked like a blue ribbon against the sky. From the staircase, it looked like a sheer face of polished water. He pressed on anyway, Matthew’s large palm resting between his shoulder blades in quiet reassurance. He wanted to do this. He wanted to prove to himself as much as to anyone that he could, and he absolutely refused to disappoint the twins on the promised Big Splash.

They reached the launch platform, where a lifeguard with mirrored sunglasses gave them a brisk run-through: how to cross their ankles, where to fold their arms, keep their head back, look straight ahead, don’t try to slow yourself, the water will catch you, you’ll be fine. The water roaring through the flume sounded, impossibly, like wind in trees and static on radios all at once.

Matthew leaned close. “Last chance,” he murmured. “We can take the stairs down and go do the yellow raft again.”

Marcus shook his head. “I want to.” He flicked a glance sideways, lowering his voice. “Meet you at the bottom?”

The lifeguard waved Marcus forward; Matthew would follow on the next signal. Marcus lay back on the slick surface, every nerve jangling. He heard the lifeguard’s cheerful “Three… two… one…” and then the world fell.

The first breath was gone in a white roar, water streaming past his ears like a gale. He kept his arms tight across his chest as instructed, ankles crossed, eyes wide and stinging with spray. The slide dropped and dropped—straight, almost vertical—and then arced into a long, sweeping glide, speed bleeding into control. He felt weightless for the briefest heartbeat—pure, clean flight—before the chute leveled and the catch pool rushed up in a shining sheet.

He hit the water like a thunderclap. For a second there was nothing but cool blue and bubbles and the giddy shock of it. He kicked once, twice, and surfaced, sputtering and laughing, wiping water out of his eyes. He’d barely gotten his bearings before another great splash detonated beside him.

Matthew popped up, slicked hair back, and turned to Marcus immediately. “Alright?” he asked—not even looking at the lifeguard, not at the crowd, only at his son.

“That was— that was insane. That was amazing!” Marcus said, nodding hard and grinning so widely his face hurt.

Diana had stationed herself with the twins along the fence that bordered the catch pool. Becca was bouncing so energetically the chain links rattled; Pip had his cheeks pressed between the diamonds, eyes bright.

As father and son waded out and approached, water streaming from their hair and eyebrows, Matthew lifted an eyebrow at the toddlers. “Well? Was that a big enough splash?”

“BIG splash!” Philip crowed, throwing both arms in the air. He nearly toppled over; Diana snagged him by the straps of his little swim vest and set him right, chuckling.

“Again!” Rebecca demanded.

“Another day,” Matthew said dryly, though the glint in his eyes betrayed how much he’d actually enjoyed it. He reached over and tugged gently at one of Marcus’s dripping curls. “You, sir, did very well.”

They managed one more raft slide together—the kind that made Diana laugh from her vantage point below when the raft bobbed like a cork through the final drop—before the long day caught up with all three children. By the time the cabana was tidied, snacks stashed, and clothes changed, the twins were drooping against Diana’s shoulders, and even Marcus’s steps had lost their spring.

In the car, he fought sleep for exactly sixty seconds. The engine’s hum and the cool breath of the AC conspired with a day well-spent; his head tipped toward the window, then toward Rebecca’s car seat as she reached across the gap with a drowsy hand. Without thinking, he laced his fingers through hers. Pip’s soft snores filled the backseat. Up front, Matthew adjusted the rearview mirror to check on them, something tender easing in his face at the sight of his three sleeping children. Diana, seeing the look on Matthew’s face, turned and snapped several photos of the kids.

Diana rested a palm over Matthew’s on the console. “Good call today,” she murmured.

Matthew huffed a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “On the time-out or the slide?”

“Both,” she said, and squeezed once.

Turning his eyes back to the road, Matthew’s mouth curved up slightly. He’d been stern when he had to be, and soft when he chose to be; the line between the two felt a little easier to walk today. In the mirror, he caught the edge of Marcus’s smile even in sleep.

Maybe, Matthew thought, not for the first time, this second childhood would be less about holding on and more about learning how to let go together—one plunge, one rule, one laugh at a time.

Changed into pajamas, Marcus shoved one of Matthew’s worn black tees under his pillow. He wasn’t fully sure why he did it—he’d never admit it out loud—but having it there made him feel steadier somehow. Safer. Maybe calmer after the nightmares that had plagued him lately. Not that he was about to practice emotional honesty; that was hardly the way of a two-hundred-and-fifty-year-old twelve-year-old.

He made sure the shirt was hidden but close enough to grab if he needed it. Then, with a practiced motion, he cracked his bedroom door open just a few inches. That was the signal—subtle, but clear—that he was ready. Not for “bedtime,” he would never call it that, but for their routine.

A minute later, Matthew’s familiar footsteps approached. He entered quietly, holding a slim hardback in hand.

“New book tonight,” Matthew said. His voice carried that unassuming softness he reserved for these moments. “We finished The Hobbit yesterday, so I thought we’d start The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.”

“Figures. You’d pick the one where a bunch of kids disappear into a wardrobe without supervision and it somehow works out fine. If I did that, you’d spank me.” Marcus smirked, pulling the blanket up to his chin.

“And yet you still want to hear the story,” Matthew replied, lips twitching as he settled into the chair by the bed and opening the book.

“Purely for the educational value,” Marcus said primly, though his eyes gleamed.

Matthew huffed a quiet laugh and began to read in his low, steady cadence. The opening lines rolled over the boy, words of siblings sent to the countryside during the war, of an old house and a hidden wardrobe. Marcus listened, half-drowsy, half-enthralled, letting the familiar rhythm of his father’s voice do its work.

Every so often, Marcus peeked through his lashes. Matthew stayed focused on the page, but his free hand rested close, ready to steady or soothe if Marcus startled. He knew, as sure as anything, that Matthew wouldn’t leave until sleep had settled him firmly.

By the time Lucy pushed past fur coats into snow and lantern light, Marcus’s breathing had evened, and the day’s weariness had claimed him. Matthew marked the page quietly, closed the book, and lingered for a few more minutes, watching the boy’s face slacken into peaceful sleep.

At last, he brushed a hand gently through Marcus’s hair and left the door cracked, just enough for comfort. Under the pillow, the soft cotton of his tee remained within reach, a sort of protection against both nightmares and the dark.

Chapter Text

Marcus was bouncing off the walls, bored out of his mind on a long afternoon. In desperation, he had convinced Matthew to let him watch a MythBusters marathon under the guise of “educational programming.” Matthew agreed, not realizing the show was essentially a parade of explosions and questionable stunts.

Sure, the hosts always warned “Don’t try this at home,” but really, what 12-year-old would listen to that? The MythBusters had spent over a decade testing “impossible, dangerous and downright crazy myths that you shouldn’t or couldn’t try at home”, which of course made Marcus itch to try all of them.

From his perch on the couch, Marcus watched in awe as the MythBusters blew up a cement truck, shot chickens at airplane windshields, and turned a water heater into a rocket. Every crash and blast only fueled his imagination further.

One myth in particular grabbed hold of him. In one episode, Tory, Grant, and Kari tackled a story about a criminal who built a parachute out of hotel room materials to escape from a high-rise. Marcus’s eyes had gone wide at the sight of them stitching together bedsheets and shower curtains with duct tape to make a working parachute. He didn’t care that they had busted the myth. He was sure he could do it better and make it work.

By the time the marathon ended, Marcus’s mind was swirling with ideas. He was going to build a homemade parachute and prove that he could float safely down from great heights, just like in the show. What could possibly go wrong?

Which is how, barely an hour later, Marcus found himself in his bedroom surrounded by a dragon’s hoard of household materials. He had raided every closet for spare bed sheets, yanked down two window curtains, and even unhooked the shower curtain and liner from the bathroom.

A heap of fabric now sprawled across his floor. To this stash he added a roll of duct tape pilfered from the garage, a couple of utility knives/scissors for cutting materials, and an entire coil of parachute cord. He wondered for a moment why Matthew had so much of it, but then decided it didn’t matter

He thought adding a little bit of structure may help the parachute hold up better than it had on the show. Unfortunately he could only find one ruler to attach, but he did manage to find a few plastic pieces of toy-car tracks and a bamboo back scratcher that would help hold everything in place.

With the MythBusters episode fresh in his memory, Marcus got to work building his parachute. He spread out the largest bedsheet and overlaid it with the plastic shower curtain for reinforcement, trying to imitate what he’d seen on TV. The bedroom quickly became a disaster zone of fabric shreds and strips of silvery duct tape littering the floor.

Marcus hacked at an old sheet, cutting it into a rough octagonal shape. He used the thick shower liner as an additional layer, taping it securely to the sheet on all edges, inserting one of his structural pieces along each edge. Duct tape soon covered a good portion of the “canopy,” reinforcing seams and attaching make-shift handles.

Next came the parachute cords. Marcus unwound lengths of the strong cord and tied them to the corners of his sheet-and-shower-curtain canopy. He remembered the show’s hosts had lots of ropes going from the parachute to the harness, so he figured four main lines, one at each corner of the sheet, should do the trick. He looped each cord end through a grommet hole in the curtain and for good measure, duct-taped those connections as well. The other ends of all four cords he gathered together and tied into one big knot. This knot, he thought, could be looped onto his belt or held in his hands when it came time to jump.

After what felt like ages, but was probably only 45 minutes, Marcus stepped back to survey his creation. It wasn’t exactly pretty, but then again, neither were the MythBusters’ contraptions half the time. “It just has to catch air,” he told himself with a grin. His heart pounded with excitement.

Parachute ready, Marcus couldn’t wait any longer. It was time for a test flight—on a small scale, of course. He gathered up the billowing mass of fabric and carefully crept downstairs and out into the backyard. The summer sun beat down and a light breeze ruffled the grass. Perfect conditions for parachuting, he thought.

For the first test, Marcus chose a relatively low jump: the backyard patio. The wooden patio had a few steps leading down to the lawn. Marcus figured starting small was wise—even MythBusters started with small-scale tests! He climbed onto the railing of the three-foot-high deck, clutching the bundled parachute. With a deep breath, he held the sheet above him as high as his arms could reach, letting it billow out. It was so large it hung down around him like a droopy mushroom cap.

“Here goes nothing!” Marcus muttered. He bent his knees and jumped off the patio railing. For one exhilarating millisecond, the sheet above him puffed with air, but the jump was far too low for the parachute to properly deploy. Marcus dropped like a rock and hit the ground feet-first. The impact sent a jarring shock up his legs. He stumbled forward onto the grass, the parachute fluttering down on top of him like a giant ghost costume.

Marcus sat up, heart pounding. That hadn’t gone as gracefully as he’d hoped. His ankles stung from the hard landing on the grass, but no real damage done. In truth, he hadn’t expected a gentle float from just a few feet high. He was following the scientific method, right? Start low, observe results, then go higher. Clearly, from such a small jump the parachute didn’t have time to fill with air. The failure didn’t discourage him; it only proved his next point.

“I need more height,” he concluded aloud, nodding to himself. More height would give the parachute time to catch air and slow his fall, just like a real skydive. The MythBusters’ dummy, Buster, had been dropped from 20 stories in the show. Marcus only fell from a few feet. Of course it didn’t work yet! He just had to go higher.

Brushing grass off the sheet, Marcus refolded his parachute. He eyed the next target: the top of the patio overhang, about eight feet off the ground. The patio had a sturdy wooden overhang that jutted out from the house—essentially a little roof over the deck. If he climbed up onto that, he could jump from a higher spot without going all the way to the house roof…at least, not yet.

Using the stacked firewood as a makeshift ladder, Marcus scrambled up onto the patio overhang, dragging the parachute with him. He now stood roughly at first-story roof height. His knees trembled a bit as he balanced on the sloped structure. Looking down, the ground seemed much farther away than from the railing. For a moment, he felt a flutter of nervousness in his stomach. But excitement quickly took over. This was exactly the kind of daring experiment the MythBusters would do.

Up on the overhang, Marcus carefully gathered the parachute canopy in his hands so the cords wouldn’t tangle. The afternoon breeze tugged at the sheets, making them flap. He took a deep breath, spreading his arms to let the parachute catch the wind. “Alright, parachute, don’t fail me now,” he whispered.

Marcus closed his eyes for a split second and leapt forward off the patio overhang. For a glorious moment, he was flying. The homemade parachute above him billowed open as the air rushed into it. Marcus actually felt a tug upward—a thrilling split-second where gravity’s pull seemed to ease. But physics was a harsh mistress. Almost immediately, one corner of the taped bedsheet ripped under the strain. The parachute collapsed on one side, spilling the air.

Marcus’s stomach lurched as he began to drop faster. He flailed, clinging to the cords, but it was too late for a course correction. He hit the flower bed beside the patio with an impressive crash. Marcus’s feet and backside plowed straight into an enormous bush full of summer blooms. Branches snapped and flowers exploded in a cloud of petals.

The bush did break his fall somewhat—certainly better than bare ground—but it also fought back ferociously. Twigs scratched his arms and legs, and one particularly mean branch jabbed his ankle hard as he landed. Marcus ended up half-sitting, half-lying in the wreckage of the shrub. Leaves drifted down around him. The bright pink peonies that Diana had planted last year were now a crushed tangle under his body.

For a long moment, Marcus just sat there in a daze. He was alive. Actually, he was more than alive. He was exhilarated. Adrenaline surged through him, masking the pain of the scrapes and the throbbing ache in his ankle.

His improvised parachute had sort of worked. Okay, maybe not really worked, but he had felt a tiny bit of lift at first! If only the sheet hadn’t torn! Panting, Marcus pushed the deflated parachute fabric off his head. He saw the torn corner where the duct tape had given way. Next time, he thought, more duct tape there. Maybe double layers. He pushed the duct tape back on in an attempt to fix the damage. His left ankle twinged as he shifted to get up, making him wince. It hurt to put weight on it. He must have twisted it on the landing. Still, nothing felt broken.

Marcus clambered out of the ruined bush, twigs sticking out of his hair and scratches criss-crossing his shins. He glanced nervously at the house, but thankfully no one appeared to have heard the great patio crash landing. Matthew must still be at work, thankfully.

Marcus knew the evidence of his experiment was plain to see. The poor bush was flattened, and petals were strewn everywhere. He swallowed hard. Diana is going to kill me when she sees this. His stepmom loved her flower garden.

Marcus bit his lip, mind racing. Perhaps he could fluff the bush back up? Or maybe he could blame this on a rogue raccoon later? For now, though, he had bigger plans. The parachute hadn’t delivered a soft landing from eight feet, but instead of scaring him straight, the partial success only spurred him on. “I just need even more height,” he told himself resolutely. The thought process of a 12-year-old daredevil was kicking in: if a little didn’t work, try a lot.

Obviously the parachute would have time to open fully if he jumped from, say... the roof of the house. That was at least two stories high—plenty of time for air resistance to work its magic, right?

He limped slightly as he gathered up his parachute once again. His ankle was tender, but in the heat of the moment he brushed it off as just a bruise. Marcus’s eyes lifted to the roof of the house. The two-story family home had a peaked roof above the second floor. If he could climb up there, the drop would be much higher than the patio overhang. In his mind’s eye he imagined the parachute opening wide and carrying him gently down to the lawn, heroically like a true MythBuster.

I’ll show them it can work, he thought. I’ll be the first kid to parachute off a house and land without a scratch! It was an absurd notion, but Marcus was riding on adrenaline and nothing was going to stop him now.

Getting onto the roof was easier than Marcus imagined. He knew that the big oak tree in the backyard had a branch that extended near the side of the house. He had climbed that tree dozens of times. With his parachute bundle slung over his shoulder, Marcus scaled the oak tree, ignoring the twinge in his ankle. Up and up he went, until he reached the thick limb that arched close to the roof. From there, it was a short scramble to clamber onto the roof. He tossed the parachute ahead of him and hoisted his body up after it with a grunt of effort.

Now, Marcus stood on the roof of the house, the whole neighborhood spread out around him. A breeze up here tugged at his parachute, threatening to send it sliding off the edge, so he quickly gathered it under one arm. His heart was hammering in his chest, partly from the effort of the climb, partly from the thrill, and, if he was honest with himself, maybe a bit from fear.

It struck him for a moment that this was really high. Looking down over the edge made his stomach do a flip. The lawn below seemed far away; the crushed flower bush directly beneath him on the side of the patio looked like a tiny green blob from up here.

Maybe the roof is a bit much, a small voice of reason piped up in his head. But Marcus shook off the doubt. He remembered the MythBusters jumping off a 30-story crane with their improved parachute and Buster surviving. His house was what, two stories? This was nothing in comparison. He just had to be brave and do it quickly before anyone caught him.

Marcus positioned himself near the edge of the roof, planting his sneakered feet firmly on the shingles. He carefully unfurled his patched-together parachute one more time, arranging the sheets so they wouldn’t snag on anything during his jump. The wind gusted gently, puffing the fabric. Perfect, a little wind could only help. He looped the big knot of cords around his right wrist securely.

Down below, the back door slammed open. Marcus froze. To his horror, he saw Matthew stepping out onto the patio, likely drawn by either the noise outside or perhaps just to check on the suspicious silence. Matthew took one look at the demolished flower bush, the petals everywhere, and his jaw dropped. Then he lifted his gaze upward, following the trail of destruction...and locked eyes on Marcus, who was very clearly standing on the roof with a parachute.

“MARCUS RAPHAEL GALEN!”

Matthew’s voice cracked like thunder, even two stories below. Marcus flinched, nearly losing his footing. His stomach plummeted like it had dropped from the roof without a parachute.

“WHAT on EARTH do you think you’re doing up there?!” Matthew shouted, equal parts terror and fury in his voice. He looked like he might just faint or explode or both at any second.

Marcus’s mind went blank with panic. “I-I can explain!” he squeaked, though he doubted he actually could explain this in any way that would save his ass once Matthew got a hold of him.

His foot slid a few inches on the shingles, and he steadied himself with an urgent flail of his arms. The sudden movement caused the parachute to catch a bit of wind like a sail. It yanked at his arm unexpectedly, almost pulling him forward. Marcus stumbled, one foot skidding toward the edge.

Matthew’s eyes went wide. “Marcus, don’t move!” he yelled, holding up his palms as if trying to calm a wild horse.

But it was too late—Marcus’s balance was lost. With a yelp, he teetered and felt gravity take hold. The roof’s edge rushed up to meet him. Marcus had just enough presence of mind to clutch the parachute’s cords in desperation as he fell off the roof.

For the second time that day, Marcus was falling through the air, except this time it was a much longer drop. The world seemed to slow down for an instant. He saw Matthew lunging forward on the patio below, arms outstretched. Instinctively, Marcus yanked upward on the parachute cords as he plummeted. Miraculously, the canopy actually puffed open above him, at least partially.

The homemade parachute snapped taut for a heartbeat, and Marcus felt a jolt as it caught a bit of air. However, with one corner already torn and the angles all wrong from his uncontrolled tumble, the parachute immediately collapsed again. Still, that split-second of drag might have been just enough: instead of a direct headfirst plunge, Marcus’s fall turned into more of an awkward slide/roll off the edge of the roof.

He felt Matthew’s arms around him as his feet hit the ground hard a second later, landing not on the open lawn as intended but partly on the patio and partly in the flowerbed. Thankfully, his father had managed to break the worst of his fall.

There was a heavy thud followed by a sharp cry of pain. The moment he hit, Marcus felt a burst of agony in his already sore left ankle. This time, the twist was much worse, stabbing pain shot up his leg. He crumpled into Matthew, the parachute fabric settling over him like a deflated balloon. All the adrenaline that had been propping him up drained away in an instant, replaced by pain, sheer terror and a twinge of regret.

Marcus burst into tears before he could even process anything. “Mom!!” he screamed, panicking. “I WANT MOM!”

In that moment of pain and fright, all his MythBusters-inspired excitement evaporated. He was just a hurt 12-year-old who desperately wanted his mother.

Diana, who had been in the kitchen, heard the awful commotion and Marcus’s scream. Within seconds she sprinted out the back door, her heart in her throat. The sight that greeted her was something out of a nightmare: Marcus was leaning against Matthew crying, tangled in what looked like bedsheets and rope; Matthew was staring down at him looking equal parts enraged and terrified; and her flower garden looked like a small bomb had gone off in it.

“Marcus!” Diana cried, rushing to her son’s side. She gently pulled the makeshift parachute off of him. Marcus was clutching at his leg, face pale and streaked with tears.

“It hurts! My ankle—” he sobbed, both embarrassed and relieved to see his mom. Diana’s hands were already on him, feeling his arms, his legs, checking for additional injuries. Other than the ankle and a collection of scratches, he seemed okay. Marcus threw his arms around her, shaking. Diana held him tight for a moment, closing her eyes in relief that he was alive and in one piece.

Matthew, still breathing hard from the scare, ran a hand over his face. He looked up at the roof, at the tree, then down at the parachute debris and crushed flowers. It was like the pieces of a puzzle falling into place. A very troubling puzzle. Understanding, anger, and worry warred on his face.

“Is anything broken?” Diana asked, concerned.

Matthew knelt to examine Marcus’s swelling ankle.

“I don’t think so,” he said tersely, gently probing the area. Marcus winced and hiccupped tears. The ankle was already swelling and turning red, but Marcus could wiggle his toes. Likely a sprain, not a break.

Once it was clear that aside from the sprained ankle and scrapes Marcus would be alright, the atmosphere in the backyard shifted.

Relief in Matthew’s eyes was quickly replaced by anger now that the immediate crisis had passed. Diana’s expression, too, transformed into that special mix of fury and disappointment only a mom could pull off.

Marcus, still sniffling, realized he was in huge trouble. The pain in his ankle was throbbing, but even that didn’t overshadow the dread creeping up his spine as both parents fixed him with the look. He swallowed hard.

Matthew’s voice was deathly calm, which was somehow scarier than yelling. “Marcus,” he said slowly, “explain.”

“I… I was trying to m-make a parachute,” he stammered, wiping his nose on his sleeve. Now that he said it out loud, it sounded insane. “It was on MythBusters… I thought… they did it on TV…”

Closing his eyes, Matthew took a deep breath, struggling to contain himself. “So you decided to jump off the roof?!” he finally hissed. Marcus flinched. Diana put a calming hand on Matthew’s shoulder, but her own eyes flashed angrily.

“I’m sorry,” Marcus wailed softly. His bottom lip trembled. “I just wanted to see if it would work”

Diana gestured at the carnage of sheets and tape. “You could have broken your neck, Marcus! We’re extremely lucky you aren’t seriously injured.” She shook her head. “We told you no reenacting anything from that show!”

Indeed, both his parents had explicitly warned him, when he first got hooked on MythBusters, not to try to copy any of it. At the time Marcus had rolled his eyes, and gave a smart remark about not actually being twelve and knowing better. But the twelve year old Marcus currently was clearly overruled his sense of better judgment. He hung his head, tears dripping onto his shirt.

“It almost worked though,” he mumbled in a feeble defense, then immediately wished he hadn’t when he saw Matthew’s face darken into a storm cloud.

“Almost worked? Marcus, do you have any idea how badly you could have been hurt?!” Matthew scolded, voice rising again. “You could have died!”

Marcus started crying harder at that word. He hadn’t thought about dying when he was up there, but now the reality of what he’d done came crashing down. In his mind he saw himself falling, saw the ground rushing up and it made him shudder.

“I’m s-sorry…” he blubbered, and he truly was. Sorry for the bush, sorry for scaring them, sorry for being so stupid. His ankle throbbed and he wiped at his face, suddenly feeling like he was much younger than twelve, let alone over two hundred.

But worst of all was the look on Matthew’s face. It was equal parts panic, fury, and profound disappointment.

His father exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. He looked at Diana, who gave a small nod of agreement. Consequences were in order. Serious consequences.

Marcus’s stomach sank.

Despite his pain and remorse, Marcus’s eyes widened when he realized what that meant. “Wait—” he sniffled, “I’m injured!” Surely they wouldn’t still… surely they wouldn’t spank him when he was already hurt? There was a note of panic in his voice.

“I am not about to spank your ankle, Marcus,” Matthew said sharply. “I’m going to spank the naughty recklessness out of your bottom.”

Marcus looked at his tattered parachute lying in a crumpled heap on the ground. Matthew’s gaze followed his son’s. His eyes narrowed. Without a word, he bent and plucked the bamboo back scratcher protruding slightly from the torn edge of the parachute, his expression grim. Then he lifted his son out of Diana’s arms.

He walked over to the patio bench and sat down, maneuvering Marcus over his lap. Careful to avoid putting any pressure on his injured ankle. Matthew pulled his shorts and boxers to his knees before securing him in place with a hand around his waist.

“Dad,” Marcus pleaded, a flash of regret and fear coursing through him.

“Naughty children do not get to negotiate how they are spanked,” Matthew said firmly.

Marcus flushed crimson from the roots of his hair to the tips of his ears. The summer breeze swept across the yard, cool and unkind against his bared backside, just as the first snap of the bamboo backscratcher landed with a crack.

The sting was instantaneous. Marcus yelped, the breath flying from his lungs. Before he could recover, the second swat struck, then the third, landing with blistering precision across the undercurve of his bottom.

“OW—” Marcus cried out, legs kicking weakly. But Matthew didn’t answer. The backscratcher descended again and again in a steady rhythm, pausing just long enough for Marcus to feel the sting building before the next swat fell.

Marcus squirmed, hands gripping the edge of the bench. His ankle throbbed with every twitch, but his backside throbbed worse.

“Please—I’m sorry—I won’t—I won’t ever—” he sobbed, but his words dissolved into gasps as the backscratcher snapped against his bare skin, each flick of Matthew’s wrist sending a fresh wave of fire cascading across Marcus’s burning bottom. The fiery discomfort blurred with the heat of his tears.

Matthew slapped the backscratcher on the crease where Marcus’s backside met his thighs, delivering a crisp volley of smacks there. Then he moved slightly lower, targeting the sensitive upper thighs.

Marcus yelped and kicked reflexively, his legs tangling in his crumpled shorts. His father’s arm tightened around his waist, and Marcus’s yelps broke into hiccuping sobs.

By the time Matthew finally stilled his hand and set the backscratcher aside on the bench, Marcus’s nose was running and his breath came in ragged gasps. His backside burned, every patch of skin thoroughly punished.

Marcus lay over his lap, sobbing hard. His bottom felt like it was on fire, and not the cool MythBusters kind of fire, the very uncool, soundly-spanked kind of fire.

Matthew gently lifted him upright. Marcus immediately threw his arms around his dad, hiding his face in his father’s chest, seeking forgiveness and comfort even as he cried. Matthew hugged him back, rubbing the boy’s back gently now.

“It’s okay… it’s over,” he murmured. His anger had melted the second Marcus’s punishment was done. Now he just felt relief that his son was safe.

Diana sat down on Marcus’s other side on the bench, pulling the sniffling child into her arms as well. Marcus hiccupped and clung to both his parents, tears dripping off his chin.

“I’m s-sorry, Dad. I’m really sorry,” he kept repeating.

“We know, sweetheart,” Diana said softly, kissing the top of his head. She cupped his face, making him look at her. “But Marcus, you understand why we’re so upset, don’t you? You scared us. You could have been really, really hurt.” Her voice wavered slightly on the last part, the fear still fresh in her mind.

“I won’t do anything like that again. Ever,” he gulped, nodding miserably. Frankly, the whole ordeal had scared him too. Now that the thrill was gone, the reality of how badly he could have been injured was sinking in. No myth was worth busting if it got him busted up in the process, and especially not if it got his ass busted.

After letting Marcus calm down, Matthew carried him inside to the kitchen table. Marcus winced as his smarting backside made contact with the hard wooden chair. He scowled at the gentleness with which his father lifted his ankle to get a better look at it.

“I think we better have Diana fix this. Otherwise, you are going to be limping around for days,” Matthew said, his voice laced with concern.

“Are you going to feel bad that you spanked me if I am seriously injured?” Marcus asked, crossing his arms petulantly as he squirmed.

“No.” Matthew pinned his son with a stern glare. “You aren’t seriously injured. And hopefully this serves as a reminder of why your idea was incredibly foolish.”

Diana stepped next to them, her lips already moving as she knelt down. Matthew watched, fascinated. She laid her fingertips on Marcus’s ankle. The bones underneath tingled with electricity before the joint reset with a snap.

“Ow!” Marcus threw his hand down his leg.

“It will only sting for a bit,” Diana said. “You were strong enough to withstand the injury—you should have no problem with the cure.”

She studied his ankle for a moment and nodded with satisfaction as it returned to a normal size.

Marcus moved the ankle Matthew was still holding in a circle, testing it with cautious movements. It was still a bit sore, but definitely better than before.

Diana brushed her hands off and looked up. “Are you injured anywhere else?”

He opened his mouth to answer, then thought better of it. He glanced at Matthew.

Nope. He definitely wasn’t going to ask if Diana could also heal his very soundly spanked backside. If he did, Matthew would probably give him another round for trying to get out of the effects of his punishment.

“I’m good,” he said instead, voice hoarse but sincere.

Matthew arched a brow suspiciously. “Are you sure?”

“Completely. Totally. No injuries whatsoever.” Marcus gave a very solemn nod.

With a knowing smirk, Diana rose to her feet. She lightly ruffled Marcus’s hair as she headed back outside, presumably to clean up the mess and see if she could salvage her peony bush.

Silence settled over the kitchen. Marcus wiped at his face, the last tears drying into tacky salt on his cheeks.

Marcus sniffled once and, despite himself, let a tired, sheepish smile tug at his lips.

“Well,” he said quietly, “I guess I did learn something educational from MythBusters after all.”

“Oh?” Matthew looked down at him.

“Yeah.” Marcus rubbed his sleeve under his nose. “Like why the show always said ‘Don’t try this at home.’”

Chapter Text

Diana had declared, without room for negotiation, that everyone needed fresh air. Matthew had been working at the lab all morning, and Marcus had been a bundle of boundless energy since breakfast. Becca and Philip had started the day by painting the refrigerator with yogurt, which, in Diana’s mind, sealed her decision. They were going outside. End of story.

And so, under an overcast sky, Diana shepherded one still-magically-twelve-year-old and two magical toddlers to the park.

Marcus was surprised how much he’d come to enjoy the park. The one they usually went to was jungle themed and had play animals that they could climb on. Diana also sometimes let him go on the short hiking trail for a few minutes on his own, as long as he promised to listen for her to call him back.

The park was wide and green, still soft from the rain the night before. Becca and Pip made a beeline for the sandbox, immediately abandoning their shoes.
Marcus contented himself by darting across the upper levels of the play structure. He was half-running, half-imagining an epic chase scene, when he heard a sound that stopped him in his tracks. A soft, rasping cry cut through the warm afternoon air.

Marcus stopped mid-lap. He turned, scanning the low hedgerow near the edge of the park. The cry came again. It sounded weak. Desperate, almost.
He edged toward it slowly, lowering himself to his haunches.

Just beneath a hedge, half-obscured by clover and wet leaves, was a small, trembling lump of fur. Its coat was filthy, matted and slicked with mud, and its ribs showed clearly under its waterlogged frame. It let out another cry, almost hoarse.

“Hey, little guy,” Marcus said softly, crouching to be eye-level. “Where’s your mama?”

The kitten just looked up at him with wide, glassy eyes and let out another pitiful mewl.

“Oh, buddy,” Marcus whispered.

He looked over his shoulder. Becca and Pip were busy building a sand mountain. Diana was watching them with one eye and checking her phone with the other. Marcus reached out and gently scooped the kitten into his arms. The tiny thing shivered violently against his chest.

“Okay,” Marcus muttered, holding it close. “This shirt was ugly anyway.”

He crossed the playground and walked up to Diana, his arms cradling the bundle of mud and bones.

“Mom, we have a situation.”

Diana looked up. “What’s that?”

“Someone who needs our help.”

Diana’s face softened before she even fully registered what he was holding. By the time Marcus turned his big, sad, unreasonably effective blue eyes on her, she was already a goner.

“Your father is not going to be pleased,” she warned.

Marcus looked down at the kitten, whose head now rested against his collarbone. His face fell. Of course Matthew wouldn’t let him keep the kitten.

At Marcus’s forlorn look, Diana’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “But he’ll have to adjust.”

Becca noticed the new addition instantly. “Kitty!” she squealed from across the sandbox, scrambling toward them with Pip on her heels.

“Buvver kitty!” Pip cried, stumbling in excitement. “Pip kitty?” he added hopefully.

“Maybe we could share the kitty,” Marcus offered, snuggling the pathetic, shivering creature tighter in his arms.

Both twins clapped and bounced at the prospect of a pet kitty. Within ten minutes, Diana had the kitten bundled in a blanket from the car and Marcus in a clean shirt from the backseat.

“Why do you have a change of clothes for me in the car?” Marcus asked, suspicious.

Diana merely arched an eyebrow as she loaded the kids into the car to head to the nearest pet store. Under her supervision, the twins filled the shopping cart with an absurd volume of cat toys—feather wands, glitter balls, dangling mice, even a vibrating sushi roll that sang. Marcus, meanwhile, was charged with gathering the essentials: kitten food, a litter box, bowls, and a fluffy bed.

“I don’t think he’ll care what color it is,” Marcus said as his stepmom held up two pet beds.

“He might,” Diana said thoughtfully. “I know someone else who’s picky about sheets.”

Marcus rolled his eyes at the mention of his insistence on Star Wars sheets for his bed. Matthew had been exasperated by the whole thing, but Diana, ever the peacekeeper, had taken Marcus to Pottery Barn and bought not only sheets, but room decor and an inflatable R2D2 sprinkler. Then, she’d ordered at least a dozen Star Wars Lego sets for him.

At the store clerk’s insistence, they also added a pet dryer to the cart—something that looked unsettlingly like a microwave but was apparently gentler and less traumatic to the kitten than a hairdryer.

Diana made a quick phone call to a veterinarian she knew who taught in the School of Comparative Medicine, who agreed to come over later that day to take a look at the kitten.

When they got home, Diana set up the pet dryer while Marcus sat cross-legged in the bathroom, bathing the kitten with a damp cloth and gentle shampoo. Two shampoos later, the fur began to shift from gray-brown to orange.

“Oh my God,” Marcus whispered, eyes wide. “He’s orange. I’m naming him Garfield!”

“Marcus Raphael,” Diana warned. His head shot up. It was rare and a little scary for his stepmother to get stern. “This cat does not get fed any human food. Are we clear?”

“Yes, mom,” he answered somberly, trying not to crack a smile.

Diana giggled and helped Marcus gently tuck the soggy kitten into the pet dryer. Garfield meowed once in protest but then curled up and blinked slowly.

While the dryer hummed, Diana went to answer the door for the vet, Marcus sat on the tile floor, watching Garfield with awe.

The vet gave Garfield a quick check up in the kitchen. To Marcus’s relief, the kitten, now cleanish and slightly less feral, was in better shape than expected.

“Malnourished, a bit dehydrated, but otherwise healthy,” the vet reported. “We’ll start antibiotics, special kitten formula, and keep him on soft food. Come to the school next week and we will make sure everything is going as expected.”

Matthew came home in a good mood. It had been a productive day at the lab. The new sequencing array had finally started working correctly, and he'd managed to correct a long-standing calculation error in one of the assays. He was even home earlier than he’d expected.

He walked in through the front door with the evening sunlight shining on his shoulders—and promptly stopped cold.

On the living room couch, Marcus lay fast asleep, limbs tangled in a fleece blanket. Curled on top of his chest, purring with self-satisfied smugness, was an orange kitten.

A kitten. A warm, fuzzy, orange ball of fluff.

Matthew stared.

The kitten stretched, flopped sideways across Marcus’s chest, and blinked once at Matthew with lazy indifference before resuming his nap.

Turning sharply on his heel, Matthew paused in the threshold of the kitchen. “How many animals are you going to allow him to have?” he demanded as Diana stood at the stove, layering lasagna into a deep glass dish like she hadn’t just secretly smuggled a cat into their household.

“First Baldwin buys him a pony—”

“He bought ponies for the twins,” Diana said without looking up. “He bought Marcus a horse.”

“And now this mewling furbag,” he snapped, stabbing a finger toward the living room. Garfield chose that exact moment to yawn and roll onto his back, displaying a fuzzy stomach like a flag of victory. His movement roused Marcus.

“It’s good for children to have pets,” Diana replied, sliding the lasagna into the oven. “It teaches them responsibility.”

“His responsibility peed on the floor and ripped the curtains.”

“Good boy, Garfield,” Diana said with a shrug. “I hated those curtains.”

Matthew sputtered.

From the couch, Marcus sensed the tide shifting and not in his favor. He reached for his not-so-secret weapon and scooped up Philip, who was toddling around in his socks trying to get Garfield to take a cat toy.

“Hey Pip,” Marcus said softly. “Why don’t you go ask Daddy about the kitty?”

Philip, to his credit, was a quick study. He marched into the kitchen and lifted his arms for Matthew to pick him up. Matthew did, out of habit more than anything else.

“Daddy like kitty?” Pip asked, patting Matthew’s cheek.

Matthew blinked.

“Kitty good,” Philip added, pointing toward Marcus who had just scooped Garfield off the curtain he was actively climbing. “Buvver share kitty.”

“Is that so?” Matthew asked.

Philip nodded so hard he nearly hit Matthew in the nose.

Marcus, sensing the moment was ripe, padded over in his socks with Garfield cradled in his arms. The kitten blinked sleepily and promptly began purring again.

“He’s the sweetest little guy,” Marcus said, eyes wide. Garfield let out a tiny squeak of agreement and nestled into Marcus’s hoodie.

The longer Matthew stayed silent, the more Marcus was sure that he was giving in. Finally, his father closed his eyes for a long moment.

“I seem to be outnumbered,” he said flatly.

“Four to one, actually,” Diana said, closing the oven and turning around with a tea towel over her shoulder. “Unless you’re planning to argue with toddlers.”

“I do that on a daily basis.”

“True. But this time you’d lose.”

He glared at her. She smiled sweetly. “Dinner in thirty. Lasagna.”

After dinner, Marcus crept back into the living room. He crouched down beside the coffee table and quietly set down a small saucer.

Of lasagna.

Garfield meowed with delight and dove nose-first into the plate.

Diana appeared in the doorway, arms crossed. “Marcus. What did we say about feeding cats people food?”

“That… we should ask first?” Marcus offered sheepishly.

“That we don’t do it at all,” Diana scolded. A faint shimmer of light sparkled at her fingers, and Marcus yelped as an invisible tap landed squarely on his backside.

“Hey!” Marcus yelped, jumping up and clutching his stinging bottom. “No fair using magic!”

“I could’ve used the spoon,” Diana replied, looking unbothered.

Matthew looked smug. Marcus grumbled but scooped the plate off the floor and sighed dramatically, setting the dish on the table and flopping on to the couch.

Garfield stretched across Marcus’s lap like royalty and was licking tomato sauce off his paw. Matthew looked down at the kitten.

“I give it a week,” he said.

“For what?” Marcus asked, confused.

“Before that creature is sleeping in my bed.”

But even as he grumbled, Matthew reached out and rubbed the kitten’s head with one long finger. Garfield purred like a jet engine.

“He loves you already,” Marcus said, trying to keep the knowing attitude out of his voice.

“That makes one of you.”

Marcus gave his father a hurt look, before setting the kitten on the ground. Then he moved over and curled into Matthew’s lap, snuggling his head against Matthew’s chest.

“That’s not true. You’re my dad. Of course I love you.”

Matthew didn’t respond beyond tightening his arms around his son.

Marcus leaned in the doorway of the study, arms crossed, struggling not to laugh. This was, without a doubt, one of the funniest moments of his very long, very complicated life.

Matthew de Clermont, a creature who had fought in wars, toppled kings, and terrified inquisitors, was crouched on the rug with a bag of salmon-flavored cat treats. His expression was every bit as serious as when he dissected a manuscript or delivered a lecture, eyes narrowed in focus, jaw set like he was about to solve the unsolvable.

“Stay,” Matthew commanded, his voice low, precise, as though Garfield were a soldier under his command.

He placed a treat carefully on the floor. Garfield pounced before Matthew’s hand had even cleared the carpet. The treat vanished in a single gulp. Matthew frowned, straightening a fraction.

“Sit,” he tried again, pointing sternly.

Garfield did not sit. Instead, Garfield launched himself at Matthew’s knee, scaling him like a tree trunk and batting eagerly at the rustling bag.

“Garfield de Clermont, I told you to sit. Get down.” Matthew’s voice sharpened, but the kitten only sunk his teeth into the corner of the bag and tugged. Matthew tried to nudge him away from the bag

The kitten ignored him completely. With an impressive display of teeth, Garfield clamped onto the plastic bag again and tried to chew it open. Finally, the kitten managed to tear the bag open. Treats scattered across the rug like spilled treasure. He dove in headfirst, crunching as if he’d won the greatest battle in feline history.

Matthew pried at him with one large hand, but the cat only growled softly and wriggled free, triumphant.
That did it. Marcus lost it. He doubled over in the doorway, laughter bubbling out of him until his sides hurt.

“Dad,” he gasped, “you realize you’re being outmaneuvered by an animal that still falls off the windowsill half the time?”

Matthew shot him a dark look, though the corners of his mouth twitched as if he was barely holding in his own reluctant amusement.

“You get to try training him next,” he muttered, disentangling Garfield from the bag. The kitten bounded away, tail high, utterly victorious.

Marcus collapsed onto the carpet, still laughing. The sight of his terrifying father being bested by a kitten—his kitten—was one he was never going to forget.

That night, though, the laughter faded.

The dream started like the parachute experiment had. He was falling again—plunging so fast his stomach lurched into his throat. The straps burned his shoulders. The chute didn’t open. He pulled and pulled but nothing happened. Below, the ground rushed up mercilessly: trees, bricks, hard earth waiting to break him.

Matthew wasn’t there. No voice calling instructions. No strong arms catching him. Just the endless drop. He knew, with terrifying certainty, that when he hit, his parents would find only a broken heap in the yard. He opened his mouth to scream—

And jolted awake, tangled in his sheets, sprawled on the bedroom floor.

For a moment he couldn’t breathe. Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead. His chest seized, lungs dragging in short, panicked gasps. He scrambled free of the sheets and bolted down the hall barefoot, driven less by thought than by instinct. Before he realized it, he was at his parents’ door, trembling.

He hesitated. The nightmare had been so real, but now that he was awake, the idea of waking them felt embarrassing. He was too old for this. He’d fought battles. He’d been a surgeon in wartime. What kind of adult ran to their parents after a bad dream?

And yet his feet carried him forward. He hovered by Matthew’s side of the bed, small in the dark. To his shock, his father was actually asleep—something that still startled Marcus whenever he witnessed it. The steady rise and fall of his chest, the faint crease smoothed from his brow. Marcus gnawed his lip, debating.

A shift, the subtle stir of vampire awareness, and Matthew’s eyes opened. He scanned the room once, then focused on Marcus. One look—hair plastered with sweat, cheeks pale, eyes wide—and Matthew moved without a word. He pulled the covers aside in silent invitation.

Marcus climbed in, small and awkward, sliding between his father and Diana. The sheets were cool, smelling faintly of lavender and clean linen. Matthew drew him close at once, tucking him against his chest, his slow, steady heartbeat beneath Marcus’s ear.

Diana stirred too, still half asleep, rolling toward them and resting a warm hand on Marcus’s back. Her touch was feather-light but grounding.

Sandwiched between them, Marcus felt the lingering terror fade away. He was safe. That was the only word for it. Nothing—no dreams, no memories, no monsters—would dare touch him here. Not with an overpowered witch for a mother on one side and a blood-raged vampire for a father on the other.

Matthew shifted just enough to pillow Marcus’s head against him, his arm wrapping firmly around his shoulders. The steady rhythm of his breathing pressed into Marcus’s ear, an anchor. Diana’s palm on his back moved once, a faint reassuring stroke, then stilled as she drifted back to sleep.

Marcus let his own eyes close, tension draining from his limbs. Tomorrow he could worry about pride, about dignity, about how ridiculous it was for a two-hundred-and-fifty-year-old to seek comfort like a child. Tonight, wrapped safe in the cocoon of his parents, he let himself drift to sleep.

This time, when dreams came, they were softer: sunlight on water, Garfield tumbling after a ball of yarn, laughter on a yellow raft slide.

And Marcus slept on, safe.

Chapter Text

Diana pulled into the Target parking lot on a mission. Marcus, newly thirteen, needed new clothes again, and she was determined to avoid a second trip to the mall this week. As she parked, she glanced back at her eldest. At least Marcus was finally back to being tall enough not to require a booster seat—small mercies. He still looked comically squished, wedged in the middle of the backseat between the twins’ colorful car seats.

Just inside, Diana steered them toward the row of oversized red shopping carts with the giant plastic car attachments. It was the kind of cart that technically fit through aisles, but maneuvered like a boat and had a basket so tiny it barely held anything. Diana wrinkled her nose; she hated pushing those unwieldy things. But with two rambunctious toddlers, it was either strap them in or spend the whole trip chasing them around the store.

“Alright, let’s see if I remember how to drive this thing,” Matthew joked, starting to push. The cart’s wheels protested, needing a good shove to get rolling.

Diana patted Marcus on the shoulder. “Come on, kiddo. Let’s get you some jeans that reach your ankles this time,” she teased, eyeing his too-short pant legs.

Marcus blushed and tugged at the hem of his jeans. He’d grown almost two inches in the past day. Consequently, nothing fit properly. Diana suspected half the reason for his sulky mood today was that he was wearing an old T-shirt that was now snug and a bit too juvenile, and he suddenly hated it.

They made their way to the boys’ clothing section, Matthew trailing behind with the twins who were happily honking the pretend horn on their cart-car. Diana started thumbing through racks of shirts and hoodies in the junior sizes. Marcus slouched along beside her, hands shoved in his pockets, clearly bored out of his mind already.

Matthew loomed nearby, one hand lightly on the cart handle as if to prevent any sudden runaway shopping cart escapades courtesy of the twins. Marcus noticed his father’s other hand tapping impatiently against his thigh. Matthew had been relatively quiet during this shopping expedition, but Marcus could tell he was getting restless. Honestly, Marcus felt the same. He’d much rather be anywhere else than stuck under fluorescent lights, being fussed over and forced into outfit after outfit.

“Can I please be done now?” Marcus pleaded when Diana picked up a package of socks next. Socks, for crying out loud. How exciting.

“Almost,” Diana promised. Her tone was upbeat, but Marcus could hear the thread of resolve underneath. She was on a mission to outfit him properly, and nothing would deter her. “We just need a few more things. You’ve already grown out of the sweats we got you last month, and if we’re going to avoid doing this again in two weeks, I want to be prepared.”

Marcus huffed, shoving his hands into the pockets of his too-short jeans. “I haven’t grown that much,” he exaggerated. In truth, the evidence was against him—the jeans he’d put on this morning were indeed showing his ankles, and the hoodie that once swallowed him now fit just right. Magical aging spurts were no joke, apparently.

Diana arched an eyebrow at him, her witch’s intuition and motherly skepticism on full display. “Another inch and those jeans will be capris, young man,” she said. “And we all know you’re scheduled to age up again by the end of the month.” She lowered her voice before adding, “One year every two weeks, remember? So yes, you will need the next size up very soon. Possibly the one after that, too. And the weather is changing, so you will need fall and winter clothes.”

Scowling down at his sneakers, Marcus swallowed a sassy comeback. Of course he remembered—he hadn’t exactly been given a choice in the matter. Every two weeks, another spell to nudge him a year forward, until he was back to his original age. Six months of this slow-motion re-aging process felt like an eternity. He kicked at an invisible speck on the floor.

“Fine,” he mumbled. “Just hurry up.”

Matthew cleared his throat pointedly. “Watch the attitude,” he warned in a low voice. “Unless you want my help adjusting it.”

Even without looking, Marcus could sense his father’s gaze on him: a mix of expectation and mild reproach. Marcus bit back the retort that tried to claw its way out of his mouth. The last thing he needed was to start another argument here, under the unsympathetic eye of the public. Especially not after everything that had happened the last time he mouthed off. His backside still tingled at the memory of that particular lesson in respecting his parents.

Ever the diplomat, Diana slid a few more items into the cart and said, “Why don’t you take a little break, Marcus? We’re almost done here in the clothing section. Maybe you can help me pick out a new toothbrush for yourself? Something fun.”

She nodded toward the health aisle adjacent to the kids’ clothes, where the shelves were stocked with brightly packaged toothbrushes and cartoon-themed toothpaste. Clearly, she was trying to give him something, anything, remotely interesting to do.

Marcus seized on the suggestion with thinly veiled relief. “Sure. Toothbrush. Fun,” he replied, trying not to sound too sarcastic. At least it wasn’t another sweater or—God forbid—underwear multipack. And it was technically still within eyesight of the clothing racks, so he wouldn’t be going far.

He cast a quick glance at Matthew. His father gave a slight nod, a silent confirmation that he’d heard the plan. Marcus took that as permission and slipped out of the cart’s orbit, making a beeline for the next aisle over.

The “fun” toothbrushes were about as thrilling as he expected—bright pink ones with princesses, neon green ones with dinosaurs, a blue one that played a babyish song when you pressed a button. Marcus picked up a Star Wars brush that lit up with tiny LED lights. Okay, admittedly that was kind of cool. He pressed the button and snorted softly as the lightsaber-shaped handle glowed red.

After a few minutes, Marcus peeked back around the end of the aisle. Diana was now balancing a couple pairs of jeans draped over one arm and rifling through a rack of jackets with the other. Matthew was helping by holding the cart steady. Pip had started squirming and trying to reach for something on a nearby shelf, and Matthew gently kept him in place. They were occupied. Marcus felt a pang of boredom tug at him again. The toothbrush selection had lost its charm quickly, and he definitely didn’t want to be called back to try on another sweater.

Just beyond the dental care aisle, a large red sign caught Marcus’s eye: SPORTS & OUTDOORS. He could see a glimpse of basketballs and soccer balls stacked neatly in bins, and farther down, the tantalizing array of bats, gloves, and other athletic gear. Without really thinking, Marcus found his feet moving in that direction. I’ll just take a quick look, he told himself, wandering past a display of bicycles. It’s not like they’ll even notice—I’ll be right back before they’re done.

He meandered into the sports aisle, immediately drawn to a shelf of baseball mitts. Marcus picked one up and tried it on. The leather was stiff and new, creaking as he flexed his fingers. He wasn’t sure who he could find to play baseball with, though.

Sighing, he placed the mitt back and continued down the aisle. A tall section of shelving housed assorted sports kits. One box proudly advertised “Table Tennis Set: Includes 2 paddles and balls.” The packaging showed a smiling family playing ping-pong in their garage, everyone positively gleeful about a tiny plastic ball. Marcus paused, oddly fascinated. Ping-pong had never really been on his radar, but something about the picture of that family made him curious. They looked so normal, so happy.

Marcus reached up and pulled one of the ping-pong paddle sets off the hook. The paddles were light wood with red rubber surfaces. He pressed a finger into the rubbery texture, enjoying the slight give. Then he lifted one paddle, held it like a racquet, and gave a few experimental swings. It made him grin.

He was so absorbed he didn’t hear Diana’s voice down another aisle.

Diana held up two sweatshirts, furrowing her brow. “Marcus, what do you think of red versus blue? Marcus?”

She turned, expecting to find him in the toothbrush aisle behind her. Instead, she saw an empty aisle. A few other shoppers browsed nearby, but no sign of her son. Diana’s heart skipped, trying to panic. She did a quick spin, scanning the area.

“Marcus?” she called, voice tensing as she walked around a display.

“Did you find his size yet—?” Matthew started to ask, rounding the end of the aisle then, the twins’ cart squeaking.

Then he noticed Diana’s alarmed expression. He glanced around and realized Marcus was nowhere in sight. A flash of irritation crossed his face. He set his jaw and exhaled slowly, trying not to immediately lose his temper in front of the Pip and Becca.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered. “I swear, I’m going to tie that boy to my belt loops.”

Following his son’s scent towards sporting goods, he turned into the aisle with his mouth open, ready to deliver another thorough tongue lashing about not wandering off, but the scene in front of him stopped him in his tracks.

Marcus was standing in front of a shelf of sporting goods, practicing an exaggerated swing with a red ping pong paddle in his hand. The sight would have been funny if Matthew weren’t so annoyed: his teenage son obliviously testing out a ping-pong paddle as if he were in the finals of a table tennis championship—right in the store aisle.

He didn’t notice his father at first. He was too busy mumbling sound effects and lightly tossing a ping-pong ball up with his other hand. To Marcus, he was just killing time with something interesting while Mom did boring shopping. He hadn’t meant to wander too far... it just sort of happened.

“There you are,” Matthew said, voice low and rough.

In the next instant, he closed the distance between them. Marcus fought the instinct to back up a step; he knew he was in trouble. Big trouble. Matthew’s hand clamped firmly over Marcus’s shoulder.

“What do you think you’re doing?” his father demanded, each word clipped.

Marcus jumped, the ping pong ball bouncing off the floor and rolling under a shelf. He whirled around, eyes wide. “Uh—Dad! I was just—”

“—Just wandering off after you were told to stay put,” Matthew finished for him. He held out his free hand. “Give me that.”

He tried to shrug out of his dad’s grip, but Matthew simply shifted his hold and captured Marcus’s hand in his.

Marcus’s voice dropped to an urgent hiss. “Dad, let go! I’m not a little kid, don’t hold my hand.” He attempted to pull free, but Matthew’s larger hand tightened around his securely.

Matthew crouched slightly to put himself at eye level with Marcus. At full height Matthew was an imposing figure, but somehow the eye-to-eye thing was even more intimidating because Marcus had nowhere to hide from that piercing gaze.

“Correct, you aren’t a little kid, so you should know better than this. Now you can either do as I say and hold my hand, or I will spank you in the middle of this Target and then hold your ear instead of your hand. And when we get home you can be reintroduced to my belt. It has clearly been too long if this is what you think is acceptable behavior.”

For a second, they locked eyes in a silent battle of wills. Marcus’s heart thudded. He considered yanking free and bolting farther into the store. Maybe he could hide out in the snack aisle until Matthew cooled off. But one look at his father’s stony face told him that would be the worst idea of the century.

“Fine,” Marcus muttered, as he felt his face burn in embarrassment. He stopped resisting and allowed Matthew to keep hold of his hand, though he felt utterly humiliated. They started walking back toward the clothing section and the cart where Diana and the twins waited.

As they walked, Marcus glared at the ground, his free hand balled in a fist at his side. Anger and embarrassment simmered inside him. It wasn’t fair, he’d only wandered off for a few minutes. And now Dad was acting like he was one of the twins. Hold my hand, seriously? No matter what age he currently appeared, he was too old for this.

When they got home, Diana set the twins in the living room, before heading to the kitchen, immediately busying herself with a quick dinner prep. Matthew disappeared briefly to deposit the shopping bags in the laundry room for unpacking later, then returned to supervise the twins.

Marcus hovered uncertainly by the kitchen island, unsure of what to do. Part of him wanted to flee to his room and hide under a blanket for a while, but he doubted that would fly. Instead, he cleared his throat quietly.

“Need any help?” he offered, not entirely enthusiastically but trying to make amends in whatever small way.

Diana flashed him a quick smile as she stirred a pot on the stove. “Thank you for asking. Actually, could you set the table, sweetheart?”

“Sure.” Marcus went about grabbing plates and cutlery. Setting the table was mercifully simple and let him occupy himself for a minute.

Dinner, when it was ready, turned out to be a quick affair: grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup. Marcus usually loved grilled cheese, though tonight he had little appetite. Still, he forced himself to eat, if only to avoid drawing Matthew’s attention.

Matthew, for his part, alternated between coaxing more bites into the drowsy twins and watching Marcus like a hawk each time Marcus poked unenthusiastically at his sandwich. The weight of his father’s earlier threat still hung heavy in the air—or at least in Marcus’s head—so he made a point of finishing everything on his plate without a single complaint.

As soon as the twins were finished, Diana announced it was bedtime for the little ones. Matthew swept up a soup-smeared Pip, and Diana lifted a fussy, tired Becca into her arms. “We’ll be back down in a bit,” she told Marcus gently. “Could you clear the twins’ dishes and wipe the table for me while we do bedtime?”

“Okay,” Marcus replied.

It was an ordinary enough request, one he’d done many times, but right now even mundane chores felt like monumental tasks. Still, he welcomed it as something to do. Anything to prove he could be responsible for the rest of the evening.

As his parents headed upstairs with the toddlers, Marcus got a sponge and started wiping down the high-chair trays. He gathered the sticky plates and bowls, carrying them to the sink. All the while, his mind churned with a mix of residual guilt and a simmering frustration that he couldn’t quite pin down.

Yes, he’d messed up. Yes, he’d scared them. And he truly felt bad about that. But another part of him felt annoyed at being treated like he was completely helpless. They were acting like he was a toddler who might wander into traffic if they so much as blinked. Marcus clenched his jaw, scrubbing a bit too hard at a spot of dried applesauce.

If I were my normal self, none of this would be happening, he thought bitterly. I wouldn’t have to be dragged on stupid shopping trips or given bedtime chores like a naughty child.

The sponge slipped from his hand and landed with a splat in the soup bowl, sending a little spray of tomato-tinted water onto the countertop. Marcus hissed under his breath, snatching it back up and flinging excess water into the sink. Everything felt off today, and he was tired of it. Tired of feeling out of control, of being constantly monitored and scolded and spanked whenever he stepped a toe out of line. Tired of feeling like a child in every way.

By the time Matthew came back downstairs, with Diana presumably still upstairs settling the twins down with a story, Marcus had loaded the dishwasher with the dishes and was rinsing the last couple of glasses by hand. Matthew paused in the doorway, observing quietly. Marcus could feel his gaze but didn’t acknowledge it, focusing instead on the glass in his hand. It was one of their nicer drinking glasses, crystal and slightly heavy—Matthew’s preferred glass for his evening wine.

Marcus rinsed it and set it on the drying rack perhaps a tad too forcefully. The glass gave a threatening clink against the metal rack.

“Easy,” Matthew said, the caution evident in his tone. “That glass is fragile.”

I know that, Marcus wanted to snap. I’m not an idiot. But he bit his tongue, inhaling slowly through his nose. His irritation, once a small ember, was glowing brighter now, fed by every perceived slight. He focused on washing the last ceramic plate, channeling his frustrations into the circular motions of the sponge.

Matthew stepped into the kitchen fully, coming up to the island. “Did you wipe the table already?” he asked, glancing around at the tidy dining area.

“Yeah,” Marcus muttered, not looking up. The plate in his hand was now very clean, but he kept scrubbing anyway. Around and around, as if he could erase the day’s events with enough soap and friction.

“Thank you,” Matthew said. “When you’re done, you can finish up and head to—”

“I am done,” Marcus interjected sharply, dropping the plate onto the drying rack with a clatter, before grabbing the last crystal wine glass from the sink.

He hadn’t meant to cut Matthew off, but his nerves were rubbed raw and the words flew out before he could stop them.

“I’ve done everything. Table’s clean, dishes are practically sparkling, okay?”

Matthew’s eyes narrowed slightly at Marcus’s tone. “Watch it,” he warned, voice low.

For a moment, Marcus just glared down at the sink. Soapy water swirled around the drain; a few bubbles clung to his arms. Inside his chest, that mix of anger and resentment and exhaustion churned dangerously. Watch it, mind your tone, behave, or else—it felt like that was all he’d heard lately. Something inside him, likely the sliver of rational adult that still lived in his brain, whispered that he should shut up now, finish the chore, and go cool off. But the emotional storm of a thirteen-year-old body and a very frustrating day had other ideas.

Without thinking, Marcus yanked the plug out of the sink drain with more force than necessary. Water gurgled out, and he spun around to face Matthew, gripping the edge of the sink behind him.

“I have been watching it,” he snapped, his voice coming out louder than he intended. “All day I’ve been ‘watching it’! I said I was sorry for wandering off. I’ve been doing everything you asked since we got home. I ate the stupid dinner, I cleaned up the stupid mess. What more do you want from me?!”

Matthew’s face hardened. He took a step closer, leaning on the island with both palms. Marcus could see a muscle ticking in his jaw. “Lower your voice,” Matthew said, each word measured and cold. “I know you’ve had a long day, but that is no excuse to speak to me that way.”

Some part of Marcus recognized the precipice he was on, the thin ice cracking beneath his feet. But his temper, once ignited, was hard to douse. “Or what?” he retorted before he could stop himself.

In his agitation, he’d forgotten he was still holding that last crystal glass in his hand. He slammed his fist down on the counter. The glass hit the edge of the sink. Shards exploded outward, a spray of glittering glass slivers skittering across the kitchen floor. The sound was alarmingly loud—loud enough that it likely echoed upstairs. For a second, both Marcus and Matthew were stunned into silence, staring at the shattered remains. A jagged piece of crystal spun to a stop near Marcus’s socked foot, and he flinched backward instinctively.

“Merde,” Matthew cursed under his breath, the French slipping out in his alarm. He moved swiftly around the island toward Marcus, his vampire speed making the distance disappear in an eye-blink. Marcus hardly had time to process before Matthew’s hands were on his shoulders.

“Don’t move,” Matthew ordered tersely.

“I-I’m sorry,” Marcus blurted, his bravado utterly gone, replaced by a sickening mix of panic and guilt.

That particular glass had been one of Matthew’s favorites. And Marcus had just obliterated it in a fit of temper. His stomach sank to his toes. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Shh.” Matthew’s face was still taut, but now it was laced with concern. “Are you hurt? Did any glass hit you?”

His hands patted briskly down Marcus’s arms, checking for cuts, then turned him by the shoulders to inspect his legs. Marcus shook his head, adrenaline making him a bit shaky.

“I-I’m fine. I don’t think it cut me.”

He glanced down; his socks were miraculously free of blood, and he didn’t feel any stinging that would indicate a shard in his skin. By now, Diana’s footfalls could be heard descending the stairs.

“What happened?!” she called, worry evident in her voice.

She appeared in the kitchen doorway an instant later, eyes wide. She must have put the twins to bed, because she was alone. Her gaze swept the scene, the puddle of water, the twinkle of broken crystal under the cabinets, Matthew and Marcus standing amidst the mess. Her face flooded with relief seeing no one injured.

“Stay back, there’s glass everywhere,” Matthew warned her. He still had one hand on Marcus’s shoulder, as if to ensure he wouldn’t accidentally step forward into the debris. Diana nodded, hovering at the threshold.

“Is anyone hurt?”

“No,” Marcus answered quickly. “I-I broke a glass. I’m sorry, I—” His voice cracked. The adrenaline rush was fading, and the reality of what he’d just done, and how he’d acted leading up to it, was sinking in painfully. The kitchen looked like a minor disaster zone now, and it was 100% his fault.

Diana exhaled, and Marcus could see her shoulders relax a notch now that she knew it was just a broken dish and not, say, an explosion or some dark magical mishap.

“Alright,” she said, her tone gentle but firm. “Marcus, sweetheart, why don’t you carefully come over here? We need to clean this up.”

Matthew, however, had a different idea. “He’s not moving until I make sure it’s safe,” he said. He released Marcus briefly and fetched two dishtowels from the counter.

Returning, he laid one towel on the floor, sweeping it over the larger shards near Marcus’s feet to gather them up. Marcus watched silently, guilt rendering him mute. Once Matthew was sure the immediate area around Marcus was clear of sharp pieces, he handed the second towel to Marcus.

“Use this to pick up any pieces you see near you,” Matthew instructed. “Carefully. And then wrap them in it.”

Marcus nodded numbly, obeying. He crouched and gingerly lifted a few medium-sized shards of crystal with the cloth, bundling them. Matthew took him by the arm and guided him step by cautious step out of the danger zone, toward Diana. She reached out and pulled Marcus the rest of the way to her, her face full of concern and questioning. Marcus dropped his gaze, unable to meet her eyes.

Matthew, meanwhile, grabbed a broom and dustpan from the pantry. In a blur of efficient motion, he swept up the remaining tiny slivers and dumped them into a trash bin. Marcus stood by Diana, clutching the towel full of broken glass bits against his chest. He felt utterly miserable. The full consequences of his tantrum were crystallizing in his mind, much like the shards now in the trash. He had yelled at Matthew, broken a special glass, and generally behaved like, well, a petulant child.

And he knew what was likely coming next. A sense of dread coiled in his belly, even as he tried to convince himself that maybe, just maybe, his parents would go easy on him given how chaotic the day had been.

That hope was dashed when Matthew turned to him, having finished the cleanup. His father’s face was stern and resolute, which in some ways was more frightening than open anger. He held out his hand.

“Give me the towel, Marcus,” he said quietly.

Marcus swallowed. His throat felt thick. He handed over the bundle of glass pieces, which Matthew shook out into the trash can, before laying it on top of the other. Diana was still beside Marcus, and he could feel her gaze flicking between them, her face etched with concern. Matthew’s eyes locked onto his son.

“Marcus, go put those wet socks and the towels in the laundry room,” he said, voice still calm—too calm.

For a split second, Marcus thought that was the extent of it: a broken glass, an order to deposit laundry, end of story. But then he noticed how Matthew’s gaze had hardened, and how he gave a slight nod toward the hallway that led to the laundry room. Marcus’s stomach plummeted. That nod was a signal he recognized. This wasn’t just about the glass. This was about everything that led up to it: his attitude, his disrespect, his disobedience.

Matthew was sending him to the laundry room not merely to drop off towels, but to wait for him there. A surge of nerves shot through Marcus. He shot a quick look at Diana, almost pleading. She bit her lip, her expression sympathetic but resigned. She knew it too. Matthew intended to deal with this, and in their household, that usually meant one thing.

“Go on, Marcus,” she said softly, brushing a consoling hand over his shoulder. “I’ll finish up here. We can talk after.”

The gentle reassurance in her voice only made Marcus feel more childlike. His eyes stung with the threat of tears he refused to shed.

“Yes, ma’am,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

Turning away, he forced one foot in front of the other, carrying himself down the hall toward the laundry room. His socks were indeed damp from the sink water on the floor, and little pieces of wet lint clung to them. He peeled them off as he walked, holding the balled socks in one hand. The hallway seemed to stretch longer than usual, each step bui;ding the apprehension within him.

The laundry room lights were off, so Marcus flicked them on. The space was small and utilitarian: a washer and dryer along one wall, a counter for folding, cabinets above with detergent and supplies.

It had never seemed particularly intimidating as a room. Until now. Marcus hovered near the washing machine, not quite sure what to do with himself. He set the damp socks and towels on top of the washer, then fidgeted with the hem of his T-shirt. His heart was thudding so loudly in his ears that he almost didn’t hear Matthew’s footsteps approaching a minute later.

The laundry room door swung inwards. Matthew stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

“Look at me, Marcus,” Matthew commanded quietly.

Marcus dragged his eyes up. His father’s face was stern, brows drawn, lips set in a firm line. But beneath the hardness, Marcus could detect real disappointment and concern. The realization made Marcus’s chest ache. Matthew took a slow breath.

“Explain,” he said, voice even. “What was that out there?” Marcus opened his mouth, but no easy answer came.

It was an accident, he wanted to say, but that wasn’t what Matthew was asking and they both knew it. The broken glass was the result, not the cause. He tried to gather his tangled thoughts.

“I… I got mad,” he admitted haltingly. “About… about everything, I guess. I was frustrated and I wasn’t thinking. I was just… I don’t know. I messed up.”

His eyes dropped again, shame flooding him. Matthew’s tone remained measured, but there was an edge to it that was all too familiar to his son.

“You certainly did. And getting mad is fine. Everyone gets mad, Marcus. But how you handled it was not fine. Yelling at me? Throwing a tantrum and slamming things around? That is absolutely unacceptable.”

Marcus swallowed hard. “I know,” he whispered. “I-I’m sorry.”

“You’ve been pushing it all day,” his father scolded, crossing his arms across his chest. “From the moment we went out, you’ve been testing limits. Wandering off in the store, talking back, the temper tantrum just now. I warned you, did I not?”

“Yes sir,” Marcus murmured, with a cringe. “You did.”

The warning in the store rang in his ears: you can be reintroduced to my belt. He darted a glance at Matthew’s waist. His father still wore the same leather belt he had earlier—a dark brown one with a simple buckle. Marcus’s stomach flip-flopped violently at the sight.

Matthew followed his son’s gaze, noting that apprehension. But he didn’t unbuckle his belt. Instead, Matthew reached for the target bag still sitting on the bench. He pulled out one of the ping pong paddles, gripping the handle firmly. Marcus felt a lump form in his throat. His hands curled into fists at his sides, not in anger now but in apprehension.

Then Matthew lifted his right leg and propped his booted foot on a small wooden stool next to the washer. Diana had purchased it when Marcus had first been turned into a 10 year old. He tapped the ping pong paddle against his palm for emphasis.

“To me, Marcus.”

Marcus’s eyes went round with desperation. A whimper of embarrassment escaped Marcus’s throat, but he walked to his father. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, cheeks burning with shame.

With practiced motion, Matthew firmly turned Marcus over his propped-up knee. He supported Marcus’s upper body with one hand for a moment, adjusting the boy’s position until Marcus’s torso rested comfortably across his father’s broad thigh.
Matthew grabbed the waistband of Marcus’s sweats and tugged them and his boxers halfway down his thighs. His toes barely touched the ground on the other side of Matthew’s raised leg, and he felt unsteady, completely at his father’s mercy.

Matthew tightened his hold around Marcus’s waist. Despite the situation, his touch was careful, reassuring Marcus that he was secure. The boy could feel the strength l of his father’s arm bracing him. Matthew rubbed Marcus’s back once in a slow, steady circle, a small, familiar gesture of comfort before the discipline began. In a calm voice Matthew asked, “Why are you about to be spanked, Marcus?”

Marcus swallowed thickly. This was part of the routine he dreaded: admitting what he’d done. He shifted a little, his voice muffled and trembling. “Because I threw a tantrum,” he managed. “And I broke the glass and made a big mess.”

“Throwing a fit will only land you exactly where you are now, young man, facing the consequences of your actions.” With that, Matthew brought the paddle down.

The first swat landed with a sharp crack against Marcus’s upturned bottom. Marcus sucked in a breath, teeth clenching. It stung, and the flat plastic paddle delivered a swift burn that spread across both cheeks. When the second smack landed, Marcus let out an involuntary yelp. He rose onto his toes at the impact, but kept his hands wrapped around his father’s leg. His face screwed up in pain and he blinked rapidly, eyes stinging with the threat of tears.

Matthew delivered firm, steady swats with the paddle, each one punctuated by Marcus’s sharp intake of breath or a strangled yelp. The small laundry room amplified the sound, the slap of the paddle against bare skin echoing off the tiled walls. Marcus bit back a cry as the burning sting compounded with each swat. His fingers clutched at the fabric of Matthew’s trousers as he tried to endure the spanking, but each smack of the paddle burned sharply across his backside.

Marcus lay there, draped over his father’s knee, breath hitching slightly. His backside felt like it was on fire, throbbing in time with his racing heartbeat. He was positive it had to be glowing cherry red. He didn’t dare reach back to confirm, though; he simply clung to the edge of the washer and Matthew’s leg, trying to steady himself.

Matthew delivered one more very firm swat to drive the point home. Marcus yelped and a fresh tear rolled down his face. And then it was over. Matthew lowered the paddle. Carefully, Matthew eased Marcus up off his knee. He immediately reached back and rubbed his sore bottom, trying to alleviate the sting. It didn’t help much. He quickly wiped his face with his sleeve, embarrassed to have teared up even a little. He didn’t want to let his dad see him cry, though Matthew had certainly heard the quaver in his voice.

Matthew looked at his son’s reddened eyes and flushed face and his stern expression softened slightly. He set the paddle on the washing machine.He pulled Marcus into a brief, firm hug. Marcus hesitated, then let himself lean into it for a second. He pressed a quick kiss to Marcus’s forehead and then released him from the embrace.

“I love you,” he said, as if stating a simple fact of the universe. “We love you. Nothing will change that. But we won’t tolerate behavior that puts you or anyone else at risk, or that is disrespectful. Understood?”

Under normal circumstances, Marcus might have rolled his eyes or given some sass by now to break the heavy atmosphere, but he was chastened enough to take the words at face value.

“Yes, sir,” he replied sincerely. “Understood. And I love you too.” He added that last part in a mumble, unused to saying it out loud. Sure, he felt it, but it always seemed easier to imply than speak. Right now, though, it felt important to let Matthew hear it.

Matthew’s face softened, the stern lines easing into something warmer. He put a hand on Marcus’s shoulder and guided him toward the door. “Come on. Let’s go find your mother. I’m sure she’s waiting to make sure we didn’t kill each other in here.”

Marcus huffed a small laugh at that, wiping his nose on his sleeve, pointedly ignoring Matthew’s brief wince at the action. The mention of Diana made him suddenly self-conscious. He realized she likely heard at least some of what happened—if not the spanking itself (though it had been loud), then certainly his raised voice and maybe his crying. Mortification crept up his spine.

As if reading his mind, Matthew gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “She’s on your side, Marcus. Always,” he said softly. “No need to be embarrassed. Let’s go, hmm?”

Marcus took a deep breath and followed his father out of the laundry room. His bottom stung with each step, but he did his best not to grimace too much.

Sure enough, they found Diana waiting in the living room, pretending to read a book but clearly on alert. The moment she saw them emerge, she set the book aside and stood up. Marcus felt a fresh surge of shame, looking at her—he had to be a sight, with puffy eyes and a trembling lower lip he couldn’t quite control. But Diana’s face held nothing but compassion. In two strides she was in front of him, and Marcus half-ran the last step to throw himself into her arms.

Diana hugged him close, murmuring soothing nonsense like, “It’s alright, darling, it’s alright,” and rubbing his back. Marcus closed his eyes, absorbing her warmth and the familiar comfort of her chamomile and honey scent. If there was a single upside to this entire cursed de-aging situation, it was perhaps that he got to experience the unreserved, unconditional comfort of a mother’s hug—something he barely remembered from his original childhood.

When Diana let him go, Marcus sniffled once, swiping at his face with the back of his sleeve. She gave him one last squeeze of the shoulder before stepping back, her eyes warm with reassurance.

Matthew, who had been watching quietly from the doorway, crossed the room then. His hand settled firmly on Marcus’s back, steadying him.

“That’s enough for tonight,” he said, his tone gentler than before but still leaving no room for debate. “Wash your face, get into your pajamas, and get straight into bed. I will be up to say good night in a bit.”

Marcus didn’t protest. Truth be told, he was exhausted. His bottom hurt, his eyes felt heavy, and he just wanted the comfort of his bed. He nodded silently and headed for the stairs.

As Marcus trudged upstairs, Diana watched him go, her expression caught between sadness and pride. When he reached the landing, Marcus glanced back—just once. Matthew was still there, solid and unyielding as ever, and Diana stood beside him, a quiet strength in her eyes. For the first time since the tantrum, Marcus felt a knot loosen in his chest. Tomorrow was a fresh start.

Chapter Text

The morning sun glinted off gentle waves as Marcus leaned over the sloop’s railing, watching water splash away from the hull. The salt-tinged air felt cool on his face, carrying the distant cries of sea gulls. It was a perfect day for sailing with a perfect blue sky over Long Island Sound and a light breeze pushing them out of New Haven Harbor. Yet Marcus’s chest tightened with an anxious flutter. Only a month ago, he’d been an immortal adult; now he was thirteen years old again, small and uncertain. This trip was both familiar but somehow utterly new.

Matthew stood at the tiller, one hand steady on the polished wood as he navigated past the harbor’s breakwater. Marcus glanced at his father. Matthew’s dark hair was ruffled by the wind, and he wore a faint smile as he guided the boat. They passed a brown-and-white lighthouse, the Southwest Ledge Light, marking the harbor’s main entrance.

Seeing that beacon, Marcus felt a pang of nostalgia. When he’d first moved to New Haven to attend medical school, he and Matthew had sailed these waters. It was one of the first activities Marcus had suggested they do together.

Now, as the boat slipped into open water, Marcus stood by Matthew’s side a half-step behind, fingers drumming nervously on the rail. Part of him yearned to take the helm as he used to. But his arms were thinner now, his reach shorter; the tiller and mainsheet looked oversized in his grip. He bit his lip. Would Matthew even trust him to handle the boat like this?

Probably not, Marcus thought grimly. Not when he appeared to be a gangly pre-teen who could barely see over the cabin top without standing on tiptoe.

Matthew must have sensed his unease. “She’s handling nicely, isn’t she?” his father said, nodding toward the sail that bellied gently with the breeze. “The wind’s just right.”

Marcus mustered a small smile. “It’s a good wind,” he replied. His higher-pitched voice still startled him sometimes. He cleared his throat. “We couldn’t have asked for a better day.”

“You always loved days like this on the water,” Matthew said, his eyes crinkling.

As emotions flickered across his face, Marcus turned toward the bow to hide them. Yes, he had loved days like this when he’d been grown, confident, free. But now… He tightened his grip on the railing. “It’s peaceful,” he offered softly.

They sailed in silence for a few minutes. The slap of waves against the hull and the creak of the boom filled the quiet. Marcus closed his eyes, letting the rhythmic motion of the boat soothe him. Parts of this felt exactly the same as before: the smell of the ocean, the warmth of sun on his cheeks, Matthew’s familiar presence. If he ignored the size of his body, he could almost pretend nothing had changed.

But everything had changed. Opening his eyes, Marcus looked down at his small hands. He flexed his fingers, remembering how his hands had once been strong enough to wield a sword or heal the wounded. Now they were a child’s hands. A soft sigh escaped him.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Matthew asked gently.

Marcus hadn’t realized his sigh was audible. He hesitated. Don’t spoil this. He forced a lighter tone. “I was thinking about the last time we sailed here.”

“Ah, the summer we raced up to Lighthouse Point and back? I remember,” he chuckled as he reminisced.

“I thought I knew everything about sailing back then. You let me take the helm and I was so sure of myself. Until the wind shifted and I nearly capsized us,” Marcus said with a wry smile.

Matthew laughed softly. “Stubborn as ever. You wouldn’t accept help until the last second. But you managed. I was proud of you.”

Blinking hard, Marcus swallowed a lump in his throat. Hearing that now, while he stood here small and unsure, tugged at emotions he wasn’t prepared for. He wasn’t sure if he would be able to deal with those emotions even if he was his normal self. He turned away, busying himself with a loose coil of rope.

“I’m glad we’re out here today. I needed it,” he offered eventually. It was as close to an admission of vulnerability as he could get.

“Me too,” Matthew said quietly. “I’ve missed this.” Marcus managed a small nod in return, aware that his father’s statement carried layers of meaning, but not quite ready to unpack all of them.

As the sloop cut through the gentle swells, the Connecticut coastline a green ribbon to the starboard side, Marcus wandered toward the bow, perching near the mast and balancing easily with the vessel’s gentle rock, just as Matthew had taught him long ago.

From there, he watched the older vampire tend the sails. His father’s movements were efficient and calm. It struck Marcus that Matthew could likely handle this boat alone. The thought was reassuring. Matthew would keep them safe, but it also underscored Marcus’s own helplessness. He used to be an asset on deck. Now he just felt like extra baggage.

“Marcus!” Matthew called, snapping him from his thoughts. “Want to take the helm for a bit?”

Startled, Marcus pushed himself up. Matthew stood by the tiller, gesturing for Marcus to join him. “I could use a break,” his father said, smiling. “Think you can manage?”

“Sure.” Marcus said as his heart jumped. He moved to take the tiller, its worn wood familiar in his grip, and his nerves steadied as he let muscle memory take over.”

“Just keep her along the coast,” Matthew instructed. “We’ll aim for that point, then turn back.”

Marcus nodded, settling his stance. For a few minutes he steered in comfortable silence, the sloop answering his gentle commands. Marcus felt a spark of something like normalcy at the helm again.

Soon, puffy clouds gathered inland, a sign of the strengthening afternoon sea breeze. The wind stiffened; the sail tautened and the boat gained speed, cutting through choppier water. Marcus held course, teeth gritted as his small arms strained against the tiller.

Matthew moved beside him, eyes on the sail. “Wind’s coming up. Need a hand?” he asked over the rush of air.

“I’ve got it,” Marcus replied, though his voice wavered with effort. He was determined to manage.

A sudden gust hit. Marcus fumbled the mainsheet, and the boom swung violently. Matthew lunged and yanked him down as the heavy spar whipped overhead. Water sprayed as the boat lurched, but within seconds Matthew tamed the sail and steadied the sloop. The danger passed as quickly as it came.

Marcus crouched on the floor, heart hammering, Matthew’s arm wrapped around him. Neither moved for a moment, stunned by the near miss. Matthew took a shaky breath and stood, pulling Marcus to his feet.

“That was too close,” he said, voice slightly unsteady.

“I’m sorry,” Marcus managed, face burning with a mix of shame and adrenaline.

Matthew gripped Marcus by the shoulders, eyes wide with concern. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” Marcus mumbled, avoiding his gaze. He felt utterly humiliated.

He reached out and gently lifted Marcus’s chin. “It was an accident. Even the best sailors get caught off-guard.”

“I should have been more careful,” Marcus whispered, blinking back tears of frustration.

Matthew sighed and pulled him into a quick, fierce hug. Marcus’s breath hitched, but he didn’t pull away.

“You’re alright, that’s what matters,” Matthew murmured, releasing him. The wind was still gusting, and he had to raise his voice.

“Let’s get out of this wind for a bit. We can take shelter in that cove and catch our breath.” He nodded toward a small sheltered bay not far ahead.

Marcus nodded silently, relief and embarrassment swirling inside him. Matthew took the helm once more, and Marcus stayed close by, one hand on Matthew’s sleeve as if to assure himself they were steady. Together, they guided the boat into the cove.

When Matthew dropped the anchor, Marcus sat on the bench seat, arms wrapped around himself. His adrenaline had faded, leaving him drained and a little shaky. Matthew disappeared into the cabin briefly and returned with a cooler bag Diana had packed for them and two towels. He draped one around Marcus’s shoulders. Marcus hadn’t even noticed the saltwater on his face and clothing until that moment.

“Thank you,” he murmured, pulling it close.

Matthew busied himself unpacking lunch to give Marcus a moment to compose himself. Diana had packed sandwiches, fruit, cookies, and bottles of sparkling water. At the sight of the food, Marcus’s stomach rumbled. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until now. Matthew watched him eat a turkey-and-cheese sandwich with a gentle smile as he handed him an apple.

“Good?” he asked.

Marcus nodded. “I missed this… eating,” he admitted quietly. There was no need to elaborate; both of them knew he meant the years of vampire life without being able to enjoy most food.

“Seeing you enjoy it again is a blessing,” Matthew said quietly.

They sat in silence for a few more minutes. The near-accident still hung in the air, but the food and calm surroundings eased the tension. A pair of swans glided further toward them, and somewhere birds chirped in the trees. Marcus could almost pretend they were just on an ordinary outing.

But unspoken thoughts pressed on him. As he finished his sandwich, Marcus finally spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry I scared you.”

“You don’t need to apologize for that,” Matthew said as he set down his bottle of water.

“I feel like I do. You shouldn’t have to worry about me like this,” Marcus said, staring down at his hands in his lap. His fingers twisted the damp towel. “I hate being a burden.”

Matthew inhaled sharply as if about to protest, but Marcus rushed on, words spilling out now that he’d begun. “I know this isn’t what either of us wanted. And now I can’t even handle a small sailing trip without almost getting myself killed. I just… I’m sorry.”

Tears blurred his vision. Marcus bit his lip hard, trying not to break down. He had promised himself he wouldn’t do this, wouldn’t unload his fears on Matthew during this trip. But here he was, eyes wet and heart laid bare.

In a heartbeat, Matthew was at Marcus’s side with his arm wrapped around his son’s shoulders. “Listen to me,” he said, voice firm. “You are not a burden, Marcus. Not now, not ever.”

It was Marcus’s turn to attempt to protest, but Matthew pressed on. “This is not how either of us planned things, but raising you now has been a strange gift.” He managed a small smile. “I would undo the spell in an instant if I could, but I want to be here for you.”

At that, Marcus couldn’t hold back. A tear rolled down his cheek, followed by another. Matthew opened his arms and Marcus fell into them, wrapping his own arms around his father. It felt achingly right to lean into his embrace.

They stayed like that for a long moment, father and son clinging to each other as the breeze rustled the trees on shore. Marcus felt a weight lift from his heart, the fears and guilt dissipating in the warmth of Matthew’s acceptance.

A light patter of rain on the water made Marcus pull back slightly. He looked up to see a summer shower drifting over the cove—a veil of fine rain dimpling the smooth water. The cloud overhead wasn’t dark, and the rain was gentle, cooling the air. Matthew laughed softly in surprise.

“Quick, under the canopy,” he said.

They ducked under the small canvas canopy over the cockpit as the rain fell. Huddled close, they watched silver rings form in the sea around them. The shower was brief, more soothing than threatening. Marcus found himself smiling as droplets misted the air beyond their shelter.

Soon the rain passed, the sun breaking through as the clouds drifted east. The early-afternoon light turned golden, reflecting off the water. Matthew stepped out from under the canopy and breathed deeply.

“We should head back if we want to make it home before dinner,” he said, looking to the west where the sun was inching down.

Marcus helped stow the lunch remnants and towels. His eyes were drawn to his father as Matthew hauled up the anchor and adjusted the sails for departure. There was a certain ease in Matthew’s movements now, a contentment. Marcus realized it mirrored what he felt in his own chest. The turmoil from earlier had settled, replaced by a steadiness that Marcus wasn't aware he’d been missing.

They set sail for home, a gentle breeze pushing them out of the cove. Marcus took the tiller again with Matthew at his side. The Sound was calm after the rain.

“Thanks for today… Dad,” he said softly as he glanced up at Matthew. It felt right.

Matthew’s face lit up, and he rested a hand on Marcus’s back. Nothing more needed saying.

By the time Matthew pulled into the driveway, the boy was asleep, head lolled against the car window, hair still mussed from the breeze.

For a moment Matthew considered waking him, but the sight was too rare and too tender. Instead, he scooped Marcus up, marveling at how light he felt. Marcus stirred slightly, snuggling into Matthew’s chest. Matthew felt his chest tighten. Who knew how long Marcus would allow himself to be carried?

Diana met them in the hallway. Without a word, she swept into Marcus’s room to turn down the covers, then bent down to grab Matthew’s discarded shirt Marcus had worn the night before. Matthew raised an eyebrow, adjusting Marcus’s weight in his arms.

“It’ll be easier,” Diana said softly, “to put him in an oversized shirt than to wrestle him into pajamas.”

Together, they carefully worked to change him. Marcus stirred once, murmuring in his sleep, but didn’t wake..

Diana brushed a kiss against his blonde curls as Matthew eased him down onto the pillow. She pulled the blankets up while Matthew tucked them close around Marcus’s shoulders. He lingered a moment, smoothing the boy’s hair back before pressing a kiss to the crown of his head.

“He looks like any other little boy like this,” Diana whispered, her voice hushed with wonder. Matthew’s eyes softened as he nodded in agreement. He lingered by Marcus’s bedside until his breathing evened into the deep rhythm of sleep. Diana touched his arm gently, and together they slipped into the hallway.

“He needed today,” Diana said, her voice low so it wouldn’t wake their son. “So did you.”

Matthew exhaled, some of the tension leaving his posture. “Yes. I’d forgotten how much the sea calms him. And me.” He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly weary. “When the storm came in, for a moment I thought…” He shook his head, not finishing the thought.

Diana threaded her fingers through his, grounding him. “But you were there. He trusted you, Matthew. That matters.”

“He let me carry him,” Matthew admitted quietly, as if it were a fragile secret. “I don’t know how much longer he’ll allow that. But tonight…” He trailed off, emotion tugging at his voice.

She rested her head briefly against his shoulder. “Tonight he was just a boy, and you were just his father. And that’s enough.”

Chapter Text

A large box was delivered late in the morning, its sides plain and unmarked. Marcus hovered beside it eagerly while Matthew inspected the attached envelope. Inside was a card that read:

To my dearest Marcus,
May you always find new worlds to explore, even when life changes the map
—Aunt Fanny

“What is it?” Marcus asked, bouncing on his toes. He eyed the box, curiosity evident in his blue eyes.

“Apparently, it’s a gift for you,” Matthew said, handing him the card with a slight smile. “Freyja has always had a flair for surprises.”

Marcus grinned broadly. “Well, that was nice of her. But what is it?” His fingers drummed impatiently on the cardboard. The box was nearly as tall as he was, blank and mysterious.

“I don’t know. Only one way to find out,” Matthew replied with a shrug.

“Exactly!” Marcus said gleefully, pulling a small pocket knife from his jeans. In one swift motion, he flicked out the blade and moved to cut the tape sealing the box.

He didn’t get far. In a blur of motion, Matthew snatched the knife out of Marcus’s hand. Before Marcus could blink, Matthew had spun him around, bracing the boy against his solid hip as he brought his palm down firmly on Marcus’s backside five times in quick succession.

Marcus yelped as Matthew’s punishing hand made contact with his backside. It all happened so fast—one moment he was ready to slice open his present, the next he found himself folded under Matthew’s arm, staring at the floor.

“Ow! Hey!” he cried, cheeks flushing with a mix of shock and embarrassment.

“Where did you get this?” Matthew demanded sternly, holding the confiscated pocket knife up for Marcus to see. The blade glinted in the morning light. “You know you are not supposed to have knives. It’s too dangerous, Marcus. You could have cut a finger off, or poked an eye out. Neither of those things will grow back.”

“It’s not like they’d grow back if I was normal either,” he mumbled under his breath as he squirmed.

Matthew’s eyes flashed and he let out a low warning growl. “You are not helping your case right now,” he said sharply. With one arm wrapped securely around Marcus’s waist, he used the other hand to neatly fold the knife closed. “I will be keeping this until you’re mature enough to handle it responsibly.”

“That’s—” Marcus started to retort, but bit his tongue. Don’t say it, he warned himself. But indignation got the better of him. “That’s bullshit! According to you I won’t be mature enough until I’m 903, and even then only with supervision!” he burst out.

Marcus felt Matthew’s whole body go tense. In a blink, he was lifted and repositioned. Matthew propped a foot on the edge of the unopened box and hauled Marcus over his knee. The boy’s protests died in his throat as Matthew delivered a swift volley of firm smacks to the seat of Marcus’s jeans.

Matthew’s voice was low and controlled as he punctuated each word with a swat. “That kind of language is absolutely unacceptable, young man. Am I understood?”

“Ow—okay, okay! Yes you’re understood” Marcus yelped. He twisted reflexively, but Matthew’s arm was like iron, holding him in place with ease.

At that, Matthew ceased and gently set Marcus upright on his feet. Marcus hastily wiped an arm across his eyes, hoping Matthew hadn’t noticed the moisture there. He stood subdued, head lowered and bottom lip jutting out in a sulky pout.

Matthew eyed him for a moment, then sighed. The brief flash of anger in his face was already fading into the familiar calm sternness. He placed the closed pocket knife securely in his own coat pocket.

Satisfied that the point had been made, Matthew’s expression softened. He reached out and squeezed Marcus’s shoulder, a silent reassurance that all was forgiven if not forgotten. “Alright then. Let’s see what Aunt Fanny sent you,” he said, redirecting their attention to the giant box.

Marcus sniffled once and managed a small smile, eager to move past his scolding. Matthew retrieved a utility knife from a drawer by the front door and cut open the heavy-duty tape. They folded back the cardboard flaps together.

Inside, nestled in foam and packing straw, was a long black carrying case. Matthew lifted it carefully onto the floor and unzipped it. Marcus leaned in, curiosity rekindled. Within the case lay a telescope along with its collapsible tripod and a set of interchangeable lenses.

“No way!” Marcus’s eyes were wide. He brushed a hand over the polished tube of the telescope. “She got me a telescope? That’s so cool!” Despite the residual sting in his backside, excitement bubbled up in him again.

“It seems Aunt Fanny thought you could use a productive hobby,” he said, lips curving into a smile at Marcus’s genuine delight. Freyja always did have a knack for gifts that were both educational and entertaining.

Marcus carefully lifted the telescope’s main tube from the case and grinned ear to ear. “This is awesome. I’ve never had a telescope this precise before,” he said, voice reverent. Instantly, he began attempting to assemble it right there in the foyer, fumbling with the tripod legs.

“Easy there. Let’s set it up later, with a bit more space and focus, hmm?” Matthew chuckled and gently took the delicate instrument from him before he could drop it.

“Can we try it tonight? Please?” He glanced toward the nearest window. It was bright daylight outside, not a star in sight.

“We’ll definitely use it tonight,” Matthew agreed, carefully repacking the pieces for now. “But not here in the city. The light pollution is too high to really see anything clearly.”

“Oh. Right.” Marcus’s face fell a fraction. He hadn’t considered that. In his mind he was already imagining Saturn’s rings or Jupiter’s moons. “So where can we go?”

Matthew closed up the box and ruffled Marcus’s sandy-blond hair lightly. “I think I know just the place,” he said. “We’ll take a little trip tonight, somewhere with dark skies.” His gray-green eyes twinkled with a secret plan.

Marcus beamed, all traces of his earlier sulkiness gone. The promise of a twilight outing—only the second time he’d been allowed to stay up past his strict bedtime since this whole ordeal happened—was as thrilling as the telescope itself. He was determined not to blow this chance. After the morning’s mishap, he told himself firmly he would be on his absolute best behavior.

“Should I go get ready now?” Marcus asked eagerly, already halfway toward the stairs to grab a jacket or snacks or his flashlight or any number of “essentials” a thirteen-year-old might imagine needing for a stargazing adventure.

“Slow down. It’s barely noon. We have all day to prepare.“

Twilight had settled, painting the sky in deep indigo, and Marcus was bouncing on his toes with impatience at the front door. He watched as Matthew secured the packed telescope and a folded tripod into the back of their car. Diana handed Matthew a woven picnic basket and a thick tartan blanket.

“I put together some drinks and snacks for you two,” Diana said with a warm smile.

“Enjoy the stars, Marcus. And remember, listen to your father.” She gave Marcus a gently teasing look that said she was well aware of the day’s earlier transgression.

Marcus flushed slightly but grinned. “I will. I promise.” He was too excited to risk any mischief now.

Matthew bent to kiss Diana softly in farewell. “We’ll be back by late tonight or early morning,” he promised. “Don’t wait up.”

Diana smiled. “Oh, I won’t. I have papers to grade that will likely put me to sleep faster than the twins’ lullaby machine. But do give my regards to the stars.” She gently shooed them out. “Go on now, off with you!”

They set out in Matthew’s car, leaving the glow of the house behind for the open road. As he drove, Matthew glanced at Marcus in the passenger seat, thankful the boy was finally tall enough to be out of the booster and the back seat. The boy was practically vibrating with excitement, nose pressed to the window whenever they passed a break in the trees to glimpse the dusky sky. In moments like this, Matthew could almost forget the bizarre circumstances that had made Marcus young again; he simply saw a son full of life and curiosity. It warmed something deep in the vampire’s ancient heart.

The drive to Sleeping Giant State Park took under an hour. They wound through quiet Connecticut backroads, the silhouettes of summer oaks and maples crowding close. Above, the last hues of sunset faded, and stars began peeking out timidly.

Marcus chattered about the constellations he hoped to spot, recalling facts and figures with a mix of his own knowledge and fresh enthusiasm.

“Did you know the Pegasus constellation is one of the largest in the sky?” he said at one point, eyes shining even in the dark car. “It borders Andromeda and—”

“—and was catalogued by Ptolemy almost two thousand years ago. Yes, I remember,” Matthew finished, chuckling.

Of course Marcus would know that; he’d been alive and reading star charts for centuries before this youthful detour. Still, the innocent joy in his voice made Matthew smile.

“Perhaps tonight we’ll see the Great Square of Pegasus clearly. The conditions should be good—moon’s only a crescent, and we’re far from city lights.”

At last, they turned down a rutted gravel path that led to a small stone cottage tucked into the side of the hill. It was Marcus’s favorite hideaway. In truth, it was an old cottage Marcus had purchased when he’d first come to New Haven for medical school after the civil war. It provided him an escape and a place to hunt.

They parked and stepped out into the crisp night. Crickets chirped softly in the tall grass. Overhead, the Milky Way was a pale band splashed across the sky, far more vivid than Marcus had ever seen from home. He took a deep breath of the pine-tinged air. The quiet and darkness of the mountain felt almost sacred.

Matthew carried the telescope case and tripod while Marcus proudly toted the picnic basket and blanket (insisting he could handle them, and Matthew allowing it with an amused nod). They walked a short trail to a clearing on a gentle slope just behind the cottage—an open patch of rocky ground that offered a sweeping view of the heavens above and the valley below.

Marcus helped unfold the tripod, his small fingers deftly tightening the screws under Matthew’s guidance.

“Careful—tight, but not too tight. We want it stable, but we don’t want to crack the casing,” Matthew instructed as they mounted the telescope tube.

Marcus nodded seriously, mirroring the focus Matthew remembered in him during surgical procedures. The memory made Matthew’s chest swell with pride—and a touch of melancholy. Marcus had been a gifted physician with steady hands; now those hands were half their former size, and significantly less dexterous, but no less determined.

Within minutes, the telescope stood ready, pointed skyward like a cannon aimed at infinity. Marcus stepped back to admire their handiwork, munching on one of Diana’s cookies.

“Okay, snacks in hand, scope set. Now where to start?” he wondered aloud, mouth half-full of raisins and oats.

Matthew unfolded one of the fleece blankets and draped it on the ground for them to sit on. He couldn’t help fussing a bit, adjusting Marcus’s jacket against the night breeze.

“Why not start with an easy target?” Matthew suggested. “How about Jupiter? It should be rising in the east about now.”

Marcus’s eyes lit up. “Can we see the moons?”

“If the skies stay this clear, absolutely.” Matthew glanced upward.

The Milky Way spilled across the darkness in a faint silvery band. Off to the east, a bright star-like object twinkled with a steady glow—Jupiter. He knelt and adjusted the telescope’s finder scope, aligning it with the planet.

“Here, take a look,” he said, moving aside for Marcus to peer into the eyepiece.

The boy pressed his eye to it, then let out a gasp. “I see it! It’s a tiny disk… and yes, I think I see little dots—four of them?” He bounced excitedly, the childlike awe coming through. “Those must be the Galilean moons!”

Matthew’s smile reached his eyes. “Io, Europa, Ganymede, and Callisto. Galileo saw those through a telescope not so different from this, over four hundred years ago.”

Marcus looked up from the eyepiece, excitement softening into something like awe. In the starlight, his youthful face held an expression Matthew recognized from the past two centuries —the reverence of witnessing the vastness of creation.

Marcus whispered, “It’s incredible. No matter how many times I’ve seen it’s still incredible.”

They took turns with the telescope, swinging it toward different jewels in the sky. Marcus found the misty smudge of the Andromeda Galaxy, prompting an explanation from Matthew that the light they saw was over two million years old by the time it reached Earth. Matthew located the bright star Vega, and together they traced out the Summer Triangle.

All the while they chatted, their voices low in the stillness. Crickets provided a gentle chorus from the bushes, and occasionally an owl called from deeper in the woods. The Sleeping Giant ridge loomed nearby, a dark outline against the horizon that did indeed resemble a slumbering titan. Overhead, stars shimmered like a thousand distant candles.

Eventually, their wandering gaze fell toward the southwestern sky. Marcus had laid back on the blanket, one arm behind his head, nibbling another cookie. Matthew sat beside him, legs crossed, sipping from his thermos of fortified wine-blood and relishing the rare peaceful moment.

“There’s the Great Square,” Marcus said suddenly, pointing. High above, four stars formed a large diamond shape. From one corner trailed a line of stars that made the long neck and head of Pegasus; from another corner, stars sketched out legs. It required some imagination, but the shape was there—a celestial horse frozen mid-gallop across the night.

“Ah, Pegasus,” Matthew said softly. The name alone carried a quiver full of memories for him. He felt Marcus shift, sitting up to swivel the telescope toward the constellation. As the boy busied himself aligning the scope, Matthew’s mind drifted centuries into the past, to another starlit night in a faraway place.

His gaze lingered on the constellations. Finally, he spoke again, voice low. “Philippe used to do this with me when I was young.” He nodded upward, indicating the sparkling dome of sky. “On clear nights, he would take me outside to watch the stars.”

Marcus turned to look at Matthew in surprise. Matthew rarely talked about his early years as a vampire. Marcus’s interest was immediately piqued.

“Really? I never knew that,” he said softly. “You and Granddad went stargazing, like this?”

“Yes. Though the circumstances were a bit…different.” He paused, choosing his words. “It was a long time ago, when I was younger than you are now.” He glanced at Marcus. “In fact, back then I was—how did you put it?—not ‘mature’ enough to be left alone at night.”

“You mean when you were newly-reborn. The blood rage,” Marcus said quietly. It was still a hard concept for Marcus to imagine; Matthew was usually the picture of control. But Marcus understood it was something Matthew struggled with, especially in his youth.

“Yes.” Matthew nodded, eyes still on the stars. “I wasn’t exactly the easiest vampire to raise.” A wry, self-deprecating chuckle escaped him. “I had episodes. Times when the blood rage would overwhelm me. I couldn’t think, couldn’t control myself. I was a danger to everyone around me.”

Matthew continued, his voice steady but distant as if narrating a story from long ago. “During those fits, most of the household kept their distance. Even my mother, fierce as she is, had trouble calming me when the rage took hold.” He took a slow breath. “Philippe was the only one who could get near me during those times. He refused to abandon me to it. Instead, he stayed by my side and he found rather creative ways to draw me out of the madness.”

“What did he do?” Marcus asked, leaning in towards his father, utterly riveted.

Finally tearing his gaze from the sky, Matthew met Marcus’s eyes. In the starlight, Marcus could see an array of emotions flicker across Matthew’s face: remorse, gratitude, love, nostalgia.

“He talked to me,” Matthew said. “He would start telling me stories, about the stars, about the heroes and monsters of old. Anything to capture my attention and remind me of who I was beyond the rage.”

Marcus’s eyebrows shot up. Stories? He imagined a wild, snarling Matthew and tried to picture the formidable Philippe calmly reciting bedtime tales to him. The image was both strange and heartwarming.

“And that helped?” Marcus asked.

A soft smile curled on Matthew’s lips. “Eventually, it did. I don’t know if it was the stories themselves or simply the sound of his voice, but gradually I would come back to myself.” He absently picked a blade of grass, rolling it between his fingers as he spoke. “One night in particular stands out in my memory…”

It was a moonless night at Sept-Tours, and the chateau lay quiet. Out in the stables, however, a far less peaceful scene was unfolding.

Young Matthew was crouched in the corner of the stall, back hunched, muscles taut as a coiled spring. His dark hair hung in damp tendrils over his face. From his throat escaped a low, animalistic snarl.

The blood rage had him fully in its grip. Matthew’s normally grey-green eyes were flooded black, his teeth bared at the slightest provocation. Spittle flecked his lips as another snarl ripped free. He slammed a fist against the stall wall with a crack. The thick wood splintered under the blow.

Outside the stall, Philippe de Clermont watched his son with sorrow and steadfast resolve. The tall vampire lord was leaning casually against a support beam, arms crossed over his chest, as though he had all the time in the world. But his golden eyes never left Matthew’s trembling form. He and Ysaebeua had insisted Matthew not be chained or caged like an animal, though others had advised it. Instead, Philippe stayed with him through every episode, guiding him through the storm.

“Matthaios,” Philippe called softly, using Matthew’s name in Greek. His deep voice was calm, steady, cutting through the snarls without a hint of fear. “Matthaios, look at me.”

Inside the stall, Matthew’s head jerked up at the sound. For a split second, recognition flared in those black eyes. But then another wave of red fury crashed over his mind. He lunged at the stall door, slamming into it so hard the entire enclosure shuddered. The heavy door, barred shut to protect those outside, strained under the impact.

Philippe did not flinch. He knew Matthew’s ire wasn’t truly directed at him. It was mindless, unfocused. The older vampire remained a pillar of patient strength.

“You’re alright, my son,” he said gently. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

A feral growl was Matthew’s only reply. He stalked back and forth in the small space like a caged panther. Philippe observed him, noting the quiver in Matthew’s limbs beginning to slow. The worst of this bout was easing, perhaps, but the boy was still on the knife’s edge between sanity and oblivion.

Very slowly, Philippe unlatched the stall door—just enough to slip inside. He shut it behind him, leaving it unbarred now that he was within. If he attacks, I can handle it, he reassured himself. He had centuries of strength and combat skill on his son. But brute force was not why he was here.

Matthew snarled, shrinking back as if torn between attacking and fleeing. His inky black eyes fixed on Philippe, pupils dilated. Quick as lightning, he darted forward and swung a hand at his father’s midsection, whether to strike or simply warn him off, it wasn’t clear. Either way, Philippe caught the wrist mid-air with inhuman reflexes. He held on firmly, though not enough to harm. Matthew strained, a ferocious hiss seething from his throat.

“Hush now,” Philippe murmured, maintaining his grip. “There will be none of that.” He slowly knelt on one knee, bringing himself closer to Matthew’s eye level, though still warily out of range of the boy’s teeth and free hand.

Matthew writhed, but Philippe’s iron strength held his arm steady. The young vampire’s face was a mask of rage and torment, cheeks wet with red tears he didn’t even realize he’d shed. He tugged once more, trying to free himself, but Philippe only pulled him a few inches closer and kept him there.

They stayed frozen like that for several heartbeats: the elder vampire’s calm, grounding presence inches from the younger’s trembling, frenzied form.

Then, in a conversational tone as if they were merely sitting by the hearth on a normal evening, Philippe spoke: “It’s a beautiful clear night. Have you noticed? The stars are spectacular.” His voice was low and soothing.

Matthew’s eyebrows twitched in confusion. A strangled grunt emerged—half snarl, half startled laugh at the absurdity of small talk in this moment.

But Philippe pressed on, unfazed. He slowly released Matthew’s wrist, seeing the immediate threat had abated just enough. Instead, he placed a gentle hand on Matthew’s shoulder. The younger vampire stiffened but did not strike again. Philippe chanced a tiny smile.

“There now… Let’s step outside this stuffy stall, shall we? The air will do you good.”

Matthew blinked rapidly. The wolf inside him recoiled at the comforting touch, but the son inside craved it. With a shuddering breath, Matthew allowed Philippe to steer him slowly out of the stall. The night air met them as Philippe guided him just beyond the stable doors into the open courtyard of Sept-Tours.

Above, an endless tapestry of stars spread across the French sky. The cool air and wide open space hit Matthew like a splash of cold water. He staggered a step, wiping at his eyes where bloody tears still blurred his vision. The urge to lash out was slowly waning, leaving exhaustion and confusion in its wake.

Philippe kept his hand on Matthew’s shoulder, gently guiding him to the northern wall of the chateau. When they reached the top, Philippe stood beside him, a steady hand kept at the small of Matthew’s back to reassure and ground him.

“Easy, Matthaios,” he said softly. “Breathe. Look up. Tell me what you see.”

Matthew dragged in a ragged breath and obediently tilted his chin skyward. His vision, still sharper than any human’s even in this state, picked out pinpricks of light above. For a moment, the young vampire just stared, chest still rising and falling as he fought to master himself.

“The stars,” Matthew managed to rasp. His voice sounded broken to his own ears, barely coherent. He felt Philippe’s hand pat between his shoulder blades encouragingly.

“Yes. The stars,” Philippe said. He pointed upward with his free hand. “Just there, do you see that cluster? Five bright stars forming a zig-zag, like a crooked W in the sky?”

Matthew squinted, focusing on the pattern shining above the northern horizon. His mind grasped at the task—identifying a shape, making sense of something amid the chaos of his thoughts. A W… yes, there it was. A grouping of stars that did look like the letter W, or perhaps like a crooked crown.

“I see it,” he whispered. His voice had a little more steadiness now, drawn out by simple curiosity.

Philippe smiled at that. “Those stars are part of the constellation Cassiopeia,” he explained gently. His tone was warm and even, as if he were telling a bedtime story rather than standing on a chilly castle wall with his blood-raged son.

“Cassiopeia was a Greek queen—very proud, and very vain. She boasted that she and her daughter were the most beautiful beings in the world, more beautiful even than the sea nymphs of Poseidon.”

A low growl rumbled in Matthew’s chest—remnants of rage with no target, slowly dissipating; the tension in his muscles unwound bit by bit. Philippe’s voice flowed over him, giving him something to latch onto. He tried to concentrate on the story instead of the confusing swirl of anger and shame inside him.

“The sea nymphs grew angry at Cassiopeia’s arrogance,” Philippe went on, steering Matthew a few steps further across the wall as they both gazed at the sky.

He spoke animatedly, subtly keeping Matthew moving and looking upward, away from the bloodied stable and the scene of his outburst. “So they begged Poseidon to punish her. And Poseidon did. He sent a great sea monster called Cetus to ravage Cassiopeia’s kingdom.”

Matthew’s breathing had evened out as he listened. The blackness had receded from his eyes, leaving them their usual rich, warm green-grey, albeit rimmed with red from tears of rage. He swallowed, and found his throat hurt from snarling.

“A sea monster…,” he echoed hoarsely, wiping at his face. His mind conjured an image from memory—an old illuminated manuscript he’d seen as Ysabeau taught him to read, depicting Cetus as a dragon-like leviathan. The fact that he could think of such things was a sign that reason was returning.

Philippe’s eyes flicked to Matthew, relief softening his features as he saw lucidity growing. He continued the tale, enthusiasm gentle but steady.

“Indeed. A terrible beast. Desperate to save their people, Cassiopeia and her husband, King Cepheus, consulted an oracle. And do you know what the oracle told them?”

Matthew shook his head mutely, wiping his blood-streaked palm on his tunic almost shyly. He felt raw and vulnerable after the rage. Having Philippe treat him so normally, asking him questions as if nothing had happened, was both jarring and comforting.

“The oracle declared that the only way to appease the sea god was to sacrifice their daughter, Princess Andromeda, to the monster.” Philippe’s tone turned somber. “So they chained poor Andromeda to a rock by the sea, as an offering to Cetus.”

A quiet noise escaped Matthew—half disgust, half dismay. In spite of himself, he was getting drawn in.

“They sacrificed their own daughter?” he murmured. He could picture a girl shackled on a wave-lashed cliff, awaiting a dreadful fate. The thought made his stomach twist, helping dispel the last of the blood rage.

“Nearly,” Philippe corrected, raising a finger. “At the last moment, a hero arrived. Perseus.” He smiled, seeing the spark of recognition in Matthew’s eyes at the name. “Perseus was returning from slaying Medusa, the gorgon, and happened upon the princess in peril. He struck a deal with the king and queen: if he saved Andromeda, she would be given to him in marriage.”

Matthew’s lips parted, and he spoke in a raspy but growing voice, “And he killed the monster, right? With Medusa’s head… turned it to stone.”

He remembered that detail from the myth. As he spoke, he realized with a start that he was now standing calmly beside Philippe, no longer shaking with rage. His mind felt clearer than it had in hours.

Philippe beamed at his son’s engagement. “Exactly so! Perseus flew down on his winged horse—Pegasus—and used Medusa’s head to petrify Cetus, saving Andromeda.”

He gestured expansively across the sky. “In gratitude, the gods placed Andromeda’s image among the stars, and her parents Cepheus and Cassiopeia, too. But Cassiopeia’s vanity earned her a slight punishment: see how her constellation is shaped like a chair?”

He pointed again to the W of Cassiopeia. “She is said to sit on her throne in the sky, and as the seasons change, she’s flipped upside-down half the year, as if hanging in her chair. A reminder not to be so boastful.”

Matthew tilted his head, peering at the W of stars, imagining a queen on a throne tipping upside-down. A faint smile tugged at his lips—the first true smile in quite some time. “Serves her right,” he murmured. Then he added in a more normal tone, “Where are Andromeda and Perseus? Are they up there too?”

Philippe’s chest swelled with quiet pride; Matthew’s quick mind was coming back. “They are indeed.” He moved behind Matthew, placing both hands on the boy’s shoulders and gently turning him slightly to the left.

“There—do you see that shape like a long strand of jewels? That is Andromeda’s constellation. And Perseus is just adjacent, holding Medusa’s head—represented by the blinking star Algol.”

Matthew followed Philippe’s gaze, spotting the constellations as his father described them. The stars glittered peacefully overhead, each in its place, forming patterns that had existed for thousands of years. Patterns that would remain long after his own turmoil was forgotten. The realization steadied him.

Father and son stood there for a long while, Philippe softly pointing out heroes and monsters among the stars, Matthew listening in rapt silence. The rage was draining away, leaving Matthew exhausted and a little ashamed, clinging to Philippe’s every word like a lifeline.

Slowly, Philippe guided Matthew’s gaze upward again. “Breathe, son,” he said softly, though there was steel beneath the softness. “Look at the sky. Find the four stars.”

Matthew forced himself to follow the direction of Philippe’s pointing finger again. His enhanced vampire sight easily pierced the darkness. Above them the heavens sprawled, endless. He saw not prey or threat there, but distant unchanging lights. Four of them, arranged in a square.

“The great square of Pegasus,” Philippe murmured. “Do you recall the story of Pegasus, Matthew?”

Matthew’s ragged breathing slowed a fraction. He managed a tight nod. Philippe had told him the legend many years ago, when Matthew was newly reborn and struggling with grief and hunger. In that moment, with blood rage clawing at his mind, he clung to that memory like a lifeline. “The winged horse…” Matthew whispered.

Philippe’s hand remained over Matthew’s, steady as the North Star. “Yes. Pegasus, born of tragedy—born of Medusa’s blood and sea foam when Perseus struck the Gorgon down. A creature of two worlds, born from death yet destined for the heavens.” Philippe’s eyes, reflective in the starlight, held Matthew’s.

“Pegasus did not succumb to the violence of his birth. He carried heroes on his back. He served Zeus himself, carrying thunderbolts for the king of gods. And after all his service, Pegasus earned his place among the stars. On the day Zeus set him in the sky, a single feather fell to earth—a sign that grace can be found even after pain.” Philippe’s voice wove the myth into something immediate and personal, each word a gentle invocation against the calming storm in Matthew’s blood.

Matthew’s vision cleared the rest of the way as he listened. The red haze ebbed, chased by images conjured from the story: Pegasus soaring free, shining in the night, a symbol of hope and salvation. His breathing steadied. Philippe smiled, seeing the change. He moved his hand to clasp the back of Matthew's neck in a paternal gesture.

“There you are,” he said warmly. “Keep your eyes on Pegasus, my boy. Remember that even born of blood, one can still choose the stars.”

Matthew swallowed, emotion catching in his throat. He dared not speak, afraid his voice would break. Instead, he nodded again, more firmly this time. The night air felt cool on his face, each breath no longer burning.

There was a pause. Then Matthew, with a slight smirk looked at his father and muttered, “Are there any normal births in your religion?”

Philippe blinked once, then laughed—a full, honest, chest-deep laugh. It startled a reluctant smile from Matthew.

“Oh, mon fils,” Philippe chuckled. “None worth telling stories about.”

Matthew rolled his eyes. “Seriously. A horse born from neck blood. A Snake-haired lady. Sounds more like nightmare than a myth.”

Still chuckling, Philippe countered, “And yet your own sacred text has a woman made from a rib and a talking snake. Shall we trade stories, you and I?”

“…He sat with me through the night, just talking about the constellations, until I was myself again,” Matthew finished softly. He had been speaking in a low, gentle cadence, recounting the memory to Marcus under the same sky that had calmed him centuries ago.

Marcus let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He was utterly entranced, as if he’d just lived that scene alongside Matthew. In the dark clearing on the Sleeping Giant, Marcus shifted closer to Matthew on their blanket.

“Granddad really did that? He told you the story of Andromeda to calm you down?” Marcus asked, eyes wide with wonder. He’d never seen that side of Philippe.

Matthew nodded, a tender smile on his face. “Many times, he used tales of the stars to reach me. And it worked.” He gave a soft chuckle. “I suspect half the reason I studied astronomy later on was thanks to those nights with him.”

Marcus smiled, comforted by the thought. He snuggled into Matthew’s side for a moment, allowing the brief hug before teenage pride compelled him to straighten up again. “Well…I’m glad you’re here with me. And thanks—for telling me about that. I know it’s kind of personal,” he added, looking up at Matthew earnestly.

Matthew’s arm moved around Marcus almost unconsciously, drawing the boy against his side in a half-embrace. “He was very fond of you,” he murmured. “You’re his grandson, after all. And you share his love of adventure, I think.” He squeezed Marcus’s shoulder gently. “He was always hardest on those he loved. I know it was hard for you to reconcile us being strict after Obadiah.”

At the mention of that name, Marcus went very still, then leaned in the last inch until his temple rested against Matthew’s shoulder. For a beat he watched Pegasus blink above the tree line, buying himself the courage to say what he’d been circling for weeks.

“Guess that means I’m… very loved,” he said, trying for wry and landing somewhere honest instead. He stared at his knees for a beat. “After Obadiah, ‘strict’ read as ‘danger’ in my head. Rules felt like shackles, not… not railings that keep you from walking off a cliff.” He flicked Matthew a sidelong glance. “I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for anger that didn’t stop, for the kind that breaks things and people. It’s stupid,” he added quickly, flushing. “I know you’re not him. Philippe wasn’t him. But the wires got crossed.”

He leaned into the half-embrace a fraction more, as if testing the weight of it. “I’m starting to untangle it,” he went on, softer. “I can tell the difference now, between being punished for existing and being corrected because you care what I become or because you are trying to protect me. It still… startles me sometimes. After Philip’s spell, it felt like all the worst parts came back louder. A raised voice, a closed door, a rule—It felt like the same trap with better manners.”

Marcus swallowed hard before continuing. “But you don’t shout to scare me. You lower your voice. You don’t leave me alone; you tuck me in after you’ve blistered my backside and tell me tomorrow’s a fresh start.” His words were rough but honest. “You stay. That’s not something I ever learned to expect with him.”

He glanced up at Pegasus again, then back at Matthew, blue eyes steadier than they’d been in months. “And if I forget the difference again,” he added, voice firming, “just point me at the stars and remind me.”

Matthew’s eyes shone, reflecting starlight. “The terrible things he did to you were inexcusable, and you suffered as no child should have to suffer.” He ruffled the boy’s hair fondly. “I want you to know, no matter how dangerous or ugly things might feel inside you, you’re never alone. I’ll be here for you. Always.”

Marcus felt a lump in his throat and quickly looked away, focusing on the telescope to mask the emotion in his eyes. “Always,” he echoed softly, letting the promise settle over them like a warm blanket.

Matthew reached out covering Marcus’s hand with his own and nodded. Marcus felt a surge of emotion—sadness for the family’s loss, gratitude for Philippe’s wisdom, happiness that he himself was now part of this chain of knowledge and love passed down through generations. It was a lot for his currently thirteen-year-old emotional state to process, but in the simplest terms, it just meant family. He had family, stretching across time and memory, watching over him like the eternal stars.

A shooting star suddenly streaked across the sky, a quick silver arc just above the horizon. Marcus gasped, eyes going wide. “Did you see that? A shooting star!” he exclaimed.

“So I did. Quick, make a wish,” Matthew prompted softly, head tilting toward the sky.

Marcus screwed his eyes shut at once, clutching Matthew’s hand and thinking hard. I wish… He hesitated, then thought, I wish to always have nights like this, with my family by my side and the stars above. It was a pure, heartfelt wish. He hoped the falling star carried it far.

After a moment, he opened his eyes. Matthew was watching him with a tender expression.

“Got your wish in mind?” Matthew asked.

“I did.”

Matthew gave his shoulder a gentle pat. “Good.” He glanced at his watch—nearly midnight. “Alright, stargazer, it’s getting late. We should pack up and get some rest.”

Marcus wanted to protest. He felt like he could spend the entire night out here, soaking up stories and starlight. But a yawn escaped him at that very moment, undermining any argument he could have put forward. The emotional day and the late hour were catching up.

“Come on. Help me with the telescope and we’ll head inside,” Matthew said, chuckling softly at the boy’s timing.

Once everything was put away and the cottage door latched, Matthew placed the telescope case by the wall. He turned to find Marcus standing there, looking up at him with a hesitant smile.

“Thank you, Dad,” Marcus said earnestly. “This was the best night ever. And not just because of the telescope. I… I really liked the stories. And being out here with you.” He scuffed his foot, suddenly shy about admitting it.

Matthew felt a swell of affection. He placed both hands on Marcus’s shoulders and pulled him into a gentle hug. Marcus came willingly, wrapping his arms around Matthew’s middle. To Matthew, the boy still fit just right against him, even as he grew taller by the day.

“I enjoyed it too,” Matthew murmured against the top of Marcus’s head. He rubbed a reassuring hand across the boy’s back.

Marcus smiled into Matthew’s shirt. The praise warmed him deeply. “I can’t wait to do it again,” he said, voice muffled in the fabric.

“We will,” Matthew promised. He gently disengaged and steered Marcus toward the twin bed in one of the small bedrooms. “But for now, you need some sleep. It’s well past your bedtime, young man.”

Matthew sat for a long moment, listening to the steady sound of Marcus’s breathing as he slipped into sleep. He sent a silent thought of gratitude up to the sky—to the soul of Philippe, wherever it might be. Merci, Philippe, he thought, thank you for teaching me how to be the father he needs.

At length, Matthew rose and went to the small window. Through the glass, the sky was still bright with the constellations they had traced: Cassiopeia, Andromeda, Pegasus, all shining steadfastly. The outline of the Sleeping Giant mountain was visible beneath them, a guardian resting in the night.

With one last look at the twinkling heavens, Matthew turned back into the room. He lay down on the larger bed in the other bedroom and closed his eyes, feeling at peace. In the morning, they would return home, but the memories of this night—of shared stories and starlight—would remain burning bright in both their hearts, like constellations neither time nor distance could dim.

Chapter Text

“For the hundredth time, Marcus, Sarah is going to love you. Stop worrying.” Diana’s tone was patient but firm as she double-checked the contents of the twins’ diaper bag. Dawn was just a hint of purple on the horizon outside. In the entry hall of their Orange Street home, Marcus shifted from foot to foot, scowling.

“I still don’t think I should go to the witch thing,” Marcus muttered, adjusting the straps of his backpack. He glanced toward the living room where Rebecca and Philip were playing with blocks, oblivious to the early hour. “Witches don’t generally like vampires.”

Diana straightened up and fixed Marcus with a gentle look. “They’ll like you, Marcus. And they like your father and the twins just fine.”

Marcus bit his lip. He wanted to believe her, but old habits died hard. Witches and vampires had a long, fraught history.

“Pretty sure one of them betrayed you to the Congregation in the first place,” he grumbled.

Diana’s lips pressed into a thin line at the reminder. “That was years ago. And that witch paid the price.” She sighed and placed a hand on Marcus’s shoulder. “Listen, Sarah wants us to come. Mabon is one of her favorite holidays. She invited you specifically because she already cares about you. All the other witches will just have to behave themselves.”

Marcus managed a wry smile at Diana’s confidence. Aunt Sarah was Diana’s aunt and a formidable witch in her own right. She had a famously short fuse and a fierce protective streak. If any witch tried to stir up trouble over Marcus being at the gathering, Sarah would no doubt put them in their place with a few choice words (or a well-aimed spell).

Matthew stood in the foyer, already adjusting the collar of his coat with, his tone clipped and impatient. “Just like you are expected to do, Marcus. Now, let’s go. We don’t want to be late. Sarah’s expecting us.”

The firm tone snapped like a taut string. Marcus exhaled loudly and lifted his arms into an exaggerated, mock stretch. Inside the sleeves of his hoodie, where Matthew couldn’t see, his fingers curled tightly into fists and subtly extended two very expressive middle fingers—concealed, silent, satisfying.

It was childish. It was petty. It was exactly the kind of rebellion that felt just dangerous enough to give him back a sliver of control.

Diana caught the motion from across the hallway and arched a brow—but said nothing. She didn’t even smirk. Just gave Marcus a long look and continued stuffing baby wipes into her tote.

“Alright,” he relented finally, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. “But if this goes sideways, I reserve the right to say ‘I told you so.’”

Diana chuckled, ushering Marcus and the twins out the door. “Deal. Now come on, or we’ll miss our flight.”

They departed well before sunrise on a small charter plane bound for New York. Marcus grumbled sleepily as he climbed aboard behind Diana, but a sharp look from Matthew stopped his protests. He promptly curled up in a leather seat and dozed off as the plane took to the sky. By the time he blinked awake, sunlight was spilling through the window onto rolling wooded hills below. They touched down at a tiny regional airport not far from Madison County, where the Bishop family homestead stood.

Inside the house, it smelled of coffee, cinnamon, and maple syrup. Sarah ushered them straight to the kitchen, where a platter of chocolate-chip pancakes sat warming in the oven. Marcus’s mouth watered. He happily dug into a towering stack of pancakes, drowning them in butter and syrup like any hungry kid.

By his third helping, Diana was eyeing him with amused disbelief. “I take it breakfast meets your approval?” she teased.

Marcus just grinned and shoved another forkful of fluffy pancake into his mouth, earning a laugh from both Diana and Sarah.

“How are you doing, kiddo?” Sarah asked Marcus softly, wrapping an arm around him.

“I’m okay,” Marcus replied, surprised to find he meant it. Sarah’s embrace felt safe and welcoming.

After breakfast, the twins went down for a nap in Diana’s old bedroom, and Diana helped Sarah clear the table. Marcus wandered onto the front porch, letting the late-morning sun warm his face. He settled on the porch swing, idly kicking his feet to set it swaying. The quiet farm surroundings were so peaceful he might have dozed off again, had Diana not appeared at the screen door a few minutes later.

“There you are,” she said. She had swapped her apron for a light jacket and had car keys in hand. “How about a little outing, just you and me? The twins will be asleep for a while.”

Marcus perked up immediately. “Sure! Where are we going?”

“Just a few errands,” Diana replied with a smile.

Marcus had no idea what she had in mind, but anything sounded better than sitting around bored. He followed her to the old Honda parked out front and climbed into the front seat.

As they pulled out of the driveway, he ventured, “You know, errands with Dad usually mean something super boring. Or something else entirely...”

Diana glanced at him in the rearview mirror. “Luckily, your father is busy with his own projects right now. My errands are just errands, I promise. Maybe with a little fun thrown in.”

“Alright,” he said, grinning a bit. “I’ll hold you to that fun part.”

Their first stop proved Diana true to her word. She parked in front of a small ice cream parlor on Main Street. Inside, Marcus’s eyes widened at the rows of colorful flavors and the array of toppings behind the glass.

“Go wild,” Diana said, nudging him toward the counter. “What’ll it be?”

After much deliberation, Marcus ended up with a double scoop of rich Swiss chocolate ice cream, smothered under half the available toppings and crowned with a cherry. It looked like a crushed candy mountain with a cherry on top, and his mouth positively watered.

Diana took a seat with her own simple cone while Marcus dug into his sugary creation. He was so engrossed that he hardly noticed Diana snapping a photo with her phone. “Matthew will never believe it if he doesn’t see it,” she said with a chuckle.

Marcus paused with his spoon halfway to his mouth. “You’re sending that to Dad? Oh boy.”

Diana’s phone buzzed a minute later with a text. She read it and snorted. “Matthew says—and I quote—‘He is going to be vibrating from all that sugar. We’ll never get him to bed tonight.’”

“Tell him I’m not that sugared up,” Marcus groaned playfully.

Typing a reply with a mischievous grin, Diana said, “I told him, ‘Good thing you don’t need sleep. ;)’”

Marcus burst out laughing, almost choking on a bit of ice cream. He could imagine Matthew’s exasperated face at her cheeky comeback.

They lingered long enough for Marcus to polish off every last melted, candy-studded drop in his cup. After cleaning up sticky hands and faces, they continued on their way.

Next, they stopped at a small toy and craft shop. Diana needed to pick up some colored candles and paper lanterns for the coven’s Mabon celebration. While she chatted with the shop owner, Marcus wandered to the toy section and quickly became absorbed in the LEGO display. One kit—a giant pirate ship complete with tiny cannons and a kraken—captured his imagination. He’d grown fond of building models to pass the time; there was something calming about snapping bricks together in a world that felt otherwise out of control.

When Diana found him examining the pirate ship box with longing, she added it to her basket. “A little treat,” she said, silencing his attempt at protest. “You’ve earned it.”

Their final errand was the grocery store to pick up ingredients for that night’s dinner. Marcus’s earlier sugar rush had waned, leaving him drowsy as he trailed Diana through the produce aisle. He helped load apples, corn, and herbs into the cart, trying not to knock anything over in his sleepy state.

By mid-afternoon they returned to the Bishop house. Sunlight slanted through the oaks as Marcus lugged a couple of grocery bags inside. In the kitchen, Sarah was elbow-deep in dinner prep, chopping vegetables and tossing herbs into a simmering pot. Marcus set the bags down on the counter and, without so much as a hello, scooped up his new Lego kit and bolted toward the living room.

“Hey—” Diana began, ready to remind him about his manners.

But Sarah chuckled and waved her off. “Let him go play. Dinner prep is boring if you’re a kid.” Lowering her voice, she added, “He’s had a big day already.”

Diana nodded, watching Marcus disappear around the corner. “True.”

Marcus spent the rest of the afternoon happily engrossed in building his model. He poured out the hundreds of bricks on the living room rug and set to work, single-minded in his focus.

That evening, the Bishop property came alive with activity as the local coven gathered to celebrate Mabon, the autumn equinox. The yard was decorated with jar lanterns and strings of fairy lights, and a long wooden table was laid out with harvest foods: roast chicken, baked squash, corn pudding, fresh breads, and spiced apple pies. About twenty witches and a few daemons and family members milled about in the twilight, chatting and laughing.

Marcus hovered at the edge of the porch beside Diana, trying not to feel out of place. He was a little disappointed that Matthew had gone hunting. His father’s presence made him feel more comfortable.
The sight of so many witches together made him nervous—he caught a few people casting curious looks his way—but Diana gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. She led him off the porch and through the crowd toward a bonfire that crackled in a firepit under the oak tree.

Sarah called for everyone’s attention, and the coven gradually formed a wide circle around the fire. The official ceremony was brief but heartfelt. An elder witch led an invocation thanking the earth for her bounty and the balance of light and dark on this day. Sarah lit a bundle of dried sage and herbs from the flames and carried it around the circle, the fragrant smoke swirling in the cool air as each witch murmured words of gratitude and blessing. Marcus bowed his head and silently gave thanks in his own way, grateful to be alive and with family as the seasons turned.

“Blessed be,” Sarah proclaimed to close the ritual.

“Blessed be,” the coven echoed.

With the formalities done, the gathering relaxed into a lively celebration. People began loading up their plates from the buffet of food, and lively conversations resumed. Under the golden glow of lanterns, the atmosphere felt warm and welcoming. For the most part.

Marcus stuck close to Diana as they moved to the food table. He filled a plate with an assortment of dinner and treats (making sure to snag a slice of Sarah’s famous pie). He was just about to take a bite when a smooth, unfamiliar voice spoke right beside him.

“So this is the famous Marcus I’ve heard so much about.”

Marcus turned to find two women standing there. One was a tall brunette around Diana’s age, dressed in a chic black sweater and jeans; the other, hovering just behind her, was a younger blonde with a tentative expression. The brunette was smiling, but there was something about her eyes Marcus didn’t like: too sharp, too interested.

Diana was at Marcus’s side in an instant. She returned the brunette’s smile coolly. “Marcus, this is Denise Stevens and her friend Kaelyn.”

“Charmed,” said Denise. She looked Marcus up and down in a way that made him want to squirm. “I must say, news travels fast. A vampire child transformed by witchcraft… it’s all anyone has been talking about.”

Marcus’s mouth had gone dry. He managed a polite nod. “Nice to meet you,” he murmured.

Denise’s smile widened, and she bent closer to him. “No need to be shy, dear. We’re all fascinated by what happened to you. In fact, I imagine you’ll be very popular among witches for a while—so many questions, you know.” Her tone was sugary, but Marcus detected the edge beneath. This wasn’t mere friendliness; it felt like probing.

Kaelyn cleared her throat softly. “We really just wanted to say hello,” she put in, giving Marcus an apologetic little smile. “It’s not every day we meet a de Clermont.”

Diana’s hand found Marcus’s shoulder. “Hello and good evening, then,” she said to Denise pointedly. “If you’ll excuse us, I need Marcus for a moment.” Not waiting for a response, Diana steered Marcus away from the two women.

As they retreated, Marcus heard Denise give a soft laugh behind them. “Touchy, isn’t she?” Denise murmured to Kaelyn. “I was only being friendly.”

Diana’s jaw was tight, but she didn’t engage. She guided Marcus over to where Sarah was ladling out spiced cider by the fire. One look at Diana’s face and Marcus’s tense posture, and Sarah frowned.

“What happened?”

“Denise Stevens,” Diana said under her breath. “She was interrogating Marcus.”

Sarah followed their glances across the yard to where Denise now mingled with a cluster of other witches. Sarah’s expression darkened. “I know her by reputation. Gossiping busybody.” Sarah put an arm around Marcus and gave him a squeeze. “Don’t you worry about her, hon. If that woman sticks her nose where it doesn’t belong, she’ll have me to answer to.”

Marcus mustered a faint smile. Sarah’s fierce tone left little doubt that Denise would be in deep trouble if she tried anything.

The rest of the evening passed without incident. Marcus stayed close to his aunt and stepmother, and other coven members who came up to meet him were much kinder—curious perhaps, but not unkind. By the time the bonfire had burned low and the coven members began to depart, Marcus found himself drooping with exhaustion.

As Diana gathered up the dozing twins and the remaining pies, Marcus trudged after her toward the house. “Told you,” he mumbled to Diana, rubbing his eyes. “Witches don’t generally like vampires.”

Diana balanced Becca on her hip and gave Marcus a soft, rueful look. “Most witches are perfectly nice. Don’t let one bad apple give you the wrong idea.” She leaned over and kissed the top of his head. “Come on, it’s bedtime for you too.”

Marcus was too tired to argue. He fell asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow, comforted by the familiar sounds of Diana and Sarah tidying up downstairs and the knowledge that his family was close by.

The very day they returned home to New Haven, the whispers began. True to form, Denise Stevens wasted no time spreading word of Diana’s “unconventional” family throughout the witch community. It seemed every witch from Boston to Providence now knew that one of Diana’s children had cast their first spell—and that a de Clermont vampire had been reduced to a human boy because of it.

At first the chatter was merely curious gossip. But soon a darker tone crept in. Witches on various coven message boards and phone calls began speculating what a prize Marcus would be if someone managed to get hold of him. He was Ysabeau de Clermont’s grandson, after all, and some witches with long memories muttered that this could be proper revenge for Ysabeau’s old witch-hunting days. Others fantasized about studying Marcus’s blood or siphoning his magic for themselves. The more the rumors spread, the more dangerous the situation became.

When Sarah heard some of the things being said, she was furious. Marcus was like her own grandson, and no one was going to harm her family on her watch. She got on the phone immediately to start quashing the threat. Some witches received polite but firm warnings from Sarah Bishop that they were treading on very thin ice. Others got blistering earfuls that left their ears ringing and their plans for “Marcus the prize” thoroughly reconsidered.

Still, Sarah knew mere scoldings might not be enough. So that night, she made an international call to someone whose protection of Marcus would carry even more weight. Ysabeau de Clermont picked up on the third ring.

“Hello, Sarah,” came the cool, elegant voice of Matthew’s mother. “It’s rather late, isn’t it?”

“You don’t sleep,” Sarah replied tersely.

Ysabeau gave a soft, knowing laugh. “True. What is the matter?”

“I’ve been hearing some distressing things,” Sarah said, anger threading through her usually frank tone. “Whispers about Marcus.”

“Tell me everything.” Ysabeau’s voice lost all trace of humor.

Sarah did. She relayed every scrap of gossip she’d gathered: how Denise had broadcast Marcus’s situation to everyone, how various covens were chattering about making a move, and even the particularly ugly boast one witch had made online about finally getting revenge on Ysabeau through Marcus.

When Sarah finished, the silence on the other end was chilling. “Thank you for informing me,” Ysabeau said at last, each word sharp as a blade. “If any witch thinks to touch my grandson, they will dearly regret it.”

“I figured you’d feel that way,” Sarah replied. “I’m worried, Ysabeau. I won’t let anything happen to him, but this is…” She trailed off, the fear behind her anger showing.

“We will do what must be done,” Ysabeau said firmly. “I’ll alert Baldwin. And Sarah—thank you. You did well to call me.”

Hanging up with Sarah, Ysabeau immediately dialed Baldwin’s number. Despite the late hour, Baldwin answered at once.

“What’s happened?” he demanded without preamble, instinctively sensing a family crisis.

“Marcus has been threatened,” Ysabeau told her son bluntly. “Not by anyone I think could actually get to him, but the threats have been made.”

Baldwin hissed in displeasure. “Witches?”

“Witches,” Ysabeau confirmed. “Spreading gossip about capturing him. Seeking vengeance for past slights. You know the sort.”

A low growl came over the line. Baldwin was the de Clermont family’s head and he did not take threats to their blood lightly. “They must be reminded who they’re dealing with,” he said. “I’ll handle it. I’ll have our people on high alert. If any witch is stupid enough to attempt something, they’ll have the full might of the de Clermonts to answer to.”

“Good,” Ysabeau said. She could hear Baldwin’s fury barely restrained behind his clipped words. “Between you, Diana, and myself, that should put a stop to this nonsense.”

“It will,” Baldwin vowed. “No one touches Marcus.”

After finishing the call, Ysabeau stood for a moment at a window of Sept-Tours, gazing out at the moonlit village. Her graceful hands clenched into fists. Decades ago, after the Second World War, she had vowed to kill any witch who threatened her family. She had softened since Diana entered their lives, but if ever there was a moment to revive that old ferocity, it was now. Let them come, she thought grimly. They will learn just how fiercely a de Clermont protects their own.

Chapter Text

Morning sunlight lit the kitchen table as the Bishop-Clairmont household gathered for breakfast. Marcus poked at his toast, still shaking off sleep, while the twins smeared oatmeal and fruit across their high-chair trays. Diana sipped her coffee with a knowing smile playing on her lips. Matthew folded the morning newspaper aside, exchanging a glance with his wife as if confirming something. Marcus noticed the silent communication and narrowed his eyes suspiciously. Usually, that look meant his parents were up to something.

Sure enough, as soon as Becca started banging her spoon for attention and Pip babbled “Up, up!” toward his father, Diana cleared her throat.

“So,” she announced brightly, “once everyone finishes breakfast, we’ll get ready because we’re going to the zoo today.”

Marcus paused mid-chew. He blinked at Diana, uncertain he’d heard correctly. The zoo? A jolt of excitement sparked in his chest, so sudden it caught him off guard. He quickly schooled his expression into what he hoped was casual indifference.

“The zoo, huh?” he said, aiming for nonchalant. He gave a little shrug. “Sure, I guess that could be fun.”

But his eyes betrayed him, already lighting up. Across the table, Matthew hid a chuckle behind a sip of blood from his silver julep cup. The vampire’s sharp eyes didn’t miss the way Marcus’s supposedly indifferent facade cracked into eager curiosity.

Meanwhile, the twins reacted with far less restraint. Pip bounced in his chair, clapping his sticky hands. “Zoo! Zoo!” he squealed. Becca promptly parroted her brother, flinging a chunk of banana in her enthusiasm. Diana caught the flying banana before it could hit the floor—her reflexes were nearly as good as her husband’s these days.

“Yes, the zoo,” she laughed. “We haven’t been in a while, and Marcus hasn’t ever been. At least not like this.”

There was a gentle warmth in the way she said it. Marcus understood the subtext: he hadn’t been to a zoo as a child. In truth, the last time Marcus visited any sort of menagerie, he’d been far more interested in medical studies than watching animals. But sitting here in a 13-year-old’s body, secretly thrilled by the idea of lions and tigers and bears (and the various other animals), he felt a strange mix of anticipation and trepidation.

Matthew set down his cup and addressed his eldest with a small smile. “Finish up, then go get dressed. It’s a cool morning, so wear something warm enough. We’ll be outside most of the day.” The instruction was simple, but Marcus detected the implicit “and I expect you to listen” in his father’s tone.

Marcus merely nodded and shoved the last bite of toast into his mouth. Warmth wasn’t really a large concern of his—after all, as a vampire he’d been largely impervious to temperature—but now, as a human boy, he wasn’t so sure. Still, he found himself already plotting a case for wearing his favorite new T-shirt instead of the thick sweater he knew Matthew would prefer.

Of course, getting everything ready to leave was easier said than done. Becca squealed and darted away the moment her mom approached with a pink knit pullover. She ran circles around the living room, giggling as Diana tried to coax her into it. On the other side of the couch, Pip was throwing a fit of his own, stubbornly tugging his sweater on inside-out. He seemed convinced that the fuzzy side belonged on the outside—fashion statements be damned—and any attempt to correct him resulted in a high-pitched protest of “No! Like dis!”

In his bedroom, Marcus was having his own standoff with his dad. He was determined to prove he didn’t need a sweater at all, despite his father’s insistence. In fact, he stood in the middle of his bedroom wearing shorts and a thin T-shirt, arms crossed defiantly. He was attempting his best impersonation of that one kid in every school—the one who wears shorts in January and insists he’s not cold. (“Chad” was what Marcus jokingly called that hypothetical cool teen, and today Marcus was channeling him.)

Matthew stood in front of him holding out a folded navy crewneck sweater for the third time in as many minutes.

“It’s well below shorts-and-T-shirt weather, Marcus. Put this on,” Matthew ordered, voice edging into a snap as his patience wore thin.

From his perch on Marcus’s unmade bed, Garfield watched the father-son standoff with lazy amusement. The orange kitten was curled atop the rumpled comforter, tail flicking as if to say, Here we go again. Marcus caught Garfield’s eye behind his dad’s back. I’m going to attach it to your scratching post later, Marcus thought wryly. Garfield blinked, unimpressed.

“I’m fine, Dad, seriously. I don’t even feel cold,” Marcus protested with a dramatic eyeroll.

In truth, the morning air coming through his open window had raised goosebumps on his bare legs, but he refused to admit it. A mix of stubborn teen pride and a lingering sense that after everything that happened, he deserved to assert at least a little control fueled his resistance. He jutted out his chin and stared at his father in challenge.

His inner adult bristled; he hated being told what to do. But another part of him—the child’s body housing that adult mind—felt an uncomfortable quiver of instinctive obedience. Or maybe, he realized for the first time, some part of his vampiric instinct to submit to his sire’s authority had survived Pip’s spell and he wasn’t as equipped to fight it as he would be normally.

He swallowed hard, hands clenched at his sides. In that charged moment, he realized he was at a crossroads: make a stand over something as silly as a sweater, or concede and avoid starting the day with an even sillier sore bottom.

Before the stalemate could escalate further, Diana breezed into the room carrying a squirming Becca on one hip and a tiny pair of socks in her free hand.

“Matthew, could you help Pip with his shoes? He’s convinced they go on his hands this morning,” she said, arching an eyebrow at the scene.

He let out a long-suffering sigh and nodded, stepping back. “Fine. Maybe you’ll have better luck with this one,” he muttered, transferring the sweater to Diana’s hands. As he exited, they could hear him heading downstairs, calling out, “Pip, get those socks out of your mouth!”

As soon as Matthew was out of earshot, Diana gave Marcus a sympathetic smile. She laid the rejected sweater neatly on the bed, right next to Garfield, who immediately began kneading it, already claiming the garment for himself.

“Your father means well,” Diana said softly, reaching out to smooth down Marcus’s messy hair. “He just forgets sometimes that fashion has evolved since the Dark Ages.” Her exaggerated eye-roll and warm tone made Marcus grin despite himself.

Diana crossed over to Marcus’s closet and rifled through the hangers until she found what she was looking for. “Ah, here we go,” she said triumphantly, pulling out a black hoodie and tossing it to her oldest child.

The sweatshirt landed in Marcus’s arms. Grinning, Marcus read the bright neon letters emblazoned across the front of the oversized, soft hoodie: “I’m here and I’m awake. What more do you want?” With a shrug, he pulled the hoodie on over his T-shirt. It was infinitely better than the itchy sweater his dad had picked.

“Much better. Warm and cool,” she declared, giving him a little wink as she eyed him with an approving nod. Then her lips twitched. “Your father is absolutely going to hate that hoodie,” she added in a conspiratorial whisper.

Marcus flashed a mischievous smile. “I know,” he whispered back.

They shared a quick laugh and a fist-bump of solidarity. Moments like this still felt a bit novel to Marcus. Diana might have been his stepmom by title, but at some point in the craziness of the past few months—probably a few hours after Pip’s little magic trick, if he was being honest—she had stopped being “Matthew’s wife” and firmly become Mom. And he was sure that Diana felt the same way about him. He wasn’t just Matthew’s son. He was hers. Realizing this, Marcus ducked his head to hide the gratitude in his eyes. It felt good to have an ally.

Matthew grabbed the well-stocked diaper bag, and the family made their way out to the car. Marcus slid into the backseat, letting Pip and Becca claim their usual thrones in their car seats on either side. Being sandwiched between twin toddlers was still a tight squeeze, but Marcus would take it over a booster any day.

As Matthew backed the car out of the driveway, he glanced in the rearview mirror and immediately zeroed in on the bold text of Marcus’s hoodie. A frown tugged at his mouth. “Marcus, are you seriously wearing that?” he asked, incredulous.

Marcus innocently tugged at his hood. “What? I’m warm,” he replied, knowing full well what his dad really took issue with.

Matthew opened his mouth—probably to insist his son change into something less cheeky—but Diana cleared her throat softly from the passenger seat. She gave her husband a pointed side-eye and a slight shake of her head. In the rearview mirror, Marcus watched his father reconsider, then sigh in defeat.

As they drove, the twins kept up a running commentary of babble and toddler observations. Every truck or bus out the window was cause for a pointing frenzy. Marcus found himself translating their excited cries with a smile.

“Yes, Becca, that is a big truck,” he chuckled as his sister squealed at a passing delivery truck. “And look, Pip, do you see the bird up there?” Pip pressed his face to the glass to see the hawk circling above.

Matthew caught Marcus’s eye in the rear-view mirror. His stern face softened with pride at the way Marcus was entertaining the little ones. Marcus pretended not to notice, focusing instead on the scenery. But he felt a small glow in his chest, realizing he was actually happy. Huh. A simple family car ride, something he never imagined doing a year ago, was making him feel connected in ways he couldn’t articulate. The duality of the situation was strange, but in moments like this, he didn’t mind it so much.

They arrived early enough that the zoo’s parking lot wasn’t yet full. Matthew maneuvered into a prime spot under a shady tree. Marcus hopped out as soon as he was unbuckled, then helped unfasten Pip’s car seat. Diana freed Becca, who immediately reached up for her father.

Matthew unloaded the double stroller from the trunk while Diana freed the twins from their car seats. The stroller was a beast of a thing—double-wide and equipped with all-terrain wheels—that could accommodate both Pip and Becca when their little legs got tired.

Today, it was also packed to the brim with parenting essentials: the diaper bag, bottled water, sippy cups, a container of strawberries and crackers, extra jackets, and a fluffy blanket for if the twins got cold. Matthew did a quick inventory, making sure they hadn’t forgotten anything critical (like the ever-important bag of bribes).

Pip attempted to make a break for it across the pavement. “Oh no you don’t, speedy,” Marcus laughed, snagging the back of Pip’s little jacket. He scooped the boy up before he could toddle into danger. Pip dissolved into giggles, enjoying the swoop through the air as Marcus swung him around and into the stroller.

Soon both twins were secured in their stroller, though Marcus suspected that wouldn’t last long. They had the wide-eyed, wiggly look of children ready to explore everything in sight. Diana flashed the family membership card at the ticket booth, and the friendly attendant waved them through with a smile.

The zoo was waking up: peacocks were already strutting along the walkways, their iridescent tail feathers catching the sun, and the smell of popcorn and cotton candy from snack kiosks was just beginning to waft through the air. Marcus inhaled deeply, enjoying the medley of scents. It was oddly comforting.

The first stop, by unanimous toddler demand, was the large walk-in aviary. The moment the towering mesh doors came into sight, Becca began bouncing in her stroller seat.

“Birdies, birdies!” she chanted, pointing vigorously. Birds were her absolute favorite thing in the world at the moment.

At the entrance, a staff member offered small Popsicle sticks coated with birdseed for a token price. “Do you want to feed the birds?” Diana asked the twins, already retrieving a couple of dollar bills. The twins nodded vigorously.

Inside, the air was warm and filled with the trills and fluttering of dozens of small birds. Green and blue budgerigars flitted overhead, occasionally swooping down to investigate the visitors. Only a few other families were inside at this early hour, so it felt like they had the place mostly to themselves.

Diana handed Marcus one of the birdseed sticks and gave another to Matthew, who maneuvered the stroller into a corner and lifted the twins out so they could participate. Marcus held his stick out uncertainly as a yellow budgie landed on it and began pecking.

“Hey, look at that,” he said softly, charmed at the tiny claws tickling against the wood.

Pip reached out a chubby finger toward a vivid blue parrot perched on a railing. Matthew gently caught his hand mid-air.

“Easy, Pip. Gentle touches,” he instructed. The toddler bounced excitedly, and Matthew carefully guided his son’s hand to pet the parrot’s tail feathers. The bird seemed unfazed, used to calm interaction.

Becca, meanwhile, had taken a keen interest in the budgies zooming above. She wriggled in Diana’s hold, little fingers opening and closing as if trying to grab the whole flock out of the air.

Marcus was so engrossed in watching a pair of birds preen each other that he didn’t immediately notice the subtle change in atmosphere. A strange hush fell over the aviary, as if an unseen breeze had suddenly passed. The birds, which had been flitting randomly, all at once turned their attention toward Becca.

He glanced over just in time to see his sister stretch her hand out, palm open in a greeting to the birds she so adored. A golden finch swooped down and landed lightly on Becca’s small palm. Delighted, the toddler giggled. Diana’s eyes widened. Becca had never been able to outright summon an animal before. Perhaps it wasn’t intentional, but the young witch’s burgeoning magic clearly called to the creatures around her.

Before anyone could react, a veritable swarm of colorful budgies and finches descended toward their family. Marcus’s birdseed stick suddenly became the hottest real estate in town. Five, ten, then twenty little birds aimed for it and for him all at once.

“Whoa—!” Marcus yelped, ducking instinctively as wings fluttered around his head.

A chorus of astonished gasps and laughter rose from the other visitors as the entire aviary seemed to come alive in a concentrated whirl around their family. Birds perched on Marcus’s outstretched arm and his shoulder. One bold parakeet landed atop his tousled blonde hair. Pip clapped in amazement, which only startled a few finches into taking off again, darting between Matthew’s legs and nearly tangling in Diana’s hair.

Diana let out a startled laugh, turning slowly in place as two budgies landed on the stroller handle next to her. “Alright, this is… new,” she managed, ducking as a tiny green bird zoomed past her ear. Ever the mom-ographer, she quickly pulled out her phone and snapped a picture of Marcus and his new feathered friends. “That’s a keeper,” she announced, grinning

Matthew, on the other hand, looked half-amused and half-concerned. Amused, because the stoic vampire undoubtedly recognized the comedy in the situation. Concerned, because a quick glance confirmed that Becca’s eyes had that telltale glimmer of active magic.

“Sweetheart,” Matthew said to his daughter, keeping his voice calm and soothing despite the flapping chaos, “we love the birdies too, but can you let them fly now?”

Becca blinked at her father, then up at the feathered friends swarming around. Perhaps sensing her father’s gentle plea, or simply growing tired of holding her arm out, she lowered her hand. In the same instant, the mystical pull seemed to break. The birds abruptly lost interest in the family and fluttered off, just as suddenly as they’d come. Magical mischief managed.

Silence, then a burst of giggles from a little girl across the aviary broke the spell. Her mother was clapping softly. “That was amazing,” the woman laughed, clearly assuming it was a planned show or simply a stroke of luck.

Diana mustered a gracious smile and waved lightly, playing along. “Guess they really like us,” she said cheerfully. Inside, she was breathing a quiet sigh of relief that the other visitors hadn’t realized why the birds swarmed.

“How about we take a break from birds for now,” Diana suggested, exchanging a knowing look with Matthew. She ran a hand over Becca’s curls, checking her daughter over as well. Everyone was fine—no harm, no foul (or perhaps fowl, Marcus thought in punny satisfaction).

Becca waved vigorously at the birds on the way out, calling “Bye-bye, birdies!” over Matthew’s shoulder as he buckled her back into the stroller.

They regrouped just outside the aviary exit. Marcus leaned against the stroller, catching his breath. His cheeks hurt from grinning. He couldn’t remember the last time something so ridiculous and wonderful had happened to him. For a few minutes there, he hadn’t been worrying about being a de-aged vampire or a kid with too many memories; he’d just been a teenager at the zoo, laughing as birds tried to roost on his head. It felt good.

After a few moments to settle down, they continued along the path to the next area. The zoo’s layout led them through a series of habitats featuring animals of the African savanna. Soon they arrived at a low stone wall overlooking a large pool—the hippopotamus enclosure. The hippos were mostly submerged in a broad pool of water. Only two gray backs and a pair of round ears were visible at first. Then, as the family approached the railing, one hippo decided to make an appearance. With a great upheaval of water, she emerged in all her rotund glory, nostrils snorting and gigantic mouth opening in a lazy yawn.
“Whoa!” Marcus exclaimed, leaning over the railing for a better look. The beast was massive.
Pip started bouncing in his stroller seat. Hippos were his favorite. The little boy pointed with delight at the real, lumbering creatures in front of him. “Hippo! Hippo!” he squealed.

Becca’s eyes went saucer-wide. “Hippo,” she whispered, then tried to hide her face against the stroller, as if unsure whether to be amazed or scared. Matthew chuckled and rubbed her back reassuringly. “It’s alright, little one. Hippos look scary, but this one’s safely behind a wall.”

A thick glass wall rose up from the water’s edge, separating visitors from the habitat while allowing an underwater view. Diana lifted Pip out of the stroller so he could press his hands to the glass. Soon, Becca squirmed down as well, curiosity winning out over shyness. The twins stood side by side, peering at the hulking shadow beneath the water. The family watched in comfortable silence for a minute, entranced by the slow-moving giants.

Then Becca wrinkled her nose. “Hippo stinky,” she declared loudly.

It was true—the scent wafting from the enclosure was ripe, a pungent blend of mud and animal. Marcus snorted, and Matthew barked a laugh, breaking the quiet.

“You got that right, kiddo,” Matthew agreed, grinning as Diana shook her head in amusement.

Marcus felt a sudden desire to see better too. Without thinking, he climbed the stairs to the side of the glass wall and stepped onto the lowest rung of the railing, leaning forward, hands on the top bar for balance. The water’s surface reflected the sky, making it hard to see the hippo now submerged again.

“If I could just—” Marcus muttered, craning his neck to follow the shadowy outline drifting underwater.

In a blink, Matthew’s hand was on the back of Marcus’s hoodie, firm and steadying. “Marcus. Both feet on the ground, please,” he said quietly. There was an unmistakable tension in his voice.

Marcus sighed and stepped down, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. He hadn’t even been close to toppling in; he knew his balance, and he wasn’t a toddler. But the genuine worry in his father’s eyes cooled Marcus’s urge to protest. He glanced around—no one else had noticed Matthew pulling him back, which spared him some embarrassment. He settled for a mild grumble.

“I was fine, you know. I wasn’t going to reenact Free Willy and jump in.”

Matthew’s jaw twitched, that muscle that meant I’m trying not to scold you. “Maybe so. Humor me anyway,” he replied, scanning his son briefly for any sign of wetness or harm. Satisfied Marcus was alright aside from a pout, Matthew withdrew his hand and turned his attention back to the water.

“Look, down there.”

The hippo had drifted right up against the glass underwater, huge teeth visible as she nibbled a clump of lettuce that had sunk. With the sun at a better angle now, they could see her clearly. Pip and Becca both gasped and slapped their palms excitedly on the glass at the sight of the hippo’s big teeth. Their smudgy handprints joined dozens of others from many little visitors before them.

When the novelty of the hippos finally waned—and after Becca loudly told the hippos “Buh-bye, stinky!” to another round of chuckles from nearby families—they moved on. They passed a grassy savanna area where a few zebras lazily chewed hay. In the distance, the lion exhibit’s rock formation was visible.

A male lion lay stretched out in the sun, flicking an ear but otherwise ignoring the world. Becca peered as they strolled by and gave a tiny, polite “raawr,” as if that might rouse the big cat. It didn’t, but Marcus patted her head and said, “Good try. Keep working on your roar, sis.”

Finally, the family arrived at the North American river otter habitat, and it quickly became the highlight of Marcus’s day. The exhibit featured a winding stream behind clear glass panels and a rocky den where the animals could pop in and out. At the moment, three sleek otters were in the water, splashing and playing in the flowing water of their exhibit. Marcus pressed up to the glass, captivated; he had never seen them so active before.

He realized he was grinning. Marcus couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so captivated by an animal at the zoo. If someone had asked him that morning what his favorite animal was, he might have just shrugged, but watching these otters play, he suddenly had an answer. I think I just found my favorite, he thought, amused at himself as he crouched down to get a better look.

“They’re North American river otters,” Diana read from a nearby plaque. “They have a high metabolism, so they eat about 20% of their body weight a day. And they can stay underwater for eight minutes.” She smiled at Marcus, knowing he’d appreciate the trivia.

“Twenty percent? I can relate,” Marcus quipped, thinking of how he seemed to be hungry all the time in this growing body. His eyes never left the otters, though. One of the underwater pair had just surfaced right in front of him, pressing its nose to the glass. It had long whiskers that trembled as it studied the strange human staring back.

“Well, hello there,” Marcus murmured, enchanted. The otter regarded him for a beat, dark eyes shining with mischief, then did a sudden flip—smacking the glass playfully with its webbed paws as if to say tag, you’re it! Marcus jumped back in surprise, then erupted into laughter.

They were adorable. And something about their playful energy resonated deeply with him. He watched an otter climb up the bank and then execute a dramatic slide back into the water, leaving a ripple of bubbles in its wake. He felt an almost magnetic pull toward them.

Smiling, Diana walked over to join him. “I’d say we found your spirit animal,” she said, gently bumping her shoulder against his.

Marcus didn’t even look up, his eyes tracking the otter that now pursued its companion onto a log. “They’re just really cool,” he murmured.

The smallest otter crept up and playfully pounced on another, and Marcus chuckled. The little one was now nudging a larger sibling off the log and into the water. The whole group of otters erupted into what looked like a rollicking game of tag, zipping through the water in a flurry of bubbles.

Just then, the bold young otter poked its head up from behind a log near the glass and gave a high-pitched bark. Matthew rolled the stroller up behind them, having corralled the twins to move on. When he realized what held Marcus’s attention, he parked the stroller and leaned on the railing next to his wife and son.

“That little one is particularly naughty,” he observed, following Marcus’s gaze. Indeed, the smallest otter was attempting to steal a fish from a bigger otter’s mouth; its clever paws at work. Matthew arched a brow at Marcus and added with a smirk, “Reminds me of someone else I know.”

Marcus tore his gaze from the exhibit just long enough to flash his dad an indignant look. “Who, me?” he asked, putting on an exaggerated innocent face. “I’m a perfect angel, Dad.”

Diana snorted a laugh. “Oh sure. An angel who leaves wet towels on the bathroom floor and eats all the marshmallows out of the Lucky Charms,” she teased, nudging Marcus affectionately.

“Hey!” Marcus protested, though he was grinning. “Marshmallows are the best part. And towel floors are in this year, didn’t you know?”

Matthew chuckled and wrapped an arm around Marcus’s shoulders, pulling him in for a quick side-hug before the boy could squirm away.

“Angel or otter, we kind of like having you around,” he said affectionately, giving Marcus a little squeeze. Marcus felt his face warm at the unexpected show of affection, but he didn’t mind it one bit.

For a minute longer, the three of them watched the otters together, with Becca and Pip hopping at their feet trying to get another peek. Marcus felt a swell of contentment. He didn’t feel like a weird out-of-place former almost-adult vampire in that moment. He just felt like a kid on an outing with his mom and dad, having a really good day.

Before long, a familiar whooo-whooo whistle echoed from up ahead—steam engine sound effects from the zoo’s miniature train, which chugged along a loop around the park. A signpost announced the train station was just past the North America section.

The shrill whistle of the zoo train cut through the air again, this time much closer. A moment later, the Zoo Train chugged into view around a bend, its bright red engine pulling several open-air cars filled with waving families.

Pip was beside himself, bouncing in the stroller and repeating “Choo-choo!” with escalating volume. Becca joined in with an excited shriek, because if her twin thought this was awesome, then by default it was awesome.

At the little zoo train station, the family found only a short line for the final attraction of the day. Matthew parked the stroller nearby and purchased a few tickets. Diana glanced toward the station. A short line of parents with strollers was already forming.

“Perfect timing,” she said. “Why don’t you go ahead and get on? I’ll run to the restroom and catch up after your ride.”

Matthew raised an eyebrow, about to suggest they wait and go together, but Diana was already handing him the stroller and backing away with a wave.

“Go on, I’ll be quick! Don’t worry about saving a seat,” she insisted. Before he could protest, she spun on her heel and headed off in the direction of the restrooms.

Matthew gave a suspicious glance at his wife before he turned to herd the kids toward the ride. The miniature train was painted like a string of candy-colored vintage locomotives, each car just big enough for a parent and child or two smaller kids.

When the miniature train pulled up and boarding began, Matthew ushered them into one of the open-air cars.

“Come on, Bubba,” Marcus said to Pip. With a little grunt, he swung the toddler up into his arms. “You wanna ride with me?”

Pip’s answer was an enthusiastic bounce and a high-pitched, “Ride wif buvver!”

He wrapped his little arms around Marcus’s neck in a tight hug. The sight of a teenage boy carrying his baby brother made a couple of nearby mothers practically melt on the spot. Marcus felt the tips of his ears go warm when he overheard an “Oh, how sweet!” but he pretended not to notice. He was more focused on getting Pip safely into the front car.

“Marcus, you and Pip sit in the front row. I’ll sit right behind with Becca so I can keep an eye on you rambunctious boys,” he instructed.

Marcus rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “We’re not gonna jump off a moving train, Dad,” he joked, sliding onto the narrow bench seat with Pip on his lap. Becca climbed in next to Matthew right behind them.

“You had better not. I believe you know what the consequences would be for such an action, Marcus Raphael.” Matthew’s glare was laced with amusement but it was also stern enough to make Marcus’s stomach swoop lightly.

Thankfully a cheerful whistle interrupted the threat, and the train set off on its loop around the zoo. It wound through a scenic route, crossing a small bridge and passing by several enclosures. Inside the tunnel, colored lights and recorded animal sounds echoed around them—a fun surprise for the kids. Every time they neared an exhibit, Marcus took it upon himself to “translate” the animals for his siblings.

As the train rolled past the elephant yard, he raised his arm like a trunk and let out a surprisingly decent elephant trumpet. Pip erupted into laughter and tried to mimic him with a shrill sound as he blew a raspberry. When they passed the giraffe paddock, Marcus stretched his neck comically and chewed imaginary leaves, making Becca giggle and copy him by sticking her chin up in the air.

Midway through, the train chugged near the lion habitat they had seen earlier. The lions were still lounging, though one lifted her head as the train rattled by. Marcus seized the dramatic opportunity.

“Oh no, lions on the left!” he announced in a stage whisper. “Quick, let’s tell them we come in peace!” He then let out his mightiest (and goofiest) attempt at a lion’s roar.

Pip and Becca joined in at once, their tiny voices chiming out ferocious “RAWR!” sounds that were more adorable than intimidating. Their enthusiasm drew laughs from some of the other passengers. Marcus caught Matthew grinning at them from the seat behind.

“Careful, you three,” Matthew teased. “We don’t want the lions thinking we’re challenging them. Last thing we need is a pride of lions following us home because someone started a roar-off.”

Marcus laughed and settled back as the train rounded a bend, leaving the lions behind. For the rest of the ride, he and the twins kept up a running commentary—waving dramatically at the flamingos, hooting like owls when they passed the nocturnal house, and yelling “Bye-bye!” to every animal they saw. Pip even started waving to random squirrels along the tracks, which Marcus found ridiculously endearing.

By the time the little train returned to the station, the twins were rosy-cheeked and bubbling over with joy, and Marcus himself felt lighter than he had in weeks. He hadn’t expected a kiddie train ride to be fun per se, but it had been impossible not to laugh with Pip and Becca shrieking in delight at his every silly antic. As the conductor helped them out of the car, Becca was already pleading, “Again, again!” and Pip was making train noises non-stop.

Matthew promised the twins they’d do it again another day and expertly diverted their attention by pointing out a nearby popcorn stand. While the little ones were distracted, Marcus spotted Diana standing a short distance away by the stroller, wearing a very satisfied smile and attempting to hide a large zoo-branded shopping bag behind her back.

“I thought you were visiting the restroom?” Matthew said to his wife as they walked over, narrowing his eyes playfully.

“I did go to the restroom,” Diana replied, a picture of innocence. “It just so happens the restroom was on the way through the gift shop.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief.

Matthew gave her a knowing look of faux exasperation. “Uh-huh. And I suppose it was pure coincidence that you needed to buy something while you were in there?”

Before Marcus could inquire, she nodded toward a nearby picnic table. “Why don’t we sit for a minute? I have a little surprise.”

At the magic word surprise, Marcus felt a childlike thrill. The twins, though tired, perked up too. Matthew raised an eyebrow at his wife in a conspiratorial what did you do? kind of way, but Diana just motioned for them all to sit.

They gathered around the picnic table, shaded by a broad oak tree. The twins remained in their stroller but leaned forward eagerly. Marcus plunked down on the bench, eyeing the mysterious bag in Diana’s hands.

Diana’s face was positively glowing with anticipation as she set the bag on the table. “Alright,” she said softly, “I saw these and just had to get them. Consider them souvenirs of our little adventure.”

She reached in and first pulled out the first plush toy. Becca lunged forward and snatched the stuffed raven with velvety black wings and sparkly purple eyes out of Diana’s hands.

“Birdie!” she squealed. She hugged it to her chest, nuzzling its soft fur.

The second toy was a round, grinning hippopotamus plush about the size of a throw pillow. Pip’s eyes went huge.

“Hippo!” he cried joyously. He grabbed the hippo and squeezed it in a bear hug. Within seconds, he was making it dance and babbling to it in what sounded like a made up hippo language.

Matthew shook his head, though he was smiling fondly. “Spoiling them as usual, I see,” he said under his breath to Diana. He couldn’t hide the warmth in his voice as he watched his toddlers’ ecstatic reactions.

Marcus grinned at the scene. It was great to see Pip and Becca so happy with their surprise souvenirs. He was about to stand and grab the stroller handles when Becca suddenly thrust something soft into his face, startling him. Marcus looked down to find her waving a third plush toy at him—a fuzzy brown river otter with an adorable stitched nose and tiny fabric whiskers.

“Otter!” Becca chirped, her grin as wide as if she had just received the toy.

For a split second, Marcus assumed Becca was simply showing him Pip’s toy or handing him something to hold. But Pip was absorbed in his hippo and Becca was still clutching her raven, which meant this otter…

“Pip got an otter too?” Marcus asked in confusion, gently taking the plush from Becca before she could continue smacking him with it.

“No,” Becca said with toddler certainty. She pushed the otter more firmly into Marcus’s hands. “Marcus otter.”

Marcus’s mouth fell open in surprise. Of all things, he hadn’t expected a gift for him. The plush otter was undeniably cute, and it looked so very… huggable. He felt an absurd prickling at the back of his eyes as he reached out and accepted it.

“Oh, wow,” he managed, running a thumb over the otter’s tiny plush nose. “He’s… I mean, this is great. Thank you.”

His voice went a bit rough at the edges on those last two words. The gesture touched him more deeply than he anticipated. Maybe it was because nobody had ever given him a stuffed animal. Or maybe it was just how thoughtfully his mom had noticed his delight in the otters and acted on it.

He suddenly felt a rush of emotion: gratitude, love, even a bit of that pesky vulnerability that often set him on edge. Marcus swallowed hard and hugged the plush otter to his chest, half to hide his face for a moment and half because it really was huggable.

Diana slid onto the bench beside him and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, giving him a gentle squeeze. “I’m so glad you like it,” she said softly, kissing the top of his head through his messy hair. “When I saw it, I knew I had to get it for you. A little reminder of today.”

Matthew settled on Marcus’s other side, one large hand coming to rest between Marcus’s shoulder blades in a comforting pat. “He needs a name, don’t you think?” he said, nodding at the plush otter.

“The otter or you? I think you have more than enough,” Marcus joked weakly, trying to deflect the swell of feeling.

“The otter, smart aleck.” Matthew chuckled as he rubbed Marcus’s back once, then let his hand linger there, a steady presence.

Marcus gazed down at the toy in his arms. A name… Immediately one popped to mind, surprising him with its aptness. “How about Ollie?” he said. “Ollie the otter.”

“Ollie,” Diana repeated. “I love it.”

For a minute, the family sat there in a comfortable little bubble of happiness. Marcus nestled between his parents, the twins babbling softly to their new toys, the sun filtering through leaves above. He felt Matthew gently lean into him, shoulder to shoulder, and he didn’t pull away. If anything, Marcus unconsciously leaned back, letting his head tip just a little toward his father’s solid presence. The realization of that trust—that ease—settled warmly in Matthew’s chest, and he glanced at Diana over Marcus’s head with a look that said this is what we hoped for.

Finally, Marcus broke the silence, his tone light but earnest. “Thank you for today,” he said, looking at both Diana and Matthew. “I had a really good time.”

Matthew’s eyes softened. He turned so he could face Marcus more fully. “We’re happy to do it, Marcus.” Then he added, in a lower, affectionate rumble, “And I’m proud of you.”

“Proud? Of me?” For what? Getting swarmed by birds? Managing not to fall into the hippo tank?” Marcus was startled by his father’s statement.

Reading the confusion on son’s face, Matthew elaborated. “For handling everything today so well. The little… incidents.” He gave a subtle nod toward Becca, who was now fighting off a dramatic yawn; the morning’s excitement was catching up to her.

“You kept your cool in the aviary when things got chaotic. You listened when it counted—” he cocked a meaningful eyebrow that made Marcus blush, recalling the sweater argument and the hippo railing—“and you looked out for your brother and sister wonderfully. Not to mention, you let yourself relax and have fun.”

Matthew’s hand gently clasped the back of Marcus’s neck, a gesture both paternal and loving. “Seeing you laugh like that… It’s all your mother and I could ask for.”

Eyes shining, Diana nodded in agreement. “It truly is. We know it’s not always easy, being in this situation.” She placed a gentle hand atop Marcus’s where it still clutched the plush. “But days like today, when you allow yourself to just be a kid making memories—those are victories, sweetheart.”

Marcus’s throat felt tight again, but this time he didn’t mind so much. He managed a lopsided smile and looked down at his sneakers.

“It is hard sometimes,” he admitted quietly. “I know I haven’t made it easy on you both either.”

He recalled the tantrums, eye-rolls, the occasional shouting match, everything that had happened since Pip unraveled his threads. His face heated at some of those memories, but he pressed on. “Thanks for, you know, putting up with me. And caring enough to do all this.”

Diana’s arm around him tightened in a side-hug. “Oh, Marcus. We aren’t ‘putting up’ with you. We’re raising you,” she teased softly. “And we love you. In case you missed that memo.”

Matthew shifted so that, with Diana’s hug from one side and his from the other, Marcus found himself enveloped in a cocoon of parental affection.

“Always,” Matthew added simply.

Marcus couldn’t help it—he melted into the embrace for a long, quiet moment. The cinnamon and clove scent of his father and his mother’s lavender shampoo grounded him. He closed his eyes, absorbing the warmth. Part of him, the part that still thought of himself as a grown man who should be independent, marveled at how comforting it was to be held like this. And the other part, the kid who needed it, just sighed in contentment.

Chapter Text

Marcus sprawled comfortably across his bed, listening to the steady patter of rain against his window. A gray afternoon had never felt so inviting to the newly-fourteen-year-old. Garfield was curled up on his pillow, and a treasure trove of snacks was within reach. Matthew had grudgingly allowed the treats at Diana’s gentle urging, but only under the condition that they be portioned out. So Marcus had a moderate-sized bowl of buttery popcorn, a bag of peanut butter M&Ms, and a can of sugary orange soda sweating on his nightstand. It wasn’t an all-out junk food free-for-all, but it was enough to make a fourteen-year-old boy very happy.

He scratched Garfield’s ears absentmindedly as he grabbed his tablet and navigated to his movie library. Jurassic Park was calling his name. Dinosaurs and adventure was the perfect way to escape a dreary rainy day. Marcus tapped on the movie’s icon with anticipation. The screen went black for a moment as if loading… then a bright pop-up message appeared: “Content Restricted: Above Allowed Rating.”

Marcus’s smile dropped. He jabbed at the notification, but it stubbornly refused to let the movie play. Confused, he checked the details. Jurassic Park was rated PG-13. Immediately, annoyance flared in his chest. Of course. Parental controls. The tablet was still set to block anything beyond PG or TV-Y7. Infant-level restrictions, Marcus thought with a scowl. His afternoon was supposed to be perfect, but of course it wouldn’t be. And it was Matthew’s fault.

He tried a few more taps, even restarted the app, but the result was the same. Garfield lifted his head at the sudden tension radiating from his owner.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Marcus muttered. The cat blinked slowly. Marcus’s frustration only grew. I’m stuck in a fourteen year old body, but I’ve been a fucking adult for centuries, and I can’t even watch a PG-13 movie?

He tossed the tablet onto the blankets in exasperation and swung his legs off the bed. The cozy warmth of moments ago evaporated, replaced by a hot surge of indignation. Matthew must have forgotten to update the settings. Or more likely, hadn’t bothered to. It had been a fight to even get the snacks; of course Matthew would find a way to ruin the rest of Marcus’s afternoon.

Garfield meowed in soft protest as Marcus stood up abruptly. “This is ridiculous, Garfield,” he huffed, pacing a short line on the rug.

He could feel the injustice pricking at him, sharp as needles. Marcus was not a little kid, even if his body betrayed him by being stuck in this half-grown form. He had lived entire lifetimes before movies were even invented, for crying out loud. The fact that a parental lock labeled him a child made his blood boil.

“No way I’m letting this slide,” he muttered. With one last glare at the offending tablet screen, Marcus snatched it up and strode out of his room. The door banged off the wall as he flung it open. He thundered down the hallway and took the stairs two at a time, fueled by righteous anger. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a small voice suggested he cool off and discuss this calmly. But that voice was drowned out by the roaring in his ears.

Matthew was in the living room, comfortably settled in an armchair with a thick history book in hand. The vampire looked perfectly at peace, which only irritated Marcus more. How could Matthew be so calm when he’d imposed such unfair limits on him? The sight of his father’s relaxed posture and the soft golden lamplight made Marcus momentarily aware of how loud his footsteps must sound. But he didn’t care.

“Matthew!” Marcus all but shouted as he marched into the room. He brandished the tablet like it was evidence of a terrible crime.

Matthew’s head snapped up, book lowering. He blinked in surprise at the tone. For a split second he looked almost hurt. He had grown used to Marcus calling him Dad these past few months, and hearing “Matthew” from his son’s lips again was jarring. That faint wounded look was quickly replaced by a steely calm. Matthew marked his page and closed the book, settling it on the side table as he rose to his full height. The vampire’s stern eyes fixed on Marcus with a measured glare.

“Why are you shouting?” Matthew asked, voice cool and controlled. There was a warning note beneath the mild words. He loomed there in his charcoal sweater and slacks, an imposing figure even when utterly still.

Marcus’s heart hammered in his chest, but he refused to be intimidated. He stomped closer and thrust the tablet out. “This!” he exclaimed heatedly. The screen was still displaying the parental control message. “You still have everything set to toddler mode. I tried to watch Jurassic Park, and it won’t let me because of your stupid restrictions.”

Matthew’s lips pressed into a thin line. He met Marcus’s glare with a steady gaze. “Lower your voice,” he said quietly, the softness of his tone doing nothing to hide the command in it.

But Marcus was far past caring about tone. The unfairness of it all had ignited something explosive inside him. “No!” he snapped. Garfield, who had trailed down a few steps behind Marcus, darted back upstairs at the sudden crack in Marcus’s voice.

“No, I won’t lower my voice. What I need is for you to undo these absurd child safety measures! I’m not a baby, and I shouldn’t be treated like one. I should be allowed to watch a PG-13 movie if I want. What do you think is going to happen? What horrible fate awaits me if I see something meant for teenagers, huh? Are you afraid some actress might show a nipple and scar me for life? News flash in case you forgot: I’ve been to medical school a dozen times and I’ve fucking seen all of it before.”

Matthew’s eyes flashed with anger at Marcus’s crass outburst. He took a slow breath, visibly reining in his temper.

“That’s enough,” he said, voice low. “I understand you’re frustrated, but you will not speak to me that way. And you will watch your language, Marcus Raphael.”

“This is so unfair!” Marcus shouted, letting out a harsh sarcastic laugh. His free hand clenched into a fist at his side, trembling with adrenaline. “It’s not my fault I’m stuck in this size, in this age. And it’s definitely not my fault that you’re so goddamn controlling you keep everything set to infant just because you can! I have done everything you’ve asked, and I’ve been patient, but I won’t just grovel and fall in line when the great Matthew de Clermont issues an edict that makes no sense!”

The words came out in a rush, hot, wrathful, and far over the line. Marcus knew he’d gone too far. His chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath, anger and a spike of fear warring inside him. The room had gone deathly silent except for the rain tapping on the windows.

Matthew’s expression turned perilously calm, which Marcus had learned was a bad sign. A muscle in Matthew’s jaw twitched as he pointed firmly toward the hallway.

“You are not allowed to speak to me that way,” Matthew said, each syllable clipped and brimming with quiet fury. “Hand me the tablet, now, and go to your room.”

Marcus’s defiant expression faltered. He hesitated, chest still rising and falling rapidly. Matthew stepped forward and extended his hand, palm up, eyes never leaving Marcus’s face.

“Give it to me. Now.”

Marcus’s stomach swooped. Matthew was taking his tablet? Over this? It felt wildly unjust, considering it was all Matthew’s fault. For a heartbeat, he considered refusing, maybe even throwing the tablet or making some last stand. But Matthew’s gaze was iron, and Marcus knew better than to push any further when his father’s voice took that tone. With a glare, Marcus slammed the tablet down into Matthew’s waiting hand. Not hard enough to break it, but certainly not gently either.

Matthew inhaled sharply at the show of disrespect. He snatched the device and tucked it under his arm. “Go. To. Your. Room,” he said again, enunciating each word. “Right now. We will discuss your behavior after you’ve had some time to think about your attitude.”

Marcus’s face burned with frustration and the first stirrings of shame. The fiery anger was still there, but now that consequences were coming, part of him wanted to shrink away. Still, pride made him hold his head high. He spun on his heel and stomped out of the living room, his footsteps heavy on the stairs. Each step felt like a dare, a deliberate noise of rebellion in response to Matthew’s order.

He reached the top of the stairs and strode down the hallway toward his bedroom. “Unbelievable,” he muttered under his breath. His vision was a little blurry. Only then did he realize tears of anger had gathered in his eyes. He dashed them away hurriedly with the back of his hand. I won’t cry, he told himself. I’m too angry to cry.

In a final act of defiance, Marcus swung his bedroom door shut hard and let it slam behind him. The sound echoed throughout the house, likely as loud as a crack of thunder. A few small bits of plaster dust flaked from the ceiling from the force of the slam. It actually felt good to vent his fury physically like that. Marcus stood there in the middle of his room, heart pounding and ears still ringing from the door slam. With a slight smirk, he flipped both middle fingers at the door, imagining it was Matthew he was making the rude gesture toward.

He sucked in deep breaths, trying to steady himself. Garfield was nowhere to be seen. Likely, the cat had fled under the bed or into a closet when he heard Marcus shouting.

Downstairs, the living room was silent. Matthew remained where Marcus had left him, one hand curled tightly around the tablet, the other clenched at his side. Diana had entered the room, drawn by the commotion. She stood near the doorway, her expression a mix of concern and caution as she regarded her husband. Matthew’s face was taut with barely controlled anger.

“That boy,” Matthew said in a low growl, breaking the silence. He pinched the bridge of his nose. Diana stepped forward and gently touched his arm.

“Matthew—” she began softly, intending to calm him, but he shook his head.

Handing the tablet to her, Matthew said tightly, “Excuse me, I need to handle something.”

Before Diana could protest, Matthew strode out, making his way to the garage with purpose in his steps. She followed anxiously, watching as he grabbed a toolbox off the shelf.

Realization dawned in her eyes. “Matthew, don’t you think this is a bit extreme?” Diana asked, keeping her voice gentle but concerned.

Matthew’s jaw remained set. “If he can’t respect the door enough to shut it without slamming,” he said grimly, “then he can go without a door to slam.”

Without another word, he headed back toward the house, toolbox in hand. Diana sighed and trailed after him, unable to dissuade him from this course. She knew Matthew in this state—old-fashioned, bristling with righteous parental fury and, admittedly, hurt pride—was not easily swayed.

Upstairs, Marcus had begun pacing his room in agitation. Each pass took him from the foot of his bed to the door and back. His hands were shaking, adrenaline still coursing. He replayed the confrontation in his head: his own voice shouting things he half-regretted, Matthew’s thunderous expression. Marcus swallowed hard. Maybe he had gone a tad overboard with his words, but Matthew’s overprotectiveness was suffocating! Couldn’t they see he wasn’t a child, not really?

He ran his fingers through his hair, mussing the blond curls further. This is my house too, he thought resentfully. I should be able to slam a door in my own house if I want. It was a petty line of reasoning and deep down he knew it, but right now, Marcus’s teenage impulses and centuries-old stubbornness made a volatile combination.

As he turned on his heel for another lap across the room, the door gave a metallic rattle. Marcus froze, eyes locking on the doorknob as it jiggled once and then stilled. What on earth…? He stepped closer, confusion momentarily replacing anger. Then he heard it: the distinctive scrape of a screwdriver at the hinge.

Marcus’s stomach lurched. He wouldn’t.

But a second later, the top hinge pin popped loose, clattering to the floor. Marcus gaped. “Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” he breathed. Hastily, he unlocked and yanked open the door. He was met with the sight of Matthew crouched just outside, screwdriver in hand, already working on the second hinge pin. Matthew’s expression was dark and determined.

Marcus’s jaw hung open. This was something they did in cheesy ‘90s sitcoms, not in real life. Surely Matthew wouldn’t actually remove his bedroom door. Would he? The second pin came free with a sharp pry. Matthew stood, bracing the nearly unmoored door with one hand.

“Dad, wait—!” Marcus blurted out, a spike of alarm piercing his anger at last. But Matthew had already lifted the door clear off the frame with a burst of his preternatural strength. He handled the solid wood as if it weighed nothing, setting it upright on the floor.

Marcus stumbled back a step, genuinely stunned. The threshold of his room now stood open, completely exposed. He felt oddly vulnerable, as if a shield had been yanked away. Matthew picked up the fallen hinge pins and slipped them into his pocket, then shut his toolbox with a decisive snap.

He watched in disbelief as his father descended the stairs, literally hauling his bedroom door down them. The sheer absurdity left him momentarily speechless. It wasn’t until Matthew disappeared from sight downstairs that Marcus finally found his voice.

“What the… what the fuck?” he whispered shakily, almost a whimper. He sank his fingers into his hair. It was partly a question to himself, partly to the universe, and partly to Garfield, who peeked out nervously from under the bed now that things were quieter. Marcus looked at the ginger cat with wild eyes. “Did he really just…?”

Before Garfield could even meow in reply, Matthew’s voice echoed from the base of the stairs: “I heard that, Marcus.”

Marcus stiffened. Of course the language was what Matthew picked up on, not the utter insanity of the situation. A hot flush of defiance surged through Marcus once more. If Matthew was going to take away his privacy, his door, and his dignity, then fine— he would say whatever he damn well pleased.

He stepped out into the hall, leaning over the banister. Marcus raised his voice and yelled, “You might not have heard if you hadn’t taken my fucking door off the hinges!” The profanity flew from his mouth, daring his father to respond.

There was a split second of silence that felt like the whole house drew a breath—even the rain seemed to pause. Down below, Marcus heard the heavy thud of the door being dropped or propped against a wall. Then, with terrifying speed, Matthew reappeared. He was up the stairs and in the hallway before Marcus could blink, moving with vampire swiftness.

Marcus’s bravado faltered and he took an involuntary step back. He hadn’t seen his father move that fast in a long time. Matthew’s expression was thunderous.

“Inside,” he said, voice low and seething as he nudged Marcus backward into the now doorless bedroom. Marcus found himself retreating under that stormy glare.

Matthew crossed into the room, and swiftly settled himself in the middle of Marcus’s bed. Marcus’s eyes widened slightly as reached out and caught Marcus firmly by the arm.

In one fluid motion born of years of both combat and parenting, Matthew tugged Marcus forward and guided him down over his lap. He squirmed, his bare feet drumming against the rug as he was hauled forward so they barely brushed the floor.

But Matthew’s iron-hard left arm wrapped around Marcus’s waist, pinning him in place as his right yanked his son’s joggers and boxers to his knees. “I do not know where this attitude is coming from, Marcus Raphael,” Matthew said, voice like ice, “but let me make something very clear.” He adjusted Marcus’s position slightly, and Marcus felt a horrible, unfortunately too familiar chill of vulnerability.

“Your behavior, your language, and your tone have been completely unacceptable,” Matthew continued. “You know better than to shout obscenities at me.”

Marcus opened his mouth—maybe to apologize, maybe to argue, he wasn’t quite sure—but the first smack landed before he could speak.

A sharp burst of pain blossomed across his backside. Marcus gasped as Matthew’s unyielding hand landed another firm smack, followed by another, each one hard and purposeful.

It stung a lot. Marcus gritted his teeth, determined not to make a sound. He was furious and mortified all at once. He’d forgotten how much Matthew’s bare hand burned across his bare bottom. It had been quite a while.

The sharp crack of each spank echoed in the small room. Marcus’s eyes burned with angry tears, which he furiously tried to blink away.

Matthew peppered swat after swat across Marcus’s backside, covering both cheeks evenly. “I warned you,” he said over Marcus’s hitched breathing, bringing his hand down across the crest of Marcus’s bottom. “I told you to watch your mouth. Yet you decided to test me.”

Each sentence was punctuated by another searing slap of Matthew’s hand. Marcus let out a strangled yelp as one particularly firm swat landed squarely on the tender crease where his backside met his thigh. He couldn’t help it. The sting was intense, and it only worsened with each blow layering on top of the last.

“Please stop!” Marcus finally choked out, voice cracking despite his resolve not to give Matthew the satisfaction. He kicked one foot back in a reflexive attempt to ward off the onslaught, but Matthew simply shifted, trapping Marcus’s flailing legs between his own. The vampire’s strength was inarguable; Marcus was effectively immobilized.

Matthew paused for a moment, resting his hand on Marcus’s back. “Are you ready to listen now?” he asked sternly. Marcus, still wrestling with his own frustration mixed with regret from his actions, didn’t answer right away. He was too busy blinking back the dampness in his eyes and catching his breath. When he didn’t respond, Matthew landed another blistering swat to the undercurve of his son’s bottom.

“Ow—okay, OKAY!” Marcus yelped, finally breaking. “I’m listening!”

Matthew stopped once more. Marcus hung his head, cheeks blazing with shame. He was painfully aware that Diana was likely just outside in the hall, hearing everything. God, even the twins might be awake from the noise, though thankfully at their age they wouldn’t understand. Marcus felt a lump of humiliation in his throat.

“The next time you use language like that,” Matthew said gravely, “I will wash your mouth out with soap. Understood?” With that, he delivered one last thunderous slap across the center of Marcus’s backside to drive the point home.

Marcus yelped and hissed through his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut. That final smack landed on already sore skin, and it lit a fresh spark of pain. It took all his willpower not to burst into tears. He swallowed hard.

“Understood,” he mumbled hoarsely, barely audible.

Matthew exhaled, a long slow breath as if trying to release his frustration. Gently, he righted Marcus’s sweatpants and lifted his son up off his lap, setting him on his feet. He backed away from Matthew, feeling an overwhelming mix of emotions: residual anger, certainly, but also guilt and embarrassment that made his face flush to the tips of his ears.

Matthew, still seated on the bed, grasped his son’s arms gently, pulling him in for a quick hug before Marcus pushed back. Marcus couldn’t meet his gaze; he stared at the floor, jaw tight, blinking rapidly. A tense silence settled between them.

“Where is all this attitude coming from so suddenly?” he demanded quietly.

There was a trace of genuine confusion behind the sternness. Two months ago, Marcus had been sweet, even through his frustration and anger about the situation. Now he was defiant and foul-mouthed. Matthew wanted to understand, but his frustration was still evident.

Marcus didn’t trust himself to answer. He worried if he opened his mouth, something awful—a sob or another sarcastic remark—might slip out. So he kept his lips pressed together, shoulders hunched defensively. He could feel the hot tears still clinging to his lashes, and he refused to let any fall in front of Matthew. Instead, he turned partly away, one hand rubbing discreetly at the tender spot on his behind where his father’s hand had left the fiercest impression. He didn’t know how to answer Matthew’s question.

Diana took that moment to step into the doorway, a mug of tea in hand. She had wisely stayed back during the spanking itself, but now her gentle presence filled the doorway, offering an emotional buffer between the two stubborn de Clermont men. She raised her mug to her lips to hide the sympathetic smile threatening to surface.

“Teenagers,” she said lightly, by way of answer to Matthew’s question. She arched a knowing brow at her husband.

Matthew ran a hand through his hair, clearly trying to cool his temper. Marcus risked a glance at him; his father’s face was drawn, equal parts angry and worried.

Diana ventured further into the room and touched Marcus’s shoulder. “Why don’t you take a few minutes to yourself, sweetheart,” she suggested softly. Marcus nodded mutely, unable to meet her eyes out of embarrassment. He knew she was trying to give him an out, a chance to compose himself.

Without a word, he shuffled over to his bed and flopped face down on it. Garfield immediately crept out from his hiding spot and hopped up beside Marcus, meowing and pressing against his side in comfort. Marcus buried a hand in the cat’s fur, focusing on the soft warmth as a way to calm down.

Seeing that Marcus was essentially done with the conversation, Diana gently tugged Matthew by the arm, guiding him out of the room. Matthew allowed himself to be led, but not before giving Marcus one more pointed look.

“You’re grounded from all electronics until further notice,” he stated, tone still firm but lacking the fire from earlier. “We’ll talk more later. For now, stay in your room and think about what I said.”

Marcus didn’t respond, his face half-hidden by Garfield. Matthew sighed and exited his son’s room. He shook his head at the sight of the empty hinges. Diana had to hide a smirk behind her hand; the missing door was a bit of comedic overkill, though she’d never say so out loud at the moment.

She cast one last glance at Marcus—seeing him laying dejectedly on the bed with Garfield, her heart tugged. Let them both cool off, she decided. They’d sort it out once tempers cooled. She knew Marcus was going to be spilling apologies before too long.

A half hour later, the storm outside had intensified. Rain drummed on the roof of the old house, and occasional rumbles of thunder rolled across the sky. Downstairs in the cozy glow of the kitchen, Matthew uncorked a bottle of red wine with far more force than necessary, the pop echoing off the rafters. He poured himself a generous glass and one for Diana, his movements taut with leftover tension.

Diana accepted the wine and watched as Matthew leaned against the counter, eyes unfocused. He took a long sip, then sighed deeply, finally breaking the silence.

“Where did I go wrong, Diana?” he asked quietly. There was a trace of genuine hurt in his voice that he couldn’t quite mask. “I try to be firm—I have to be, with all that’s happened—but we’ve ended up with a disrespectful teenager on our hands.”

Diana swirled her wine, choosing her words carefully. “All teenagers are disrespectful at some point, Matthew,” she said gently. “It’s part of growing up. They need to push boundaries and carve out an identity separate from their parents. It’s not a personal failing on your part. It’s brain chemistry, it’s development. And frankly, parents are the safe targets for teens to rebel against.” She smiled wryly and took a sip from her glass. “Better he shouts at you about a movie than takes his frustrations out in far more dangerous ways.”

“He was never like this before.” Matthew stared hard into the wineglass, wondering if his son was ever going to be himself. The thought scared him more than he wanted to admit.

“You met him at 20 and turned him at 24. A lot of development happens between 14 and either of those ages. He learned quickly where the boundaries were and how far he could push you. He’s doing the same thing now with a less-developed frontal lobe. It’s going to take more time for him to learn this time around.”

Matthew made a skeptical noise, clearly still displeased. He sipped his wine more slowly now, the initial rush of adrenaline ebbing. Diana stepped closer, placing a comforting hand on his arm.

“Marcus has always been strong-willed,” she added with a quiet smile, “and you have always been the firm hand holding him down. That dynamic hasn’t changed—it’s just gotten louder.” She leaned her hip against the counter, taking another sip. “He still needs that firmness. Maybe now more than ever. But he also needs space to flail a little. You’re his safety net, Matthew, which is why he tests you the hardest. Because he knows you’ll catch him.”

“Think about it,” she continued softly. “Just two months ago, he was still our little boy. Sweet, eager to please. It feels like overnight he shot up and became this bundle of teenage hormones and attitude.”

“At lightning speed,” Matthew muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “One day he was asking me to read him The Hobbit at bedtime, and the next he’s as tall as my shoulder and slamming doors in my face.” He shook his head, a mix of exasperation and sorrow in the gesture. “I knew this was coming eventually, but not so suddenly. We didn’t exactly get an adjustment period.”

Diana nodded, rubbing Matthew’s arm. She could see the conflict in his eyes: the fierce love of a father colliding with the shock of seeing his son grow up too fast.

“We won’t have much of a buffer when it happens with the twins either,” she pointed out with a slight smile. “But at least with Becca and Philip we’ll get to ease into their teenage rebellion and mood swings one year at a time. With Marcus, it’s like we fast-forwarded and now we’re playing catch-up.”

Matthew’s expression twisted into one of worry. He refilled his wine glass and took another fortifying gulp. “Not at all comforting,” he murmured. The idea of the twins one day turning into temperamental adolescents was enough to make him want to barricade the doors. Well, except Marcus’s door, which was already safely removed from the equation.

“Perhaps Becca and Philip will be different?” he allowed with a hopeful look, though he didn’t sound convinced. He knew better. The twins absolutely adored their older brother. If anything, they’d be more fearless and cheeky from following Marcus’s example.

“Different?” Diana repeated, humor dancing in her eyes. “Matthew, they hero-worship Marcus. He’s their favorite person in the world. In a few years, we’ll have three of them scheming together.” She leaned back against the counter, shaking her head in amusement. “Face it, the three of them together are going to be a formidable team of sass and high jinks.”

Matthew groaned playfully at the image that conjured —Marcus back to normal and encouraging teenage twins with pranks. A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth despite himself. It was hard to stay truly grim when Diana painted it like that. Chaotic as it might be, their family was full of love and life.

He slid an arm around Diana’s waist, pulling her into his side gently. “We are going to need significantly more wine,” he declared, looking at the bottle that was already half-empty, “and a better lock on the wine cellar.”

Diana laughed, a warm melodic sound that eased the last of the tension from the kitchen. She clinked her glass lightly against Matthew’s. “I’ll drink to that,” she said, eyes shining. “And also, when you give him his electronics back, update the parental controls to at least PG-13.”

They stood together in companionable silence for a moment, listening to the rain and imagining the adventures (and headaches) their three children would bring in the years to come.

Upstairs, Marcus lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling. The storm outside had finally begun to let up, the thunder growing distant. Garfield snored softly by his side. Marcus shifted, wincing a little at the soreness still radiating in his backside. As the cool air from the open doorway wafted in, he pulled a blanket up over himself and the cat. He felt emotionally wrung out: angry, guilty, embarrassed, and oddly relieved all at once.

He hated to admit that some small part of him did feel bad for what he’d said to Matthew. The truth was, he loved his father fiercely; he just sometimes forgot how to show it in the heat of his frustrations. And Matthew, for all his strictness, loved him just as much, enough to fight these battles with him. Marcus sighed into the dim light of his lamp, too proud to apologize right now, but already thinking of how to make it up to both his parents.

Chapter Text

Being grounded sucked even more than having his ass handed to him. Marcus had decided this two days into his fresh torture. He didn’t think being a kid again could get any worse, but extreme boredom proved him wrong. The last time he was this age, entertainment wasn’t really a concern—there had been far too much work to do for him to ever feel bored. Now he had nothing but time and no way to occupy it. Matthew, ever the helpful father, had given him plenty of extra chores to fill the time, but even those only used up a few hours of the day.

Diana, as usual these days, came to his rescue. It was a bright autumn morning, and she announced they would all be going to a local farm for some stereotypical fall activities. Marcus was so excited to have anything to do that he didn’t even argue about having to wear a jacket.

The early-autumn air was crisp enough for a light coat, so he complied without complaint. He even chose a plain T-shirt underneath instead of one of his usual graphic tees that tended to set Matthew’s teeth on edge. For once, Marcus decided he’d save his battles for another day and just enjoy this opportunity for fun, instead of being stuck in his room or doing chores.

The family arrived at Castle Hill Farm just as the late morning sun warmed the dewy fields. The trees at the edge of the property were ablaze in hues of orange and red, and a cool breeze carried the sweet smell of cut hay and cider.

Marcus breathed in deeply, feeling his boredom already lifting. He glanced around at the sprawling farm: there was a big red barn, an area with pens for animals, a pumpkin patch off in the distance, and towering rows of corn that made up a corn maze near the entrance. Other families and excited children were bustling about, ready for fall fun.

“Corn maze first?” Diana suggested with an eager smile.

She balanced Becca on her hip while Pip tugged at Matthew’s hand trying to get a better look at a giant wooden sign shaped like a smiling scarecrow.

Marcus nodded enthusiastically. He’d never actually been in a corn maze before. The last time I walked through corn like this, it was to harvest it, not play in it, he thought wryly, recalling how in his previous life at this age he had been busy working fields rather than solving maze puzzles. This was bound to be more fun than husking corn for hours.

At the maze entrance, a cheerful teenage farmhand explained the rules: “No cutting through the stalks, stay together, and if you get lost just follow the signs or yell for help.”

Matthew thanked the teen and then eyed his family. “Alright, who’s leading this expedition?”

“I am!” Marcus volunteered.

Being the oldest sibling, he felt it was his duty to navigate. He took Pip’s hand while Diana set Becca down so she could toddle between her parents. The walls of corn towered over even Matthew’s head, leaves rustling and dry husks brushing their shoulders as they ventured in.

Inside the maze, the world turned to golden-green corridors of cornstalks. The sounds of the outside farm faded into an autumn hush, broken only by giggles from the twins and the crunch of trampled corn leaves underfoot. Marcus led the way down one path, confidently choosing turns at random.

“Pretty sure it’s this way,” he announced at each junction, even when he wasn’t entirely sure. He just enjoyed having a say in something after days of being cooped up.

At one dead-end, they came face-to-face with a scarecrow propped up as a friendly “Try Again” marker. Becca clapped her little hands at the sight of the straw man in overalls, babbling something that sounded like “silly crow!” Marcus chuckled and turned them around, this time letting Pip decide which way to go. The little boy pointed left, so left they went.

“Aren’t we going in circles?” Matthew muttered after they passed a distinctive broken corn stalk for the second time.

He reached down to scoop up Becca who was attempting to detour down a particularly enticing side path. The toddler squealed in protest at being redirected, but Matthew hoisted her onto his shoulders, which immediately made her happy again.

From her new perch, Becca patted her father’s head with a sticky hand. Matthew sighed but didn’t complain, and Diana hid a grin behind her hand.

“We’re not lost,” Marcus insisted. To him, the maze wasn’t confusing at all, just a fun puzzle. He could have probably exited sooner, but he was enjoying the experience and the chance to prolong his freedom from boredom. “I think the exit is just a couple more turns away,” he added, trying to sound authoritative.

Diana played along, gasping in mock admiration. “Captain Marcus seems to have the innate sense of direction. Lead on, fearless leader!”

Marcus straightened his shoulders proudly. Pip mimicked him, straightening up and marching forward with an adorably serious face, which made all of them laugh. Even Matthew cracked a small smile at the sight of the toddler trying to act grown-up like his brother.

They encountered another fork in the path flanked by cornstalks decorated with tiny plastic pumpkins. Marcus paused, genuinely unsure for a moment. He glanced up at Becca perched on Matthew. “Which way, princess Bee?” he called, using the nickname that always made her smile.

Becca bounced on her father’s shoulders and pointed vigorously to the right, almost overbalancing in her excitement. Matthew grabbed her legs to steady her.

“Right it is,” Marcus declared, turning right.

Sure enough, a few minutes and one gentle curve later, the corn opened up to reveal the maze’s exit. “See? I told you I knew where I was going,” Marcus boasted good-naturedly.

Matthew stepped out of the rows of corn with Becca still riding high and Pip now clinging to his leg. “I suppose even a blind squirrel finds a nut occasionally,” he teased, raising an eyebrow at Marcus.

This was his dry way of admitting Marcus did well. Marcus just rolled his eyes with a grin. He knew Matthew was secretly pleased they hadn’t gotten lost. Diana gave Marcus a quick side-hug of congratulations. The twins clapped as if their big brother had achieved something great. With everyone in high spirits at their successful maze navigation, they headed for the next attraction on the fall agenda.

After a brief stop for some hot apple cider from a farm stand, the family made their way to the hayride that would take them to the pumpkin patch. A bright green tractor hitched to a flatbed trailer full of hay bales waited near the barn. The sign beside it read “Pumpkin Patch Hayride–Departure every 15 minutes.”

Diana climbed into the back of the flatbed trailer first, settling onto a hay bale and then reaching out for the twins. Matthew lifted Pip and then Becca up to her, one at a time, ensuring both toddlers were safely in their mother’s arms.

“You’re next,” he said to Marcus, gesturing at the trailer’s short metal ladder. “Do you need help?” Matthew’s tone was half serious, half teasing.

Marcus good-naturedly rolled his eyes. “I think I got it,” he replied, hopping up onto the ladder and scrambling into the trailer in two quick moves.

He plopped onto the hay bale beside Diana, who flashed him an encouraging smile. Matthew followed immediately after, climbing in and taking a seat next to Becca, who promptly wriggled from her mother’s lap into his. The family took up most of the space on one side of the trailer, tucking in close together as other passengers boarded on the opposite side.

With a lurch and the groan of the tractor’s engine, the hayride set off. As they trundled along a dirt path, the wagon swayed gently. The hay was a bit scratchy, but Marcus didn’t mind. He was too busy enjoying the scenery. They passed an orchard of apple trees, their fruit red and ripe, and rows of sunflowers bowing their heavy heads.

Pip pointed at everything excitedly, and Diana narrated with enthusiasm: “Look, pumpkins! Those will be in the patch up ahead. And there are the cows in the far field. Do you see the scarecrow, Pip?”

Every so often, the tractor hit a bump, causing the whole trailer to jolt. One such bump made Marcus grab onto the wooden side rail. Matthew instinctively put an arm out across Becca’s tummy to steady her. Marcus caught that protective gesture and smirked a little—Matthew could be overly cautious. But Marcus also felt a small warmth in his chest at the sight. He really does care, even if he’s strict, Marcus thought, a bit surprised at himself for acknowledging it, when he was still annoyed with his father.

The ride took nearly ten minutes before they finally crested a small hill and the pumpkin patch came into view. It was a broad field dotted with bright orange pumpkins of all shapes and sizes. Vines snaked across the ground in tangled webs, and a few other families were already wandering among the gourds searching for their perfect Halloween pumpkins.

As soon as the tractor came to a halt at the edge of the patch, Marcus hopped up, eager to get started. Matthew placed a hand on his shoulder as if to remind him to wait, but Marcus was already climbing off. He leapt down from the back of the wagon, landing in a crunch of dry leaves. Matthew gave him a look, half amused and half exasperated, as he climbed down more carefully with Becca in his arms. Diana followed, holding Pip’s hand as the toddler carefully navigated the trailer steps with his mother’s help.

Feeling a sudden surge of helpfulness, Marcus turned to assist Diana. Pip was handed down into Marcus’s waiting arms. The little boy came wiggling in excitedly, and Marcus swung him around in a playful half-spin before setting him down. Pip squealed in delight at the quick twirl, making “wooo!” noises as he staggered dizzily.

Not one to be left out, Becca jutted out her lower lip. She reached her arms up toward Matthew, who had just taken a seat. “Daddy, spin,” she demanded.

Matthew, caught off guard, looked down at his daughter. “You want me to spin you?” he asked.

Becca nodded fervently. A few strands of hay clung to her little pants and shoes. When Matthew hesitated, Becca repeated more firmly, in the exact tone she used when she really meant business, “Daddy. Spin.”

Diana pressed a hand to her mouth, eyes dancing with amusement at the scene. Marcus watched expectantly, eager to see how his typically serious father would handle this royal command from his baby girl. Matthew glanced between his expectant audience and the determined pout of his daughter. His stern facade cracked at last. He chuckled quietly and stood, scooping Becca up into his arms.

“Alright, little lady. Hold on.” Matthew carefully spun in a slow circle while holding Becca securely. Not a full dizziness-inducing spin, but enough that the world gently swirled around her. Becca shrieked with joy and clung to her father’s shoulders, her earlier pout nowhere to be seen. Pip clapped at the show, and Marcus gave Matthew an approving grin.

“We have to find the ugliest pumpkin!” Marcus declared, eyes bright with mischief, as soon as the whole family was on solid ground.

Matthew raised a skeptical eyebrow at him. “Why on earth would you want an ugly pumpkin?” he asked. He immediately regretted giving Marcus that opening when he saw the devilish grin spreading on his son’s face.

“Because it’s the only way to meet David S. Pumpkins,” Marcus replied matter-of-factly, as if this were common knowledge.

“That sounds entirely like something you just made up.”

He bent down, setting Becca on her feet. He had learned by now that Marcus loved to spin tall tales, and he suspected this was another one.

“Nope! He’s basically the Santa of Halloween,” Marcus insisted, already wading into the patch between rows of plump pumpkins. He gestured grandly as he explained. “You leave your nasty raisins in the jack-o’-lantern, and the next day it’s replaced with candy.”

Diana laughed under her breath, recognizing the reference and finding Marcus’s earnest delivery hilarious. Matthew snorted, shaking his head as he trailed after Marcus with the twins.

“Sounds more like a Halloween tooth fairy,” he muttered.

Marcus just flashed a cheeky grin over his shoulder. “You’ll see. All we have to do is find the most hideously misshapen pumpkin in this field, carve it up, and leave some raisins inside. David S. Pumpkins will handle the rest.”

He was clearly enjoying this, and his good mood was infectious. Pip toddled along next to him, drawn in by his big brother’s excitement even if he didn’t understand a word of the conversation. Becca, now freed from Matthew’s arms, insisted on walking as well, so Matthew kept close to her to make sure she didn’t trip on vines or wander off.

The pumpkin patch was a playground of possibilities. Marcus zig-zagged through the rows, occasionally stooping to examine a pumpkin that looked particularly odd. He found one with a huge wart-like protrusion on one side.

“How about this? Ugly enough?” he called out, lifting it by the stem. It was about the size of a basketball and a sickly greenish-orange color on the bumpy side.

“That might be the ugliest pumpkin I’ve seen yet. Poor thing,” Diana joked, wrinkling her nose in an exaggerated grimace.

Pip, however, was drawn to a much smaller, perfectly round pumpkin that fit in his little hands. He picked it up and toddled back toward Matthew proudly with his find. “Daddy, pumkin!” he said.

Becca was more interested in a squashed-looking pumpkin lying on its side. She poked it with her shoe until it rolled a bit, then giggled and declared, “Orange ball!” which made Marcus laugh.

Matthew chuckled at the twins’ very different pumpkin preferences. He took the small pumpkin from Pip before the boy decided to drop it on his sister’s head, giving Pip instead an old vine to play with as a pretend rope. Then he crouched next to Becca to inspect the one she was rolling.

“That one’s a bit icky, Moonbeam,” he said gently. Indeed, the pumpkin she’d been kicking had a mushy spot. He guided her away from it before she could stick her fingers into the gooey part. “Let’s find a better pumpkin for you. Maybe one with a nice long stem you can hold.”

In the end, each child picked a pumpkin, Marcus proudly holding his warty, “ugly” pumpkin, while Pip clutched a tiny smooth one and Becca patted a medium-sized, bright orange one that Matthew carried for her. Diana chose one as well, a classic tall pumpkin perfect for carving a traditional jack-o’-lantern. Matthew, who initially hadn’t intended to get a pumpkin for himself, finally caved when Diana playfully thrust a stout, lopsided pumpkin into his arms saying it “had character.” Matthew rolled his eyes but accepted it with a faint smile.

With their arms full of the fall harvest, they made their way back to the hayride area. Marcus carefully set his prized ugly pumpkin in the wagon, treating it like it was made of gold. He was already plotting the face he’d carve on it and imagining the mountain of candy David S. Pumpkins might leave him for such a prime offering. The tractor driver helped load everyone’s pumpkins onto the flatbed and then signaled it was time to board for the return trip.

Marcus boarded first, reaching down to grab his siblings. He gave each of them an exaggerated swing as he lightly placed them on the wagon. With both toddlers now on the wagon and thoroughly amused, Marcus plopped them onto the hay bale beside him while Matthew and Diana climbed back aboard.

The hayride bumped along back to the farm’s main area, with the whole family now chatting about which animal they wanted to see first at the petting zoo. Marcus was brushing stray pieces of hay off Pip’s hair while excitedly telling him about goats and how one might try to nibble on his shirt if he wasn’t careful. Pip’s eyes went wide at that idea, equal parts alarm and anticipation. Becca was busy playing with the zipper on Matthew’s jacket.

In just a short time, they had picked pumpkins and even gotten Matthew to lighten up a little. Marcus felt a contentment he hadn’t experienced in a while. Maybe being a kid today isn’t so bad, he mused, stealing a glance at his father gently bouncing Becca and at his mother pointing out a hawk circling above the fields for Pip. This was a different kind of work than what he remembered from his “first” childhood—a kind of family work, making memories and keeping everyone happy. It was satisfying in its own way.

Back at the main farm grounds, the next stop on Diana’s fall fun itinerary was the petting zoo and farm animal area. The moment they stepped off the hayride, the distinct chorus of bleating goats and clucking hens reached their ears. The twins perked up immediately, scanning for the animals. A large penned area just across the path held a variety of friendly farm animals for children to meet. There were goats climbing on a wooden ramp, sheep munching on hay, a gentle cow flicking its tail, and even a small enclosure of fluffy rabbits.

The smell of straw and that earthy farm scent that Marcus remembered well from long ago filled the air. He swallowed hard as memories of Obadiah rushed into his mind. Matthew reached out and squeezed his shoulder in understanding.

“An’mals!” Pip shouted, stopping Marcus’s swirling thoughts as the toddler tugged on Marcus’s hand and pointing excitedly. He found himself smiling at Pip’s excitement; it was contagious.

They approached the goat pen first. A little vending machine nearby dispensed handfuls of corn kernels for a quarter so visitors could feed the goats. Marcus dug into his pocket, finding a couple of coins.Before Matthew could even reach for his wallet, Marcus had inserted a quarter and cranked out some feed into his palm. He squatted down to share the kernels between Pip and Becca’s small hands.

“Okay, hold your hand out flat, like this,” he instructed the twins, demonstrating with his own hand. The twins imitated him, palms outstretched.

The goats, very familiar with this routine, trotted over immediately. A brown and white goat with floppy ears zeroed in on Pip’s offering and lapped up the kernels from the boy’s hand with a swift, tickling tongue. Pip dissolved into giggles, delighted but also a little startled.

“Slimy!” he squealed, wiping his slobbery hand on his jacket. Marcus laughed and stood behind Pip, guiding his hand to get a few more kernels from Marcus’s own palm so the goat could have seconds.

Becca, meanwhile, was having the time of her life with a tiny black goat that had come to nibble gently from her hand. She was fearless—she reached out and patted the goat’s nose, then clapped excitedly when it bleated at her. “Soft,” she pronounced, pointing at the goat’s coarse fur and beaming up at Matthew.

Matthew watched his children with a look of fond concentration. He stayed close enough to grab a twin if a goat got too frisky, but he also allowed them a bit of freedom to interact.

“That one likes you, Becca,” he commented as the little goat stayed by Becca’s side even after the food was gone, perhaps hoping for more treats. Becca giggled and showed the goat her empty palms, as if to explain she had no more food.

Diana snapped a few candid photos of these interactions—Pip’s wide-eyed laughter, Becca on tiptoes trying to kiss the goat, which Matthew gently prevented, to her mild annoyance.

“Oh, these are so cute,” Diana said as she checked the camera roll. “Matthew, look at this one.”

She showed him a photo of Marcus kneeling beside Pip, both of them smiling as a goat ate from Pip’s hand. Matthew’s expression softened as he looked at the picture.

“He really is great with them,” Diana whispered to Matthew, not wanting Marcus to overhear and get self-conscious.

Matthew nodded silently in agreement, watching as Marcus now led the twins along the fence to see the larger animals. They moved on from the goats to visit a pudgy pot-bellied pig contentedly snuffling in the mud. Pip peered through the fence at the pig, eyes huge.

“Piggy!” he cried out. Marcus snorted playfully, imitating the pig and making both twins laugh. Becca tried her own tiny “oink,” which came out more like a squeak.

Next, a small herd of sheep huddled in the shade, one of them bleating loudly when it saw the family approach with the feed cup. Marcus let Becca hold out a bit of grain to the nearest ewe. The sheep’s rough tongue tickled her fingers and she yelped in surprise, then broke into a grin. The sheep tolerated a couple of pats before ambling off, unimpressed now that the treats were finished.

One particularly calm dairy cow stood in a paddock at the end of the petting area, and a farm staff member was helping children take turns sitting on a bale of straw next to the cow to give her a gentle pet.

“Do you want to pet the cow?” Marcus asked his siblings. Pip looked unsure. The cow was enormous compared to the little goats and sheep. But Becca marched forward, showing no fear. Clearly, she was the brave one when it came to animals.

Matthew lifted Becca up so she could reach the cow’s broad side. Under the staffer’s guidance, Becca placed a hand on the cow’s flank.

“Cow,” she said solemnly, as if bestowing a title. The cow merely flicked an ear, unfazed by all the attention. When Pip saw that his sister was okay, he decided he wanted a turn too. So Diana picked him up and stood next to Matthew. Soon both twins were petting the patient cow, each with a parent’s arms securely around them.

Marcus hung back a step, letting his parents take the lead with this one. He found himself observing Matthew in that moment. His father’s face, usually so stern or tired after a long day, was relaxed. Matthew even murmured a soft little “mooo” sound to Becca, trying to prompt a laugh. It worked—Becca giggled and eagerly tried to copy him with a tiny “moo” of her own.

Family bonding was happening right in front of him, and Marcus realized with a small pang of emotion that he was a part of it, in a way he had never really felt before. He wasn’t just an outside observer; these were his parents, his siblings, and this was his family enjoying a day together.

After the excitement of meeting the cow, the twins were starting to show signs of fatigue. Pip rubbed his eyes with his little fists, and Becca, who had been fearless all day, now wanted to be carried more often than not.

Diana checked her watch and announced, “How about one last activity before we head home? I think there’s something super fun over there.” She pointed toward a giant enclosed area.

Marcus followed her gaze and saw what she meant: a giant pit of corn kernels, like a sandbox but filled with golden corn. Children were hopping in and out of it, digging, rolling, and basically treating it like a ball pit. Marcus had heard of these but never seen one in person. His eyes lit up. It was such a simple concept, yet it screamed fun.

Without hesitation, Marcus started walking quickly toward the corn pit. “Oh yeah, we have to try that!” he called back.

The promise of one more grand adventure rallied Pip and Becca for a final burst of energy. Pip trotted after Marcus, suddenly wide awake again, and even Becca squirmed to get out of Matthew’s arms, eager to follow her brothers.

Matthew sighed dramatically, feigning weariness, but there was a hint of a smile on his face as he adjusted his grip on the bag of pumpkins in his other arm.

“The things I do for you people,” he said under his breath. Diana nudged him with her elbow, her eyes dancing. She could tell he was actually enjoying this more than he let on.

The corn pit was a large wooden enclosure filled knee-deep with thousands upon thousands of dried corn kernels. A few kids were already partially buried in one corner while their parents supervised from benches at the side. Other kids were “swimming” through the kernels, laughing as they scooped up handfuls and let them fall like golden rain.

Marcus kicked off his shoes and socks without even needing to be told. The twins needed a bit of help with their tiny Velcro sneakers, so Diana crouched to undo Becca’s shoes and Matthew handled Pip’s. As soon as their feet were free, Pip stepped tentatively into the corn and let out a surprised laugh.

“It’s cold!” he exclaimed, feeling the cool kernels between his toes.

Becca plunked down on her bottom at the edge first, running her hands through the corn and watching the kernels slip through her fingers like sand. She was mesmerized.

Wasting no time, Marcus jumped in, wading to the middle of the pit where the corn came up to just above his ankles. It was an odd sensation—solid yet yielding—and with every step the kernels made a soft swish.

“This is awesome!” he declared.

Feeling a surge of playfulness, Marcus dramatically fell backwards with a whoomph, letting himself sink into the sea of corn. Kernels flew up around him and then pattered down, some sliding into the hood of his jacket and probably down his shirt. He didn’t care; it was like lying on a crunchy, wobbly waterbed.

Pip immediately toddled over to where Marcus was lying and, copying what he’d seen other kids doing, began scooping handfuls of corn onto his big brother. Marcus chuckled, closing his eyes as Pip piled kernels on his chest and legs.

“I bury you!” Pip announced.

Becca, not to be outdone, crawled through the corn on her hands and knees. She made her way to Marcus’s other side and started dumping fistfuls onto him as well, squealing in delight each time Marcus wiggled or pretended to get “swallowed” by the corn. Before long, Marcus was covered up to his neck. Only his face was visible, grinning widely, and an arm sticking out comically here or there as he half-heartedly tried to “escape” the burial.

Matthew stood by the edge of the pit, arms folded loosely, one eyebrow raised in bemusement. “What is even the point of this?” he asked aloud, directing the question at no one in particular.

He truly didn’t get it—children rolling around in corn? It wasn’t something that existed when he was a kid, that was for sure. He watched as some kernels spilled out of the pit onto the grass near his feet and shook his head. There was probably a kernel or two stuck in Marcus’s hair right now.

Diana had her phone out and was snapping photos again: Marcus’s freckled face grinning madly amidst the corn, Pip dumping a cupful over Marcus’s head, Becca triumphantly standing atop what appeared to be Marcus’s blanketed form beneath the kernels. She laughed at Matthew’s rhetorical question and shrugged.

“Does everything have to have a point?” she countered.

Her tone was gentle. Sometimes Matthew had a hard time relaxing unless there was a clear objective or lesson to be learned. But here, the lesson was simply fun.

Matthew huffed a small sigh, but he didn’t reply. Instead, he continued to observe with a faint curiosity. Diana nudged him and handed over her phone, the camera app still open.

“Here, take a few of me with them?” she suggested.

Before Matthew could protest, Diana had kicked off her own shoes and stepped into the pit. She wasn’t about to miss out on this memory. She sat down in the corn beside Marcus’s buried form and immediately Becca turned her attention to Mommy, gleefully pouring corn kernels into Diana’s lap now.

Matthew found himself smiling as he snapped a couple of photos: Diana laughing with the kids, corn scattered everywhere, and Marcus emerging like a playful zombie from his corny grave. It was a wholesome, ridiculous scene. For a moment, Matthew just watched, committing the image to memory—the sounds of his children’s giggles, the autumn sun glowing on their happy faces, the pure joy of something so simple.

Marcus, now mostly unburied, sat up and shook corn from his jacket. Kernels flew in all directions, and Pip and Becca erupted into hysterics as if it were the funniest thing they’d ever seen. Marcus had corn in his hair, corn down his shirt, and certainly corn in his pockets. He started plucking kernels off himself.

“We’re going to be finding corn for days,” he quipped, grinning. He stood up and made a mock show of trying to gather all the spilled kernels, letting them slip between his fingers. “Anybody bring a vacuum?”

Diana snorted. “I think the farm has a system for that, don’t worry.” She gestured toward the massive fans at the side of the play area.

She brushed stray kernels off Becca’s clothing and hair as the little girl protested mildly—apparently Becca would have been happy to stay in that pit all day.

Finally, with some coaxing, they managed to convince the twins it was time to leave the corn pit. Marcus climbed out last, patting down his jeans and shaking each shoe before putting them back on. Sure enough, a few kernels fell out. Pip found this endlessly amusing and picked up one kernel to show it to Matthew like a prized treasure. Matthew accepted the kernel with a flourish, as if Pip had just handed him a diamond, which made the boy beam with pride.

As they walked away from the play area, Matthew took one last look over his shoulder at the corn pit, now a bit messier than when they arrived. Children of another family were hopping in, continuing the cycle of chaos.

He mused quietly, “I still don’t fully get the appeal…”

Diana bumped against him affectionately as she carried a now-exhausted Becca. “Look at them,” she said, nodding toward the kids. Marcus was up ahead a few paces, while Pip toddled at his side holding Marcus’s hand. Both boys were coated in a fine dusting of corn bits and looked thoroughly tired but content.

“Happy, worn out, and not a single thought of boredom,” Diana continued with a smile. “I’d say that’s enough of a point.”

Matthew had to agree. The corners of his mouth lifted in a soft smile as he watched Marcus bend down to scoop up Pip. The little boy had finally reached his limit and lifted his arms in the universal “carry me” plea. Marcus hoisted his baby brother, as Pip snuggled into Marcus’s shoulder, eyelids already drooping.

“Alright, family,” Matthew announced, catching up to Marcus and ruffling his hair lightly and surreptitiously dislodging one last corn kernel from the boy’s unruly locks. “I think it’s time to head home.”

Marcus, to Matthew’s surprise, didn’t object at all. Normally, ending an outing might bring out a bit of whining or at least an attempt to drag it on longer, but today Marcus simply gave a content nod. The kid looked positively worn out, Matthew realized. Matthew was genuinely relieved to see his oldest looking happy and tired from a day of real-world fun, as opposed to the sullen, restless ball of boredom he had been the past few days.

They filled the trunk with their haul of pumpkins. The twins were secured in their car seats, and within minutes of pulling out of the farm’s gravel driveway, both had fallen fast asleep. Pip had his head lolled to the side, mouth open in a tiny snore, while Becca clutched her favorite stuffed dinosaur to her chest, her lips still stained a bit orange from a pumpkin-shaped lollipop Diana had given her earlier.

Marcus sat in the backseat between the two car seats, staring out the window with heavy eyelids. The sun was dipping lower now, warm gold light flickering through the trees that lined the road. He could feel the pleasant ache in his legs from all the walking and corn swimming. He fought to keep his eyes open, not wanting the day to end just yet, but the gentle motion of the car and the cool air from the slightly open window were lulling him into drowsiness. Before he realized it, his head had tipped back against the headrest and his breathing steadied into the soft rhythm of sleep.

In the front passenger seat, Diana turned around to check on the kids and smiled at what she saw: three tuckered-out children, none of whom were arguing or fussing for once. She caught Matthew’s eye and silently pointed a finger towards the back seat, as if saying look at this. Matthew glanced in the rearview mirror. The sight made his chest swell with a quiet contentment. The twins never napped this late in the day without a fight, and Marcus—well, seeing Marcus sleep so peacefully was a rarity lately.

Diana broke the silence softly. “There’s your point,” she whispered to Matthew, a light of amusement in her eyes as she recalled his earlier grumbling . She gestured at the snoozing trio in the back. “They’re all napping without any fighting about it.”

Matthew let out a low chuckle, careful not to laugh too loud. He reached over and gave Diana’s hand a gentle squeeze. “You got me,” he conceded quietly. “This was a good idea.”

Diana glanced back one more time, taking in the adorable scene and storing it in her heart. She looked at Matthew, who kept his eyes on the road but wore an expression of quiet happiness. In that moment, with the golden haze of sunset spilling into the car and her family safe and content, Diana felt that all was right in their little world.

In the rearview mirror, Matthew could see the silhouettes of the farm’s windmill and pumpkin fields growing smaller in the distance. He knew they’d be back to the grind of daily life soon enough—work, chores, and likely a bit of sulking from Marcus when he remembered he was still grounded. But for now, they had this: a car full of sleeping kids and hearts full of cherished memories.

Chapter Text

Marcus leaned against the living room couch, arms folded as he watched his twin siblings play on the floor. Becca was busy lining up crayons in a careful row, while Pip stacked wooden blocks into a large tower. It was a peaceful domestic scene—or would have been, if Marcus weren’t feeling particularly restless and mischievous. Fourteen years old, give or take a few centuries, Marcus often teetered between acting like the responsible older brother and the impulsive teenager he appeared to be. Today, boredom was getting the better of him.

Pip frowned at his block tower, which refused to balance on the last crooked piece. He gave it a frustrated tap, and the whole stack collapsed into a messy pile.

“Shoot!” he exclaimed, echoing one of Diana’s milder expletives.

Marcus smirked, hiding a chuckle. Shoot wasn’t exactly a bad word, but the annoyed little scowl on Pip’s face was undeniably cute.

“Almost had it, sport,” Marcus said, ruffling the toddler’s strawberry blond hair with his hand. Pip puffed his cheeks in frustration at the failed construction project.

Becca looked up from her crayons, tilting her head. “Thass’a grown up word,” she piped up matter-of-factly.

Marcus bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. Trust Becca to recall one of Matthew’s many rules. No inappropriate language, period—a rule Marcus himself had heard more than a few times lately as he’d edged into teenhood with a sharper tongue. He knew Matthew and Diana tried to watch their own tongues around the twins. Still, a few mild slips had obviously made an impression on the kids.

“Oh, there are definitely worse words,” Marcus drawled, unable to resist stirring the pot a little. He crouched down on the rug with the twins, lowering his voice as if about to share a grand secret. Both toddlers immediately leaned in, eyes wide and curious. “You know how Mommy sometimes says shoot instead of something else? And Daddy says darn when he really wants to say a bad word?”

Becca nodded solemnly. Pip’s blue eyes went round as marbles. Marcus could see their anticipation building. He felt a tiny pang in his chest—he should have shut this down. Part of him, the part that still remembered being an adult, knew better than to corrupt innocent toddlers with profanity. But another part of him, the fourteen-year-old itching for some rebellion, found their eagerness funny. Harmless, a little voice in his head insisted.

With a quick glance over his shoulder for any eavesdropping parents, Marcus took a deep breath. Diana was out in the garden harvesting herbs, and Matthew—well, Marcus assumed his father was ensconced in the upstairs study with one of his books or research calls. Satisfied that no grown-ups were within earshot, Marcus turned back to the twins with a sly grin.

“Alright. One word,” he whispered conspiratorially, holding up a finger. “I’ll teach you one bad word. But you have to promise not to say it in front of Mom or Dad. It’ll be our secret, okay?”

His heart gave a little thump as he said it, a mix of excitement and nervousness coursing through him. He hadn’t done something this blatantly against the rules in a while. Matthew would tan my hide if he knew, Marcus thought, even as he charged ahead. The twins bounced in place, thrilled to be included in something so grown-up and forbidden.

“We pwomise!” Pip lisped, nodding fervently. Becca set her crayons down, face earnest.

Marcus suppressed another laugh at their seriousness.

This is terrible, he chastised himself half-heartedly, even as he went through with it. Leaning in even closer, he enunciated clearly, “The word is ‘fuck.’” He said it softly.

Pip immediately clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes scandalized and delighted. “Fu–” he started to echo, but muffled himself with his chubby fingers before the word finished. Becca’s jaw dropped; clearly she recognized this was indeed one of those words.

Marcus felt a mischievous grin tug at his lips. “Yup. That’s the word adults don’t want us to say. It’s like… a really bad shoot,” he explained, biting back the urge to laugh at how absurd this was—a centuries-old vampire-turned-teen giving babies a cursing lesson on the living room floor. If he weren’t so bored, he might have reconsidered. But the twins’ faces were priceless.

“Fuck,” Becca repeated with a dutiful nod.

Marcus snorted, quickly clamping a hand over his own mouth to smother the noise. A bubble of laughter escaped his throat.

“That’s it,” he encouraged under his breath, shaking his head in disbelief at himself. “That’s the word. Just don’t go saying it around the house or we’ll all get in trou–”

“Fuck!” Pip blurted out happily, apparently deciding it was safe now that Becca had tried it. He giggled, finding the forbidden word deliciously funny. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” he sing-songed, bouncing on his little knees.

Marcus’s eyes widened. “Whoa, Pip! Not so loud–” he hissed, alarmed at the volume.

Becca was giggling now too, and she joined her brother, the two of them gleefully chorusing their new favorite word:

“Fuck! Fuck!”

Each time one of them said it, they collapsed into giggles, finding it hilarious. Marcus reached out, trying to shush them even as an involuntary chuckle shook his shoulders. It was kind of funny hearing such a nasty word come out of such tiny, angelic faces. He felt a strange mix of amusement and guilt swirling in his stomach. Okay, they’ve had their fun, time to calm them down, he thought, cheeks warm from suppressed laughter.

“Alright, alright, that’s enough–” he began softly, glancing back toward the hallway.

Too late.

“What,” came a dangerously calm voice from the doorway, “is going on in here?”

Marcus froze. A cold prickle skittered down his spine. He didn’t need to turn around to know that Matthew had appeared, as silently as only a vampire could, in the living room entryway. The twins, however, had no such compunction—they looked up cheerfully at their father.

“Daddy! Buvver teached us a new word!” Pip announced with innocent pride, stumbling over the grammar. He seemed oblivious to the storm gathering on Matthew’s face. Becca, slightly more attuned to adult moods, at least had the sense to fall quiet and edge a tiny bit behind Marcus’s shoulder.

Marcus slowly pushed himself to his feet and turned to face his father, heart thumping loudly. Matthew stood there, one hand braced on the doorframe. His gray-green eyes were steely and narrowed. Marcus felt his mouth go dry.

For a long second, Matthew said nothing, letting his question hang in the air. The silence was loud enough to hear the tick of the clock and the faint hum of the refrigerator. Marcus’s stomach flipped. He hated how one stern look from Matthew made him feel like a naughty little boy.

“Marcus.” Matthew’s tone was deceptively even, but Marcus didn’t miss the tightness around his father’s jaw, nor the deliberate way he unfolded his arms and stepped into the room. “What did I just hear?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Marcus saw Pip open his mouth, no doubt to proudly repeat the offending word for Daddy. Marcus threw out a hand quickly to shush him.

“N-nothing!” Marcus stammered, panicked. He knew he was caught, but instinct made him try to minimize the damage. “It’s nothing, Dad, we were just playing a game–”

Matthew’s eyebrows shot up in a disbelieving arch. “Nothing?” he echoed quietly. He crossed the room in three smooth strides. Even moving at normal human speed, Matthew carried an aura of barely restrained intensity. Marcus resisted an urge to step back as his father loomed in front of him. The twins remained behind Marcus, watching with big eyes.

“You call that nothing?” Matthew asked sternly. There was no need to specify what. They all knew. Matthew’s voice dropped even lower. “I heard it very clearly, Marcus. From both of them.”

He inclined his head toward the twins, who were clutching each other’s hands now. Marcus’s face burned hot. There was no wiggle room here, no plausible deniability. He swallowed hard.

“I– I’m sorry,” he mumbled, not quite meeting Matthew’s eyes. He cast a guilty glance back at the kids. Becca pressed her face into Pip’s shoulder, as if sensing the best course now was to stay quiet.

Matthew’s lips pressed into a thin line. He knelt down to put himself at eye-level with the twins, gently peeling Becca out from behind Marcus. Marcus watched as his father placed one large, gentle hand on each twin’s small shoulder. When Matthew spoke, his tone softened just a fraction for them – but it was still firm.

“Becca, Pip,” he said, enunciating each name, “I don’t ever want to hear that word from either of you again. Do you understand me?”

Pip’s lower lip trembled at the tone of his father’s voice. He nodded hesitantly. Becca’s eyes welled with anxious tears, not because she really understood the gravity of the word, but because Daddy never talked to them in that stern voice. Matthew’s face softened for a brief moment as he pulled the twins in and kissed each of their foreheads. Marcus felt a twist of remorse in his chest, seeing the confusion and worry he’d caused his little brother and sister.

Matthew released the twins and got to his feet. He towered over all three children now, authority radiating off him. “Rebecca, Philip—go find your mother. She’s out in the garden,” he instructed calmly. “Tell her I asked you to help her for a little while.”

Becca grabbed Pip’s hand and the two scampered out of the living room. The instant they were gone, Matthew fixed Marcus with a gaze so piercing, Marcus felt it like a physical weight. He gulped, suddenly acutely aware of how small he still was compared to his father. At fourteen, Marcus only came up to Matthew’s chest, and Matthew seemed larger than life right now. Marcus opened his mouth to stammer another apology, but Matthew held up a hand.

“Not one word,” Matthew said, quiet but implacable. “Upstairs. Bathroom. Now.”

Marcus’s stomach bottomed out. A flash of real fear shot through him. He knew immediately what his father meant. Washing a child’s mouth out with soap was a punishment Matthew had mentioned exactly once before, and Marcus was fairly certain he was about to follow through.

All the blood rushed to Marcus’s face, leaving him lightheaded with dread and shame. “D-Dad, please,” he babbled, taking a half-step back reflexively. “I’m really sorry. I know it was wrong, I wasn’t thinking–”

“Upstairs,” Matthew repeated, each syllable crisp. He pointed toward the hallway. “Go. I will be right there.”

His mind raced as he climbed the staircase two steps at a time. Maybe he’ll just lecture me. But that thin hope died the moment Marcus reached the upstairs bathroom. The door was wide open, afternoon light flooding the tidy space. Marcus hovered in the doorway, swallowing hard. As much as Marcus tried to act older or cling to the remnants of his adult mind, moments like this stripped all that away. Right now, he wasn’t a centuries-old vampire or even a teenager with too much attitude. He was a child about to face the consequences of a very childish mistake.

Behind him, the floorboards creaked. Marcus whirled around to see Matthew rounding the top of the stairs, his stride unhurried and intent. In his hand, Matthew held a plain bar of ivory-colored soap. He must have grabbed it from the kitchen sink or the downstairs bathroom on his way. The bar of soap looked small in Matthew’s broad palm, but to Marcus it may as well have been as large as a brick.

Panic welled in him again. Marcus stepped back into the bathroom automatically, words tumbling out in a squeak: “Dad, please–I won’t ever do it again, I p-promise!” His voice cracked. The taste of fear was already bitter on his tongue, and he hadn’t even tasted the soap yet.

Matthew followed him into the bathroom, shutting the door firmly behind them. His father’s face was stern, etched with disappointment as he rolled up the sleeves of his charcoal sweater methodically. He then calmly reached over and turned on the sink faucet. Water gushed out, the sound ominous in the small space.

Marcus found himself rooted to the tiled floor, shaking hands balled into fists at his sides. He fixed his gaze on the floor tiles, anything to avoid Matthew’s disapproving stare. The tension was unbearable.

Finally, Matthew broke the silence. “Marcus,” he said quietly, almost a sigh, “I am extremely disappointed in your behavior.” He ran the bar of soap under the stream of water, then turned the faucet off. The sudden quiet made Marcus flinch.

He opened his mouth to stammer another apology or maybe an excuse, anything to lessen the weight of Matthew’s words. But Matthew held up that dreaded bar of soap a few inches from Marcus’s face. The scent of it—clean, sharp, a little bit lemony—filled Marcus’s nose. He drew back instinctively, but the backs of his legs bumped the porcelain bathtub edge; there was nowhere to go.

“I’m sorry. I just… I thought it would be funny,” Marcus whined.

Lips pressed thin again, Matthew shook his head. “There is nothing funny about a child using that kind of language. You know better, Marcus. We have standards in this family—standards I expect you, especially as the eldest, to uphold.”

“Please, Dad…” Marcus whispered one last time, voice quavering. It was futile and he knew it, but he had to try. The bar of soap looked so large, and he could already imagine the foul taste.

Matthew’s expression gentled just a hair at the plea, but it did not change his course. “Open your mouth, Marcus,” he instructed, voice unyielding.

His breathing hitched. A whimper escaped his throat. His feet shuffled in place, as if some last rebellious instinct wanted to bolt. But there was no escaping this and deep down, he accepted that. So, squeezing his eyes shut, Marcus forced himself to comply. Slowly, he unclenched his jaw and opened his mouth.

Immediately, Matthew brought the wet bar of soap to his lips. Marcus winced as the bar pressed against his tongue. It tasted like bitter flowers. Matthew didn’t just place it there; he gave it a gentle twist, ensuring the soap lathered and coated Marcus’s tongue thoroughly. The slick suds hit Marcus’s taste buds and he gagged reflexively. The urge to retch was instant and strong. Marcus let out a muffled sob of distress, but Matthew kept a steady hand at his chin, holding him firmly.

“Bite down and keep it there,” Matthew ordered.

He waited until Marcus closed his teeth on the bar, securing it in his mouth. The soap was so large it forced Marcus’s jaws apart awkwardly. He could taste it in every corner of his mouth now with an overwhelming, nauseating bitterness. Drool mixed with soapy foam began pooling under his tongue. Marcus’s eyes flew open in alarm as he realized he couldn’t even swallow properly around the soap. A strangled noise came from his throat.

Without another word, Matthew reached over and picked up a flat-backed wooden hairbrush from the countertop beside the sink. Marcus hadn’t noticed it sitting there. It was Diana’s sturdy oak hairbrush, heavy and old-fashioned. The sight of it in his father’s hand sent a new bolt of panic through Marcus. He made a desperate, garbled sound around the soap, shaking his head.

“You’re also getting a spanking,” Matthew announced matter-of-factly.

No shit Marcus thought miserably, briefly thankful the soap prevented that from slipping past his lips.

Ignoring Marcus’s muffled protests, Matthew guided him a step forward to the sink, yanking his pants and underwear to his knees.

“Hands on the edge of the sink,” Matthew instructed, his voice still firm. “Bend over and keep your hands right there. Do not move.”

Marcus gripped the cool porcelain rim of the sink with trembling fingers. He wanted to close his eyes to avoid the reflection of the red-faced boy biting a bar of soap staring back at him.

Behind him, Matthew placed a steady hand in the middle of Marcus’s back and pressed gently, signaling him to bend forward further. A bit of sudsy drool escaped the corner of his mouth, dribbling onto the white porcelain. Marcus flushed with shame.
He gripped the sink so hard his knuckles went white. Matthew’s hand stayed firm between his shoulder blades.

“I expect you to keep that bar where it is until I remove it. If it falls out or you spit it out, we will start over. Are we clear?”

A few soap bubbles frothed at his lips as Marcus frantically nodded his head up and down. Clear? Yes, crystal. This was already the most horrible punishment he could imagine; he had no intention of prolonging it by disobeying his father’s instructions.

“Good,” Matthew said tersely. And without further delay, he raised the hairbrush and cracked it across Marcus’s bottom.

The wooden back of the brush landed with a thwack that echoed sharply off the tiled walls. Pain blossomed across Marcus’s backside, deep and stinging. He yelled into the soap as his body jolted forward. The sink bit into his hips as he reflexively tried to lurch away, but Matthew’s hand on his back pinned him in place with inhuman strength. Marcus’s fingers scrambled on the porcelain, nearly losing their grip.

“Hands stay on the sink,” Matthew reminded sternly above him. Marcus forced his clammy palms on the basin’s surface again, gripping the edges until his fingers hurt.

The hairbrush found its mark over and over, peppering Marcus’s backside methodically from the top of his rear to the sensitive undercurve.

Each swat sent a lightning bolt of pain through his bare skin, which then radiated to a burning heat. Marcus’s muffled cries rose in pitch with every smack. He kicked one foot back involuntarily as the brush scorched his sit spots.

Matthew did not lecture during the spanking. Instead, the only sounds in the bathroom were the relentless snap of wood meeting bare bottom and the muffled, desperate sobbing of a teenage boy learning a very hard lesson. Marcus’s world narrowed to two sensations: the vile soap dominating his mouth and the blistering heat blazing across his backside.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the torrent of smacks stopped. Marcus hung over the sink, chest heaving, tears and drool dripping steadily into the basin. His bottom burned fiercely.

Then Matthew’s hand, which had remained like an iron bar on his back through the entire spanking, eased up. Gently, it rubbed a small circle between Marcus’s shoulder blades. Marcus reached down and pulled his sweatpants back up, wincing as the fabric brushed across his soundly-spanked skin. A moment later, Matthew’s hands were at his shoulders, helping Marcus carefully stand.

Once he was upright, Matthew reached toward his face. Marcus flinched, but Matthew only grasped the bar of soap and gently removed it from between his teeth.

Freed of the obstruction, Marcus immediately coughed and sputtered. A trail of soapy saliva dribbled down his chin, and he swiped at it with the back of his hand, mortified. The taste still coated his tongue. If anything, it seemed even worse now, as air hit his mouth. He doubled over a bit, coughing hard. A sob caught in his throat and turned into a gag. For one panicked second, he thought he might actually throw up into the sink.

Swiftly turning the faucet back on, Matthew handed Marcus a clean cup from the counter. “Rinse,” he instructed, supporting Marcus’s arm as he took the cup.

Marcus filled it with cool water from the tap, then eagerly swished and spit into the sink. Cloudy white soap-spit spiraled down the drain. He repeated the motion over and over, desperate to banish the awful taste.

After the water Marcus spat out was mostly clear and the taste had dulled to a bitter afterhint, he reached up to wipe his wet cheeks, but Matthew was already there, gently tilting his chin up with one hand and dabbing at his face with a soft towel. Then, Matthew set the towel aside and opened his arms. It was all the invitation Marcus needed.

He stumbled forward a step and collapsed against his father’s chest. A strangled cry burst from him as Matthew’s strong arms came around him, one hand cradling the back of Marcus’s head and the other rubbing his heaving back. Marcus sobbed openly now, face buried into Matthew’s sweater.

“I-I’m s-sorry,” he managed to hiccup. His words came out barely intelligible, muffled by a mix of tears and the fabric against his lips.

Matthew’s embrace tightened, holding Marcus firmly in place as the boy wept. “Shh,” he soothed, his chin resting atop Marcus’s head. “It’s alright. It’s alright, buddy. It’s over. I’ve got you.” He rocked them slightly side to side, a subtle motion that was both protective and calming.

Marcus clung to Matthew’s middle, fingers twisting into his father’s sweater as if afraid to let go. His bottom throbbed in time with his racing heartbeat, and his mouth still tasted like the laundry detergent aisle, but nestled in his dad’s arms, he finally felt the first small trickle of relief.

Eventually, Matthew loosened his hold just enough to tilt Marcus back and look at him. His eyes searched Marcus’s red, puffy face.

“Are you okay?” Matthew asked softly, brushing a tear off Marcus’s cheek with his thumb.

Nodding hesitantly, it took Marcus a moment to find his voice. “Y-yeah,” he croaked, wiping his nose on his sleeve, looking thoroughly abashed. “My butt hurts,” he added in a tiny, hoarse mutter, unable to meet Matthew’s gaze. It was such an obvious thing to say, but at that moment it was all he could articulate.

“I’m sure it does,” Matthew said, a wry gentleness in his tone. He eased himself down to sit on the side of the bathtub and then lightly tugged Marcus to sit on his lap.

Marcus hissed through his teeth as his tender backside made contact with his father’s solid thighs. He shifted, trying to find a less painful position, before he finally gave up, accepting that he’d be sore no matter what. In truth, he didn’t entirely mind the discomfort of sitting on Matthew’s lap. Being held like this, even at fourteen, made him feel safe and loved, if still very contrite.

“Alright,” Matthew said quietly, brushing a stray lock of hair off Marcus’s forehead. “We need to talk about what happened.”

“I-I know,” he whispered, squirming slightly on his father’s lap. His voice was hoarse from crying. He bit his lip hard, trying to keep it from quivering again. “I dunno what I was thinking… it was stupid, and immature, and I’m just… I’m really sorry, Dad. Really.” His eyes pleaded for his father to believe him. “I won’t ever teach them stuff like that again. I swear.” Then he winced and corrected himself, “I-I promise. Not swearing. Just promising. I promise I won’t.”

A ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of Matthew’s mouth despite the gravity of the moment. He cupped Marcus’s cheek, thumb gently wiping at the residual dampness there.

“I believe you,” he said softly. “I can see you’re truly sorry, Marcus.” He took a deep breath, the slight smile fading back into a serious expression. “And you’re right. It was wrong. I need you to understand why it was so wrong.”

Marcus nodded again, shifting his weight gingerly. “Because they’re little, and I’m supposed to set a good example,” he answered.

Hearing that earnest confession, Matthew’s stern demeanor finally melted into something gentler. He pulled Marcus closer against his chest, letting the boy rest his head on his shoulder.

“That’s right,” he murmured. “You are their big brother. They look up to you. They trust you, Marcus.” He rubbed circles on Marcus’s back. “When you teach them something they take it to heart. So if you teach them bad words, they’ll think it’s okay, even funny, to use them. And that gets them in trouble, confuses them about right and wrong and undermines what your mother and I are trying to teach in this family.” His voice had the slightest edge—not anger, but emphasis.

Marcus felt hot tears stinging his eyes again. He burrowed his face against the crook of Matthew’s neck, nodding.

“Yes, sir,” he whispered, reverting unconsciously to the respectful address he used on rare occasions, usually when he felt deeply remorseful or thoroughly chastened, or both.

Matthew’s arms tightened around him, a sign of both reassurance and a hint of lingering protectiveness. “Good,” he replied. “I need you to remember that, Marcus. Not just because you were punished, but because you genuinely understand why it was wrong.” He leaned back slightly so he could tilt Marcus’s chin up again, wanting to look him in the eye. “You understand that?”

Marcus met his father’s gaze. Though still watery, his eyes were clear with sincerity now. “I do. I won’t forget it, Dad. I promise.” He winced a little as he shifted on his sore bottom again. “I… I couldn’t forget if I tried,” he added, attempting a shaky, rueful smile.

Matthew squeezed Marcus one more time, then gently helped him off his lap. Marcus stood, wincing and rubbing his smarting backside with one hand. The simple, childish gesture drew a sympathetic half-smile from his father as he placed the hairbrush back into its spot on the counter, as if finalizing that the incident was over.

Then Matthew reached over to the sink and picked up the discarded bar of soap, now smaller and with noticeable bite marks. Marcus grimaced at the sight, face flushing again. Matthew arched an eyebrow.

“In the meantime, I think we’ll put this somewhere as a little reminder for you.”

To Marcus’s surprise, Matthew didn’t sound angry or threatening. If anything, there was a gentle teasing in his tone. Matthew opened the medicine cabinet and set the soap on the shelf at eye level.

“Each morning when you brush your teeth, you’ll see this here. And I expect just seeing it will be enough to remind you to watch your language, hm?”

Marcus bobbed his head quickly. “Yes sir,” he agreed, eager never to repeat this experience. “Believe me, I’ll remember. You’ve never done that before.” Marcus’s blue eyes welled with tears threatening to spill over again.

“You never taught your toddler siblings to shout obscenities before either.”

“That was…”

“Before you finish that sentence, my son, you might consider whether you want a second turn with the soap for lying?” Matthew’s eyebrows raised as he scolded his eldest.

Marcus’s throat closed around the words he had been about to say, his ears blazing red. He dropped his gaze to the floor and gave a tiny nod, chastened into silence. Matthew let the pause linger just long enough to drive the point home, then reached out to rest a firm hand on his son’s shoulder.

“Good,” he said at last, voice softer now but still edged with warning. “Lesson learned.”

Marcus sniffled and nodded again, clinging to the comfort that, however stern the rebuke, the worst was behind him. When Matthew’s hand shifted from his shoulder to draw him in close again, Marcus didn’t resist. He sagged against his father’s chest, letting himself be held, the slow, steady rhythm of Matthew’s heartbeat anchoring him. The soap was gone, the sting of the hairbrush still burned, but wrapped in that firm embrace Marcus felt what mattered most—that even through discipline, love was still the constant at the center of it all.

Chapter Text

It was such a simple solution that Marcus couldn’t believe it had taken him so long to think of. He’d just gotten his devices back after a very long and boring week without them, and he wanted to prevent this entire situation from happening again.

If Matthew insisted on keeping him on the kids’ profiles for all their family streaming services, then Marcus would just get his own accounts—ones Matthew couldn’t control. With a determined huff, he logged out of the family Netflix and clicked the bright Sign Up button. Using an email address he’d made in secret (one Matthew didn’t know about) and his own credit card, Marcus filled in the details. A few seconds later, he had a brand-new subscription in his name. No more kiddie filters; everything was at his fingertips once more.

Marcus felt a giddy thrill as the full Netflix catalog unfurled before him. R-rated movies? Horror series? All the shows Matthew had deemed “inappropriate” for him were now unlocked. He immediately searched for The Haunting of Hill House, a Mike Flanagan series he’d wanted to rewatch.

Sure enough, with his very own account, the show started streaming in high-definition without a single parental gate or age warning. Marcus plopped back on his bed, propped up his tablet, and grinned in satisfaction as the opening scene played.

As episode after episode rolled on, Marcus’s grin only grew wider. He felt empowered. Matthew’s rules had made him feel like a little kid as much as being stuck in a child’s body did. Now he’d proven he could outsmart those overprotective limits.

Halfway through the third episode, Marcus caught himself snickering at more than just the show’s dialogue. He was imagining Matthew’s face if he ever discovered this little act of rebellion. Oh, the horror! Marcus thought with a smirk. He even toyed with the idea of going truly off-limits just out of spite—maybe visiting one of those adult sites Matthew would faint over.

The thought was outrageous, and Marcus actually chuckled aloud. He wasn’t genuinely interested, but the notion of streaming something scandalous just because Matthew hated it was deliciously tempting. Even the sore backside that was bound to accompany such actions if Matthew found out would be worth it, as long as he got to see the look on his father’s face.

In the end, he settled for the horror shows and a couple of gory R-rated movies, enough to make his point. This was rebellion for the sake of rebellion, and Marcus savored every moment of it. He made sure he downloaded everything he wanted to watch, since Matthew still hadn’t relaxed his “no internet after bedtime” rule.

By mid-evening, Marcus was feeling triumphant. Not only was he binge-watching Hill House uninterrupted, but he was also brewing another scheme. Every time Matthew or Diana treated him like a baby, Marcus felt this burning urge to vent. If he complained to their faces, he’d just get lectured. But what if he rallied some sympathetic ears?

Picking up his phone, Marcus decided to create a new group chat, one without his overbearing father. He added practically the whole de Clermont family except Matthew and Diana. For good measure, he even gave the group a cheeky name: “No Parents Allowed.”

This would be his private corner to gripe about how he was being treated, and he trusted the others either to keep Matthew in the dark or at least not snitch immediately.

With the group set up, Marcus fired off the first message as a feeler:

MARCUS: Hill House still holds up

He snickered to himself, knowing at least a few of them would realize exactly why he was bringing up the horror show—Marcus was indirectly bragging that he’d found a way around Matthew’s restrictions.

Within a minute, his phone buzzed with a reply:

BALDWIN: Surely it is past your bedtime

Marcus rolled his eyes. Of course Baldwin would be the first to poke fun. He could practically hear his uncle’s dry tone.

MARCUS: Rude.

He sent back a single-word retort, adding a little eye-roll emoji for good measure. It was barely 9 PM. Another reply appeared, this time from Freyja:

FREYJA: Marcus is right though. Hill House was the best Flanagan series.

Marcus grinned. Finally, an ally. Freyja had excellent taste and clearly wasn’t above a little rule-bending herself.

MARCUS: You're my favorite aunt for a reason.

He added a smirking emoji to convey his gratitude. Freyja’s quick defense made him feel vindicated and a little smug. Freyja responded almost immediately:

FREYJA: Told you all, he loves me best. :P

Marcus snorted. He could imagine Freyja sticking her tongue out playfully at whoever was around her. If it was Baldwin, he would be scowling at being upstaged, no doubt.

YSABEAU: Loathe as I am to admit it, Baldwin is right. Mon petit, you should be asleep by now.

Even in a chat specifically designed to escape parental oversight, here were his relatives teasing him about bedtime. He could practically hear Ysabeau’s elegant French accent chiding him. Et tu, grand-mère? he thought with a dramatic sigh.

Before anyone else could respond, he added:

MARCUS: It’s only 9. Don’t worry, I won’t turn into a pumpkin.

He tossed in a pumpkin emoji for good measure. A little sass never hurt.

BALDWIN: Don’t encourage him, Ysabeau. Next he’ll claim he doesn’t need supervision either. 🙄

He bit back a laugh. Baldwin was right though—he would claim that if he thought it’d fly. Before Marcus could think of a comeback, another message popped up, from Gallowglass:

GALLOWGLASS: What’s this then? The lad’s having a midnight movie marathon? Save some popcorn for me, eh? 🍿

Gallowglass was in Portugal last he heard, but clearly even he was joining in on the gentle ribbing. Marcus could imagine his giant Gael of a cousin laughing heartily at the idea of Marcus sneaking horror movies.

BALDWIN: This secret chat of yours isn’t very secret if half the family is awake and tattling in here…

Marcus’s heart skipped. Tattling? He quickly typed back:

MARCUS: It’s only secret from Mom and Dad. And no one here is tattling. Right? 😅

He added the nervous smile emoji and sent it, hoping no one would snitch. He trusted them… mostly. Baldwin was a wildcard, but surely even he enjoyed having a space away from Matthew’s brooding oversight.

Ysabeau replied with a simple:

YSABEAU: Your secret is safe, mon petit. 😉

Marcus exhaled, relief washing over him. If Ysabeau was on his side enough to keep this quiet, then Baldwin would follow her lead. Whether he liked it or not, nobody crossed Ysabeau lightly.

Satisfied, Marcus settled back into his pillows and resumed his show. He might have stayed up far later than was wise. Hill House was so good he ended up watching one episode after another until well past midnight. Eventually, with his earbuds still in and the tablet playing some dark, moody end-credits music, Marcus fell asleep mid-episode, triumphant in his newfound freedom.

The next morning, Marcus was rudely yanked from sleep by a beam of sunlight piercing through a gap in his curtains. He groaned and burrowed his face into his pillow. Ugh. Morning already? His head felt foggy from lack of rest. Maybe staying up until 2 AM binge-watching wasn’t his brightest idea.

Marcus stretched and noticed his tablet askew on the bed beside him, still open on the Netflix home screen. He hastily shoved it into the drawer of his nightstand. The last thing he needed was Matthew walking in and seeing evidence of another late-night streaming spree.

A few hours later, Marcus found himself outside under the early afternoon sun, rake in hand. Dinner was still hours away, and Marcus was convinced he would starve long before then. He cast a mournful glance at the heaps of unraked leaves still scattered across their expansive yard.

How had he gotten roped into this chore again? Right—Matthew had caught him wandering around looking far too pleased with himself. Marcus tried to hide his smug smile from the streaming victory, but Matthew had been his father for over two hundred years and knew when Marcus was planning mischief, even if he didn’t know exactly what was happening.

In typical Matthew fashion, he had decided that a “productive afternoon of yard work” would be good for his restless son and keep him out of trouble. Now Marcus was regretting ever planting so many trees on this property when he built this house ages ago. All those picturesque oaks and maples he once loved were currently carpeting the grass with dead leaves. In retrospect, maybe a treeless gravel courtyard would’ve been better for a low-maintenance lifestyle.

Marcus dragged the rake through a patch of particularly stubborn oak leaves and groaned dramatically. Sweat dampened his brow and his stomach rumbled audibly. Finally, he tossed the rake down for a moment.

“Dad, are we done yet?” he called over to Matthew, who was working a few yards away. Marcus tried not to whine, but the whine definitely slipped out. He was hungry and bored, a dangerous combination.

Matthew straightened up from collecting a pile of leaves, surveying the half-cleared yard with hands on his hips. He raised an eyebrow at Marcus.

“Do we look done to you?” he replied, nodding toward the still-scattered leaves on the far side of the lawn. His tone was patient but pointed.

With a long-suffering sigh, Marcus resumed raking for a few strokes. After another minute of futility, he dropped the rake again.

“Can we take a break at least? I’m starving,” he announced, putting as much pathetic desperation into his voice as possible.

He cast a sidelong look at Matthew, who was busy scooping the last of his current pile onto a tarp. Matthew could have easily hired a lawn care crew or even used a leaf blower for this task. They had one in the toolshed, Marcus was pretty sure, still in its box from last year.

But no, Matthew insisted on the satisfaction of a job well done. It was the same logic he used for other chores: why have a dishwasher if you can wash by hand? Why call a plumber if you can patch the pipe yourself? Matthew clearly thought keeping a teenager occupied with honest work would build character and keep him out of mischief. Marcus privately thought Matthew was just keeping him too busy and tired to cause mischief.

Matthew gave him a skeptical look. “You had lunch an hour ago,” he pointed out, arching an eyebrow. Marcus had inhaled a hefty sandwich not long before starting on the yard, but that was hardly the point.

“I’m a growing boy,” Marcus shot back with an impish grin. If his parents insisted on calling him a boy, he’d use it to his advantage at every turn. He patted his stomach for effect. “Bottomless pit, remember? I can’t help it.”

“Fine. Five minutes,” Matthew relented, checking his watch as if to emphasize the generosity of this allowance. He tried to fight a smile and failed as he shook his head in mock dismay at his incorrigible son.

Marcus instantly perked up. Victory! Albeit a small one. He was about to dash inside when he paused and added with a cheeky grin, “Only five? OSHA says I should get at least fifteen minutes.”

Matthew closed his eyes for a second, suppressing a laugh at the audacity. He took a slow, deliberate breath and gave Marcus a pointed stare just above his head (Marcus knew that look—the don’t push your luck look).

“You are not my employee, you are my son,” Matthew said, enunciating each word as though explaining to a very simple creature. “Labor laws don’t apply to household chores, thank you very much.”

Marcus made a comical face of defeat, but there was a spark of laughter in his eyes.

“Five minutes. Take it or leave it,” Matthew warned, though the corners of his mouth were quirking up.

“Taking it!” Marcus chirped, already hurriedly propping his rake against a tree. He didn’t need to be told twice. In a flash, he was trotting toward the house to capitalize on his hard-won break.

He slipped in through the back door and immediately slowed his steps, remembering that Diana was on an important Congregation Zoom call in the study. Sure enough, as he crept past the slightly ajar study door, he could hear the muffled voices of Gerbert and Domenico through the crack. Marcus rolled his eyes. Those two again. They always seemed to be bothering his mom with some council business or another. Marcus had zero interest in their politics right now; his goal was the pantry on the other side of the hall. Still, a mischievous impulse came over him.

Marcus ever so quietly inched one eye to the gap of the door. He could see Diana on screen, poised and serious, with Gerbert’s and Domenico’s stern faces in little boxes on her laptop display. Just then, Diana noticed him in her peripheral vision. She shot him a warning glare, subtly shooing him away with a flick of her fingers without even turning fully. Marcus bit back a grin. Busted.

Shaking off the encounter, Marcus refocused on his priority: snacks. He swung open the pantry and crouched to inspect the lower shelf—his “anytime snacks” stash that Matthew had approved for him. It was a hard-won arrangement: after too many arguments about Marcus raiding the kitchen at all hours, Matthew had finally designated a specific shelf in the pantry and a bin in the fridge for Marcus to grab food whenever he wanted. Anything on those shelves was fair game, pre-approved and stocked regularly, so Marcus wouldn’t go devouring a whole pumpkin pie at midnight or chugging sodas without permission.

Of course, the selection was mostly healthy stuff—Matthew was still Matthew, after all. But at least it kept Marcus from being hungry all the time and kept Matthew from hovering over his diet like a vampire nutritionist.

Marcus’s eyes scanned the options: dried fruit, whole-grain crackers, mixed nuts, a few protein bars…ugh. He bypassed those and grabbed a banana. Next he snagged a pack of peanut-butter crackers, one of the few fun snacks on the shelf. From the fridge bin, he retrieved a cold blue Powerade. The sports drink was another compromise. Marcus had campaigned for the right to drink soda and even the occasional Red Bull, but Matthew had all but threatened to pour every soda in the house down the drain.

In the end, they’d settled on flavored sports drinks as the lesser evil: sweet and satisfying to Marcus’s sugar-loving taste buds, yet technically hydrating and caffeine-free enough to appease his father.

Arms full of his snacks, Marcus polished off the banana in three big bites as he headed back toward the yard. He checked the timer on his phone. He had maybe a minute left of his five. Not wanting to push his luck further today, he hastily stuffed the empty banana peel in the trash and jogged outside, drink tucked under his arm and cracker pack in hand. He made sure to tip-toe extra quietly past the study door this time. In the yard, he found Matthew still diligently raking. Marcus resumed his spot and waved the crackers triumphantly.

“Fuel acquired,” he declared.

Matthew looked up and couldn’t help a small smile of relief that Marcus had actually returned on time. “Going to live now?” Matthew called, eyeing the crackers and sports drink. “I was this close to calling an ambulance,” he joked dryly.

“Only barely,” Marcus managed to reply as he grabbed the rake in one hand and shoved a cracker in his mouth with the other. After a sip of his drink, he added with a grin, “Just so you know, I’ll be taking this whole unjust working-conditions thing up with my union rep.”

“Your what?” Matthew paused mid-rake and shot Marcus a puzzled look.

“My union rep. You might know her… Mom?” Marcus said, as if reminding him of a very obvious fact. He tried to keep a straight face, but the mischievous glint in his eye was unmistakable.

For a moment, Matthew just stared, processing the sheer cheek. Then a laugh burst out of him before he could stop it. He shook his head in disbelief.

“We wouldn’t want that, would we?” he chuckled. The idea of Marcus forming a union for put-upon teens with Diana as his representative to negotiate better snack breaks and later bedtimes was absurd and hilarious. Matthew had to admire Marcus’s nerve sometimes.

Marcus flashed a satisfied smirk. He loved making his father crack a smile; small victories like that kept him going. “No, we wouldn’t,” he quipped, “She drives a hard bargain. I hear she demands fifteen-minute breaks for her clients.”

Matthew pointed his rake at an untouched patch of leaves with a mock stern expression. “Alright, alright. Best get back to raking, young man, before Madam Union Rep comes out here and finds the yard still a mess,” he said. He was still smiling, but Marcus knew better than to test him further.

“Yes sir,” Marcus sang, saluting lazily with two fingers and getting back to work on the remaining leaves. Under his breath he added with a cheeky tone, “If she does, I’ll just blame you.”

“Oh, is that how it is?” Matthew replied, his voice low with amusement. The rake paused mid-air in his hands as he gave Marcus a sidelong glance, one brow arching ever so slightly. “Blame your poor father who asked you so nicely to help him maintain your ridiculous lawn?”

Marcus didn’t look up, but the smirk tugging at his mouth was undeniable. “Exactly,” he said lightly. “You’re still a vampire, a wealthy one at that, and yet you’re reduced to forced child labor, when you could just hire a lawn care company. I’m just saying—it’s not a good look for you, old man.”

“Says the boy ankle‑deep in leaves, complaining like I’ve signed him to a seven‑year indenture,” Matthew drawled. “And for the record, if I hired a crew, you’d still be out here. Work you choose builds character; work you don’t choose keeps you out of trouble.”

“I feel like we’re dangerously close to historical reenactment territory.” Marcus paused, rake still in hand.

“I’m happy to recreate it fully,” Matthew offered, deadpan. “Since you seem unable to keep from running your mouth, I’m happy to send you out to cut a switch.”

“Nope!” Marcus said quickly, holding up a hand in surrender. “I will take my under-negotiated five minute breaks, thanks.”

Matthew grunted in mock agreement, but his eyes were warm. “Then less talking, more raking.”

Together they scraped together the last of the leaves into the main pile near the edge of the yard. The afternoon sun cast a golden glow over the lawn, and for a few minutes, the only sounds were rakes swishing and the rustle of dry leaves being corralled into submission.

Finally, with a flourish, Matthew raked the final stray leaf onto the pile. He sighed in satisfaction. “There. Done.”

Marcus dropped his rake on the ground triumphantly, dusting off his hands. “Leaf mountain accomplished,” he declared.

A light breeze tousled a few strands of his hair and threatened to scatter the newly formed pile. Marcus quickly tamped it down with his foot, then stepped back and admired their handiwork. It was actually a pretty impressive stack of leaves, nearly as tall as the twins if they were standing in it.

Matthew eyed his son, who was eyeing the leaf pile with a suspicious glee. Marcus had that look on his face: the particular bright-eyed, crooked-grin look that always made Matthew nervous. It was the I’m about to do something look. Matthew narrowed his eyes playfully.

“Marcus… whatever you’re thinking, no,” he preemptively warned, though there was little heat behind it.

Marcus only grinned wider. He took a few exaggerated steps away from the pile and called out in a loud voice toward the house, “Pip! Becca! C’mere, guys! I’ve got something cool to show you!”

Two little figures were already toddling out from the open patio door, drawn by their big brother’s excited call. The twins came wobbling across the grass on chubby toddler legs, giggling as they neared Marcus.

In one swift motion, Marcus scooped up Rebecca and held her aloft under the arms. “Ever play in a leaf pile before, little sis?” he asked, eyes dancing. Rebecca squealed in delight, which was answer enough.

“Marcus, careful—!” Matthew said, stepping forward, but he was half-smiling despite himself.

With a whoop, Marcus gently tossed Rebecca into the center of the leaf pile. She landed with a soft thump amidst the red and gold leaves, disappearing for a split-second before her dark head popped up, leaves sticking out of her curls. She was giggling uncontrollably. Philip tottered at Marcus’s side, arms raised imploringly. Clearly, he wanted a turn too.

“Alright, one for you too, sport!” Marcus chuckled. He crouched, lifted Philip (making an exaggerated grunt as if Philip were enormously heavy, just to elicit another laugh). He gave a playful swing and tossed Philip into the pile right beside his sister. Another high-pitched laugh emerged from the pile as leaves flew everywhere. Now both toddlers were happily wiggling and burrowing in the fluffy heap, shrieking with glee.

Marcus, mindful of the little ones’ safety, quickly checked that the twins were giggling and clear of the immediate landing zone. Then with an impish shrug, he took two running steps and flung himself into the leaf pile as well, belly-flopping into the soft mound next to them. Leaves exploded outwards like a crunchy halo around the pile.

Becca shrieked with laughter at the sight of her big brother joining the fun, and Pip immediately started copying Marcus, flinging handfuls of leaves into the air.

Matthew stood by with arms crossed, shaking his head in disbelief. His neat, meticulously raked pile was now a scene of utter chaos – leaves scattered everywhere, two tiny children and one teenager rolling in them with unbridled joy. For a moment, Matthew fought to keep a stern expression, but it was hopeless. The sight was far too heartwarming. He sighed dramatically, throwing his hands up.

“There goes our tidy yard,” he lamented, mostly to himself.

Marcus popped his head out of the pile, leaves crowning his blonde hair, and flashed Matthew an unrepentant grin.

“What? You said the job wasn’t done until we had a little satisfaction,” he quipped, twisting the words of one of Matthew’s favorite lectures about hard work. “Consider me very satisfied!”

With that, he flopped onto his back, making a mock “leaf angel” by swishing his arms and legs through the leaves. The twins found this hysterical and started imitating the motion, though in the leaf pile it just resulted in more leaves flying about.

Matthew pinched the bridge of his nose as if in great pain, but he was smiling. “You do realize,” he called out, raising his voice over the children’s squeals, “that now we’ll have to rake all of that again, young man.”

Marcus sat up, Rebecca clambering onto his lap with a fistful of leaves she promptly dumped on Marcus’s head. He laughed and plucked a leaf out of his mouth before replying.

“Totally worth it,” he announced.

He gently gathered Becca in one arm and ruffled Pip’s hair with his free hand. Both toddlers were still giggling, rosy-cheeked, and delighted. Seeing their happiness, Marcus’s rebellious irritation at Matthew softened a little. This was fun, the kind of fun he wouldn’t trade for the world—even if it meant extra chores.

Matthew stood just beyond the edge of the leaf pile, his arms folded loosely across his chest. Marcus and the twins were still deep in their chaotic joy—rolling, flopping, giggling, occasionally tossing leaves at one another with dramatic squeals. A perfectly normal scene. Or it would’ve been, if two of the children weren’t technically half-vampire, half-witch and the third a two-hundred-year-old turned adolescent.

He pulled his phone from his pocket. It wasn’t often that he remembered to take photos—usually Diana was the one snapping moments and turning them into memories—but this time, something about the sight struck him.

The softness of the moment. Marcus’s wide smile as Pip clambered into his lap. Becca dumping another handful of leaves on her brother’s head with absolute glee. For all the chaos, it was peace. It was family.

He quickly took a burst of photos, catching a few just as Marcus turned to grin at the camera, leaves in his hair and a twin tucked under each arm. A rare candid.

Without overthinking it, Matthew opened his text thread with Diana and sent a few images.

Thirty seconds later, the patio door creaked open and Diana emerged, barefoot and holding a half-drank mug of tea and a glass of wine for Matthew. She stopped a few steps into the yard, eyes softening at the sight in front of her. Her children, tangled together in a pile of fall leaves. Her husband, watching them with quiet contentment. The stress of the Congregation call slipped away.

“They’re so happy,” she said with a fond smile.

“They’re also filthy,” Matthew said with mock indignation.

Diana walked over and bumped her shoulder lightly into his. “You remembered to take pictures.”

“I’m capable of learning.”

She laughed, then raised her phone and snapped a few more, zooming in on Marcus just as Philip leaned up to plant a sticky, leaf-dusted kiss on his brother’s cheek. Marcus recoiled in mock horror, wiping his face and shouting, “Pip! That’s so gross!”

Becca giggled. “Pip kiss Buvver!”

“Pip attack is more like it,” Marcus said, dramatically flinging himself into the leaves and rolling over to kiss Pip on the forehead.

Matthew and Diana chuckled, their fingers just brushing together between them as they stood side-by-side.

“Come on, let’s sit for a bit and watch the leaf monsters,” Diana said softly. “They won’t be this little forever.”

“No,” Matthew murmured, glancing toward Marcus in particular. “They won’t.”

And so they sat down on the edge of the patio steps, glasses in hand, while the three children played under a sky slowly turning amber.

It was loud, and messy, and chaotic—and Matthew wouldn’t have changed a thing.

Chapter Text

Barely an hour after taking off for their fall-break trip to France, a sharp sound pierced the soft whirring of the private jet’s engines. Marcus froze in his plush leather seat, eyes widening. That was the distinctive cry Garfield made when he decided his dinner was late. Across from him, Matthew’s head snapped up. Diana, seated nearby with a book, lowered it slowly as realization dawned on her face.

“Marcus Raphael, exactly how many times did I tell you Garfield was staying home?” Matthew said in a tight voice, pinning his son with a stern glare. The vampire’s tone was calm, but Marcus could see the storm brewing behind his father’s grey-green eyes.

Marcus swallowed. He could have played dumb, perhaps feign surprise, but what was the use? Garfield gave another impatient yowl from the duffel bag at Marcus’s feet, eliminating any hope of denial. Caught red-handed, Marcus managed a weak grin.

“Uhm, I didn’t actually count,” he mumbled.

Matthew rose slowly from his seat, the plane’s cabin suddenly feeling much smaller. “Clearly the answer was more than once,” he said icily. “And not once did I say you could bring him.” He began pacing the aisle of the luxurious jet, struggling to contain himself.

Garfield, sensing the tension or simply protesting his cramped quarters, let out a louder wail. Matthew’s eyes flashed. “What,” he asked, voice low and dangerous, “is the pet sitter going to think when she goes to feed him and can’t find him?”

Marcus winced. In hindsight, he realized he’d overlooked that detail. Back home, a pet sitter was scheduled to care for Garfield in their absence. “Probably something like, ‘Sweet, less work for me to do and these fools paid up front,’” Marcus quipped before he could stop himself.

Diana’s mouth fell open at Marcus’s flippant remark. A muscle in Matthew’s jaw twitched. He stopped pacing and closed his eyes. Marcus recognized the gesture—his father was counting to ten in his head in as many languages as he knew to avoid exploding.

Sure enough, when Matthew opened his eyes, they were steely calm. Without a word, he reached down, grabbed Marcus firmly by the upper arm, and hauled him up out of his seat.

“That’s it,” Matthew snapped. “Come with me. Now.”

Marcus’s stomach dropped. His backside twinged in phantom anticipation of what he knew was coming. He cast a fleeting, desperate look at Diana, but she merely gave him a sympathetic wince that said you’ve brought this on yourself. Garfield cried out again as Marcus was marched toward the back of the plane.

“I’ll take care of him,” Diana murmured, scooping the kitten out of the carrier and stroking Garfield’s orange fur as he settled into her arms. “Go.”

Marcus nodded gratefully. At least Garfield would be comforted while he faced the music.

Matthew ushered Marcus into the small bedroom compartment at the rear of the jet. It wasn’t a large space, just big enough for a bed and a semblance of privacy, but at least their impending confrontation would be out of the view of witnesses.

As Matthew pulled the door shut behind them, Marcus stood in the center of the room, shifting nervously from foot to foot. He had known this was coming; he’d known from the moment he decided to smuggle Garfield aboard that when he was caught, his father would be furious. Still, he had hoped the kitten would go undetected until after they landed in France. So much for that.

“Was any part of ‘The cat is not going to France’ unclear to you?” Matthew asked, crossing his arms over his chest. His tone was deceptively calm, but Marcus could hear the edge underneath.

Marcus bit his lip. There was no good answer to that. Matthew had been extremely clear, multiple times, that Garfield was supposed to stay home. In fact, Marcus distinctly recalled at least half a dozen stern lectures on why the kitten would be happier at home under a sitter’s care than flying to Sept-Tours. He had ignored them all. Now, facing Matthew, Marcus found he had no witty defense prepared. He stared at a spot over Matthew’s shoulder—the small circular window looking out at the endless blue sky. Anywhere but meeting his father’s eyes. Silence hung between them.

“No defense?” Matthew’s voice broke the quiet, softer now but laced with disappointment. “I’m surprised. Normally you have several excuses ready for your direct defiance.”

When Marcus still didn’t answer, Matthew exhaled sharply. “What was your plan, Marcus? Smuggle him through customs in your coat? Stuff him down your shirt and hope the officials didn’t notice the meowing lump at your side?”

Despite himself, Marcus almost smiled picturing that scenario: Garfield squirming under his jacket while a bewildered customs agent looked on. But he wasn’t about to let his father think he wasn’t taking the scolding seriously.

Instead, he mumbled, “I have his papers ready.”

The temperature in the tiny cabin seemed to drop. Marcus realized a second too late that that had been exactly the wrong thing to say. His father’s reaction confirmed it. Matthew went very still. He narrowed his eyes.

“Papers?” he repeated, voice dangerously quiet.

Matthew’s expression shifted from frustration at being disobeyed to something quieter and harsher as the pieces fell into place.

“You were always planning to bring the cat,” Matthew said flatly. He ran a hand through his dark hair, disbelief and anger warring on his face. “So all those times I said no meant nothing. This wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment lapse of judgment. You deliberately set out to defy and deceive me.”

Marcus winced. His father was absolutely right. Bringing Garfield hadn’t been a rash impulse by a naive teenager. No, it had been a fully thought-out, premeditated operation by his centuries-old son currently wrapped in a teenage bow.

He had organized the necessary veterinary papers and pet passport for Garfield weeks ago, all while nodding along as Matthew forbade bringing the kitten. He hadn’t intended Matthew to find out like this. Ideally, Garfield’s presence would only become known after they landed, at which point what could Matthew really do but sigh and accept it?

But that fantasy was over. Garfield had outed himself, and now Marcus had to face the consequences of his not-so-brilliant plan. He felt his stomach bottom out as Matthew’s silence stretched on. The vampire’s grey-green eyes flashed with disappointment. Marcus hated that look. He could weather Matthew’s anger, but seeing him genuinely disappointed stung far worse.

“Give me your phone.” Matthew finally broke the silence with a quiet, authoritative command.

“What?” Marcus blinked, thrown by the request.

“Your phone, Marcus. Hand it over,” Matthew repeated, holding out his hand. “And your watch.” He gestured toward Marcus’s smartwatch.

Marcus hesitated a fraction of a second, but one look at his father’s face told him this was not negotiable. Sullenly, Marcus dug into his jeans pocket and handed over his smartphone, then unbuckled his smartwatch and slapped it into Matthew’s waiting palm.

Pocketing the phone with a stern glare at his son, Matthew briefly fiddled with the watch, tapping the screen with quick motions.

“Until further notice, your devices are on lockdown,” he said. “I’m limiting your contacts to only Diana or myself, and trust me, I will be checking the GPS if you wander an inch out of line.”

Marcus’s shoulders slumped. Still, he counted himself lucky; if Matthew was focusing on tech restrictions, maybe he’d get off with just a stern lecture.

Before Marcus could even process the thought, his father opened the narrow wardrobe, pulled down a soft leather travel slipper, the one he wore on flights and set it on the bed. The gesture made Marcus’s mouth go dry. Matthew met his eyes.

“What happens when you choose defiance and attempt to deceive me?”

Marcus swallowed. The practiced answer found his tongue. “Consequences.”

“Correct.” Matthew pointed at the bed. “Hands on the mattress. Jeans and boxers down. You will keep your feet planted and your answers civil. We are going to be very clear, very quickly.”

Heat flooded Marcus’s face. He stepped forward, bracing his palms on the fluffy duvet. The plane’s white noise seemed suddenly loud, a curtain between this small room and the rest of the world.

The first smack of the slipper against his backside echoed in the room, making him yelp. It was followed quickly by another. Marcus hissed through his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut. He tried to focus on the steady thrum of the engines instead of the steady burn his father was igniting across his bare bottom.

The next swat overlapped the first. Marcus shifted, but Matthew’s arm circled his waist and held him steady. Outside the oval window, the endless blue sky slid by. Inside, Matthew’s rhythm was even, one swat to each cheek, then the next set just slightly lower, overlapping slightly. Heat rose quickly, filling Marcus’s focus like pressure building in his ears.

Matthew snapped the slipper on the tender crease between Marcus’s backside and thigh, causing him to hiss and clench his hands into fists. When the expected smack landed on the opposite side, Marcus felt tears prick his eyes. He grunted softly with each slap of the slipper’s leather sole.

Marcus’s jaw ached from the force of his teeth grinding, and his breath became ragged. As the slipper swiftly struck the top of his thigh, a soft sob escaped his lips. At Marcus’s vocal reaction, Matthew began to lecture.

“I want you to listen very carefully.” Matthew’s voice was deep and paternal, easily cutting through the drone of the engines. “You put Garfield in danger. He could have been injured because of your actions. And you deliberately disobeyed Diana and me. This isn’t just about a cat on a plane. It’s about trust.” He punctuated the scolding with several firm smacks of the slipper.

Marcus’s breath hitched. “Yes, sir,” he managed, the words rough. “I’m sorry.”

At last, Matthew’s arm stilled. The slipper was lowered, and a strong arm carefully drew Marcus upright, righting his clothing. Blinking blearily, Marcus found their positions flipped as Matthew sat on the bed and eased his son onto his lap. Marcus winced as his tender backside made contact with Matthew’s thighs, but Matthew’s arm was around him, supporting most of his weight.

Instinctively, Marcus buried his face against his father’s chest, chest heaving with quiet sobs. The cotton of Matthew’s shirt dampened under his tears, and he felt utterly ashamed, yet also oddly safe. The punishment was over. He had weathered the storm, and Matthew still held him close.

Matthew studied him a moment longer, then pressed a kiss to Marcus’s forehead, catching the boy by surprise. It was a rare open display of affection from his father, and it almost made Marcus start crying again. When Mathew released him, Marcus stood up, giving his rear end a quick rub.

“Geez, Dad,” he joked with a wry chuckle, hoping to hide his emotions behind humor. “This isn’t exactly the Mile-High Club I was hoping to join.”

Matthew, who had stood up and was straightening his cuffs, went still as stone. He turned a slow, incredulous glare on his son. “Pardon me?” he said in a dangerously soft voice.

The grin slid off Marcus’s face. Perhaps now was not the best time for that particular joke. He held up his hands defensively and backed toward the door. “Nothing! Nothing. Just kidding,” he blurted. “I’ll be good.”

Matthew’s eyes narrowed, but he simply pointed toward the cabin. “Out. And mind your tongue unless you desire further discipline.”

Marcus didn’t need telling twice. He slipped out of the bedroom, red-eared and chastened. Diana had moved to the couch, where the twins were watching Mickey Mouse. She gave Marcus a once-over, checking that he was alright. Marcus avoided her eyes, his pride too wounded to endure any well-meaning pity.

Diana cleared her throat gently. “All sorted?”
she asked, arching an eyebrow. In her arms, Garfield purred obliviously, perfectly content now that Diana had found a small packet of cat treats and appeased his hunger.

Marcus managed a weak shrug. He reached out to scratch Garfield’s little head. The kitten mewed happily, no worse for wear.

“Are you okay, buddy? Had a little snack?” Garfield blinked up at him with wide amber eyes and licked a crumb off his nose. At least someone was having a pleasant flight.

As he sat gingerly on the sofa, Marcus noticed Diana typing on her phone with one hand, the other still cradling Garfield. Her lips twitched in amusement at whatever reply she received.

“What’s up?” Marcus asked, curious despite himself.

Diana gave him a sidelong look, one corner of her mouth lifting. “Oh, I just thought I’d let Ysabeau know we have an extra passenger coming,” she said lightly.

Marcus groaned and slumped down in his seat, covering his face with one hand. “Oh God. Grand-mère is going to have a field day with this, isn’t she?”

To his surprise, Diana laughed under her breath. “Actually,” she said, “your grandmother’s response was not what I expected.”

“What do you mean?” Marcus peeked at Diana between his fingers.

Diana’s eyes sparkled with mirth. “When I texted her that Garfield was coming along after all, she replied—almost immediately, mind you—‘I figured as much. Already bought his things on Monday.’”

Before Marcus could offer a possible explanation, the bedroom door opened and Matthew emerged, looking composed once more. He had Marcus’s confiscated phone in one hand.

Marcus shifted nervously. He wasn’t sure if Matthew knew about the texts with Ysabeau or the extent of planning. Judging by Diana’s amused expression and her silence on the matter, she hadn’t yet shared Ysabeau’s foreknowledge with her husband. Marcus shot Diana a pleading look: please don’t bring it up now. Diana gave a tiny nod, as if to say she’d keep that card close to her chest for the moment.

Matthew’s attention was on Marcus’s phone screen. The device vibrated in his hand with a flurry of notifications. Matthew’s brow furrowed at the cascade of alerts.

“Good grief, how many people are messaging you?” he muttered.

Marcus suddenly had a very, very bad feeling about those notifications.

Sure enough, Matthew’s eyes zeroed in on one alert in particular. He tapped it, and his face darkened in confusion. “No Parents Allowed…?” he read the group name aloud slowly. His tone suggested he hoped he’d misunderstood. Diana looked up sharply at that, clearly just as perplexed.

“Diana, did you get a message just now in the family chat?”

Pulling out her own phone, Diana thumbed through it, then shook her head. “No, nothing. Why?”

Wordlessly, Matthew turned the phone to show her the screen. Over his shoulder, Marcus could see it too: a new message preview from No Parents Allowed. His heart sank into his shoes.

Diana’s eyebrows shot up. “No parents allowed?” she read, and then her lips twitched, fighting a smile. She coughed to hide a laugh. “I see.”

Matthew did not find it amusing. He fixed Marcus with a withering look. “Care to explain what this is?” he asked.

Marcus gave a weak, guilty grin. “Uh… a group chat?” he offered. His voice cracked slightly under Matthew’s unblinking stare. “It’s, um, sort of a planning committee?” He scratched the back of his head. “For surprises. You know, fun stuff. That might involve people who aren’t parents.”

“Uh-huh.” Matthew’s tone was pure skepticism. He tapped the message to open the chat, and Marcus held his breath. Over his father’s shoulder, he caught a glimpse of the most recent texts:

Ysabeau had written: “Cat tree assembled and waiting. Safe travels, my loves. 🐾”

Marcus cringed. This did not look good. Matthew silently scrolled up through earlier messages from yesterday and this morning—no doubt seeing Marcus’s own gleeful updates: “Operation Stowaway is a go”, “Got the papers in hand”, and Ysabeau’s encouragement: “Wonderful. Garfield shall have a royal welcome.”

Each line that Matthew read on that screen felt like another shovel of dirt on Marcus’s grave. By the time Matthew locked the phone and slid it into his pocket again, his expression had passed frustrated and gone straight to deeply unimpressed.

“So,” Matthew said coolly, “not only did you plan this in advance, you had help. A whole secret chat to coordinate how to circumvent my instructions.”

Marcus opened his mouth to defend himself, but Matthew held up a hand. “No. I don’t want to hear it right now. We’ll discuss this later, when we land.” He shot a meaningful glance at Diana, who looked like she was valiantly trying to keep a straight face. “Apparently everyone but us was in on this little scheme. I need a moment to decide what to do about that.”

He drew a slow breath, then addressed Marcus once more, voice softening just an inch. “For now, consider yourself on extremely thin ice, son. You’ll be under very close supervision for the foreseeable future. Understood?”

Marcus nodded mutely. “Yes, sir,” he murmured. He hadn’t meant to make it such a big deal; in his mind, it had been a harmless bending of rules to keep his beloved pet close. But seeing it from Matthew’s perspective, the lying, the conspiring, he realized he might have overstepped more than he intended.

Garfield chose that moment to leap from Diana’s arms onto Marcus’s lap, curling up as if sensing his owner’s distress. Marcus stroked the kitten absently, drawing comfort from the tiny warm ball of fur.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, unsure if he was apologizing to Matthew, or to everyone in general. “I just didn’t want to leave him behind.”

Matthew’s stern expression faltered, a flicker of empathy in his eyes as he regarded Marcus and the kitten. He sighed.

“We’ll talk about it later,” he repeated quietly. But he did reach out to scratch Garfield under the chin for a brief moment, eliciting a happy purr. The corners of Matthew’s mouth twitched upward despite himself.

“Brat,” he muttered. It was unclear whether he meant Marcus or the cat, maybe both. Then he stood and headed to the cockpit area.

Diana let out a breath she’d been holding. She sat down beside Marcus, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Well,” she said lightly, “that could have gone worse.”

“I really am sorry. I didn’t mean for it to turn into such a big deal.” Marcus ran a hand through his tousled blond curls and sighed.

“I know,” Diana said. She glanced toward the front of the plane where Matthew had gone. “He’ll cool down. He loves you, Marcus. He just doesn’t appreciate being deceived. None of us do.”

Marcus nodded. He resolved, not for the first time, to try to curb his more impulsive, rebellious tendencies or at least think them through better. Not that sneaking a yowling kitten onto a plane had been smart by any measure.

He chuckled softly, scratching Garfield behind the ears. “I guess I really didn’t think this one through.”

“No,” Diana agreed with a soft laugh, “you didn’t. But luckily, Garfield seems no worse for wear, and Ysabeau is thrilled. So it’ll all be alright after your father finishes glowering at everyone.”

The rest of the flight passed in relative quiet. Matthew eventually returned and took his seat, engrossed in a book and studiously ignoring any looks from Marcus or Diana. Marcus dozed for a while with Garfield curled up on his chest, the steady purring soothing his nerves. Diana busied herself with some notes for an upcoming conference that she was presenting at.

About an hour before they were due to land, the tension had calmed considerably. Matthew even relented enough to allow Garfield to explore the cabin under Diana’s watchful eye. The kitten tottered on unsteady paws along the aisle, sniffing everything. When Garfield attempted to climb up Matthew’s pant leg curiously, Matthew sighed and picked up the tiny stowaway, holding him up at eye level. Garfield meowed and batted at Matthew’s hair.

“You are trouble,” Matthew informed the orange furball gravely. Garfield answered by swiping a tiny tongue over Matthew’s nose. A reluctant chuckle escaped Matthew as he placed Garfield gently back in Marcus’s arms. Marcus hid a smile. If Garfield could charm Matthew, maybe he was forgiven.

That afternoon, as they pulled up the long drive to Sept-Tours, Marcus craned his neck to peer out the window. Despite the lingering dread of a continued lecture (or worse) from Matthew, Marcus felt a flutter of excitement. He hadn’t been back to Sept-Tours in months, and he missed his grandmother and Marthe terribly. And now he had Garfield to show them.

The car rolled to a stop in front of the château’s grand entrance. Even before the engine fully died, the massive front doors swung open and Ysabeau de Clermont swept out onto the front steps.

Diana was out of the car first, and Ysabeau moved to embrace her daughter-in-law with a kiss on each cheek. But her keen eyes were already searching behind Diana. Marcus stepped out next, carefully holding Garfield’s carrier.

“Grand-mère!” he called.

“Marcus,” Ysabeau greeted, gliding forward.

Marcus barely had time to set Garfield’s carrier down before Ysabeau enveloped him in a cool, loving embrace. He hugged her back fiercely.Ysabeau pulled back and held Marcus by the shoulders, examining him critically.

“Let me look at you. Hmm. Still in one piece, I see,” she said, eyes twinkling. Clearly, she was alluding to the trouble on the plane. Marcus flushed.

Behind them, Matthew joined Diana, and Marthe appeared in the doorway with a welcoming grin. “Welcome home, everyone,” Marthe called.

Matthew approached his mother and kissed her cheek. “Maman,” he greeted politely. His tone was measured, giving nothing away. If he was still irritated, he kept it under wraps out of respect for Ysabeau.

Ysabeau returned the cheek kiss then immediately turned back to Marcus with a sly smile. “Now, I believe you have someone I’m very eager to meet.” She tapped the side of the pet carrier knowingly.

Marcus brightened. “Yes! Grand-mère, meet Garfield.”

He knelt and unlatched the carrier door. Garfield, who had been quiet and curious since their car ride, stepped gingerly out onto the gravel drive. The kitten’s orange ears perked up at the new environment and people. He gave a tiny, chirping meow.

“Oh, bonjour, petit chat,” she crooned, reaching down elegantly to scoop the small kitten into her arms.

Garfield went willingly, immediately snuggling into the silk of her shawl. The ancient vampire matriarch laughed, a surprisingly girlish sound, as Garfield licked her chin. “What a precious little stowaway you are!”

Any lingering worry he had that Ysabeau might secretly have disapproved vanished. She was absolutely delighted as Garfield purred loudly in response. Marcus watched, grinning ear to ear.

Matthew, however, was another story. He had picked up their suitcases and headed inside. The moment he entered into the great hall, he stopped in his tracks. Marcus nearly collided with his back.

“What in the world…?” Matthew muttered.

Marcus peeked around his father and his eyes went wide. There, occupying a prominent spot near the grand staircase, was one of the most elaborate cat structures he’d ever seen. It stretched nearly to the ceiling: a towering multi-level cat tree in rich burgundy velvet and cream carpeting, complete with turrets that gave it the look of a cat-sized castle. There were ramps and scratching posts and dangling feather toys on nearly every level. It was, frankly, alarmingly large for a kitten as small as Garfield.

“What is the meaning of this?” Matthew demanded, shooting a look at Ysabeau, who was still cradling Garfield and now smiling rather innocently.

“Oh, that?” Ysabeau said lightly. “Just a little something I picked up for our newest family member. Garfield needs his own space, does he not?” She tickled the kitten’s belly, and Garfield stretched happily.

“His own space? That monstrosity is half the size of my tower!”

“It’s incredible,” Marcus breathed in awe, stepping closer to the cat tree. He could already imagine Garfield scaling the cushioned ramps or lounging like a king in one of those turret perches.

Matthew set down the luggage with a thud. He ran a hand over his face. “Maman,” he sighed. “I can’t even bring Hector and Fallon inside, and they are well-bred and trained!” Matthew gestured vaguely, referring to his beloved dogs that usually stayed in the kennel outside. “Unlike Garfield, whose only talents so far seem to be property destruction and an impressive volume,” he added, recalling Garfield’s yowling.

“Your dogs don’t belong in my house, Matthew. They have the run of the stables and grounds, which is more than enough.” She smiled serenely with a dismissive wave of her hand, before reaching over to scratch Garfield behind the ears. “But Marcus’s cat does, obviously.”

Matthew scoffed, exchanging a look of disbelief with Diana. Diana just pressed her lips together, clearly fighting not to laugh. Marcus couldn’t hold back a broad grin. He stepped up to the cat castle and gingerly lifted Garfield out of Ysabeau’s arms.

“Come on, little guy. Time to claim your throne.”

Garfield climbed onto Marcus’s shoulder, then, with a confident leap, he landed on the nearest platform of the cat tree. In a flash of orange, the kitten scaled up one carpeted ramp and popped his head out of a turret window near the top. He looked quite pleased with himself surveying the grand hall from his lofty new domain.

“Look at you, buddy! King of the castle.”

Marcus reached up and patted the kitten, who batted at his hand playfully before disappearing into one of the cubbyholes.

“It seems he approves,” Ysabeau said with an indulgent smile.

Marcus hopped down from the base of the cat tree and embraced Ysabeau again. “Thank you Grand-mère. I missed you,” he murmured.

“And I you,” Ysabeau said warmly. She then held him at arm’s length and gave him a once-over. “You’re too small right now,” she tutted, ever the concerned grandmother. Marcus nearly laughed. “Come, let’s get you to the kitchen so you can figure out what kind of cake you want. Marthe has been busy baking, and you have many options to sort through.”

Marcus’s eyes lit up. Cake? Suddenly he remembered his rebirth day was coming up—the anniversary of the day Matthew had made him a vampire and officially brought him into the de Clermont family. It wasn’t a day he usually marked with any fanfare; in fact, he typically let it pass without mention. But apparently Ysabeau had other ideas.

“Grand-mère,” Marcus began, “you didn’t have to—”

“Hush now,” Ysabeau chided gently, steering him by the shoulder toward the kitchen corridor. “It’s not every day my grandboy has a birthday he can enjoy cake, is it?”“

“He just had a birthday with Diana two months ago,” Matthew interjected drily, following behind the pair.

Ysabeau glanced over her shoulder at her son with a frown. “That was his human birthday. This is his de Clermont birthday, which is an occasion that is to be as grand as required.” She punctuated the declaration with a regal nod, effectively ending the argument. Matthew closed his mouth, defeated, and Diana shot him a sympathetic smile.

Marcus felt a swell of warmth in his chest. Human birthday or vampire birthday, it didn’t matter. Ysabeau simply wanted to celebrate him, and the distinction touched him deeply. Besides, if cake was involved, who was he to complain?

He walked with Ysabeau through familiar stone hallways toward the kitchen, Marthe and Diana trailing behind and Matthew bringing up the rear, grumbling something under his breath about “overindulgence” that everyone cheerfully ignored. Matthew announced he was going to empty Ysabeau’s car from her kitten supply shopping adventure. As they drew nearer, Marcus picked up the most heavenly medley of scents: sugar, butter, chocolate, fruit, spices. His mouth watered. Could all that be cake?

They rounded the corner into the grand kitchen and Marcus stopped short, eyes going wide. The sprawling oak table at the center, along with nearly every available countertop, was covered with cakes. Dozens of them, in every shape and size.

There were towering layer cakes, simple sheet cakes, cupcakes arranged in neat rows, bundt cakes drizzled with glaze, and delicate tarts adorned with glossy fruit. It was as if Willy Wonka had teamed up with a Parisian pâtisserie and decided to throw a dessert carnival right here at Sept-Tours.

“Did I die and end up in Willy Wonka Heaven?” Marcus exclaimed, a huge, dimpled smile on his face.

Marthe, who stood proudly by the table wielding an icing spatula, clapped her hands and laughed. “Always such a charmer, that one!” she said, eyes twinkling at Marcus’s delighted reaction.

Marthe adored Marcus like her own, and the spread before them clearly had been a labor of love. She had even donned her frilled apron, the one she used for serious baking endeavors.

“We might have gone a touch overboard,” Ysabeau admitted, as she patted Marcus’s back affectionately, though she didn’t sound one bit sorry.

“A touch? This rivals the dessert table at Versailles,” Diana remarked, stepping carefully around a small tower of cream puffs.

When Matthew arrived a few minutes later, carrying an armful of kitten supplies, and saw the kitchen scene, he looked outright aghast. Marcus, in the center of a sweet-toothed paradise, was being offered a fork by Marthe to sample yet another slice of cake. Empty plates and crumbs in front of him proved he’d already been taste-testing several flavors.

Matthew set the supplies down and stared as if he’d stumbled into a royal banquet from the 18th century. Indeed, the sheer decadence could have rivalled the feasts of Marie Antoinette. He pinched the bridge of his nose. He really shouldn’t have been surprised. His parents had always loved their extravagant gestures. They had happily meddled in the affairs of French nobility back in the day, hosting lavish parties at Sept-Tours and in Paris. At least until Marcus and his revolutionary friends decided to burn the whole country to the ground.

Catching his father’s stunned expression, Marcus shot him a guilty, chocolate-smeared smile. He was mid-bite on a slice of Black Forest cake.

“You’re spoiling your dinner,” Matthew managed to say, grasping at the most paternal reprimand available. It was an admittedly weak protest, given the circumstances.

“Dinner is hours away,” Marcus reasoned cheekily as he licked a dollop of whipped cream from his fork, “and besides—” he adopted a playful, dramatic tone as he quoted one of the movies he and Diana had watched recently, “In this house, we have chocolate cake for breakfast.”

Diana let out a chuckle, recognizing the line from Practical Magic. Marthe beamed proudly at Marcus’s obvious enjoyment of her baking. Ysabeau simply shook her head with amused fondness.

Matthew, however, was not as amused. He narrowed his eyes at Marcus, though the effect was somewhat undermined by a twitch at the corner of his mouth—– whether a repressed smile or a tic of irritation, it was hard to tell.

“This is the only warning I’ll give you,” he said quietly, arching a dark eyebrow. “Mind your tone and your cheek, young man.”

Ducking his head quickly, Marcus tried to look appropriately chastened, but the sparkle in his blue eyes remained.

“Yes, sir,” he said, hiding a grin.

He knew he was on thin ice, but it was worth it to see a spark of the old Matthew—the father who could be stern but whose eyes betrayed a begrudging love even as he scolded.

Satisfied that his point was made, Matthew sighed and moved to stand beside Diana, who offered him a consolatory bite of her lemon tart. He accepted it with a grumble that the kitchen was going to be “utter chaos” by the end of the night. Diana merely patted his arm, her smile bright with humor.

“But, mon petit, which one did you like best?” Marthe asked, drawing Marcus’s attention back to the critical task at hand: choosing the cake. She leaned eagerly on the table, scanning the dozen plates Marcus had sampled.

Marcus tapped his fork against his lips thoughtfully. He had been presented with so many amazing options: a classic chocolate ganache torte, a spiced carrot cake with cream cheese frosting, an elegant tarte Tatin, even a lavender-infused honey cake that Diana insisted he try. But one cake had truly won his heart (and taste buds).

“I think the almond cake with cream cheese icing,” Marcus declared at last, pointing to the remains of a particularly moist, fragrant slice that had been garnished with slivered almonds. It was simple yet perfect. “Oh, and can it be blue?” he added, thinking of how festive a brightly colored cake would look. Blue was one of his favorite colors, after all.

“But of course it can be blue, child! What a silly question,” Marthe chided with a dramatic roll of her eyes, making Marcus chuckle. “Blue almond cake with cream cheese icing. Consider it done.” Marthe was already mentally planning, her gaze going distant as she envisioned decorations. Knowing her, she would craft elaborate blue sugar flowers or maybe a realistic sugar replica of a certain orange kitten to top it off.

“Perhaps with midnight blue stars, to match the sky on the night my grandson joined our family,” Ysabeau suggested, giving Marcus’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze. Marcus felt a lump in his throat at her words; Ysabeau rarely waxed sentimental, but when she did, it hit him right in the heart.

“That sounds perfect,” Diana agreed softly from across the room, raising her glass of champagne in a little toast to Marcus. He returned her smile, gratitude in his eyes.

Marthe clapped her hands, businesslike. “Alors, I need to start working on this masterpiece if it’s to be ready by the party,” she announced.

Clearly, she was already in party-planning mode. Marcus suddenly had a vision of Sept-Tours decked out in decorations, family friends arriving from all over. If Ysabeau had her way, this would indeed be a celebration for the ages.

Marcus helped Marthe cover and set aside the remaining cake samples, though not without sneaking one more bite of that almond cake for confirmation purposes, of course. Garfield had at some point wandered into the kitchen, drawn by the buttery smells, and was now winding around Ysabeau’s ankles. The kitten let out an insistent meow, perhaps wondering if he could have cake too.

“Non, mon petit chat, cake is for us,” Ysabeau cooed, bending to scoop him up. Garfield responded by pawing at one of Ysabeau’s pearl earrings, making her laugh. “You, however, will get a special treat of your own. Marthe saved a bit of cream just for you.”

At this pronouncement, Marthe produced a little saucer of cream and set it on the floor. Ysabeau placed Garfield down beside it. The kitten needed no further invitation—he lapped at the treat with gusto.

Matthew watched the kitten being spoiled with an indulgent eye-roll, but Marcus noticed his father finally relent and lean against the counter with a tired smile playing at his lips. The chaos was winding down into a cozy scene: family gathered in a warm kitchen, laughter and the scent of baked goods in the air, and even a content kitten lapping cream by the hearth. Marcus slipped over to Matthew’s side, feeling the need to close the distance that had opened between them on the plane.

“Sorry for the trip not starting out as planned planned,” he said quietly, offering a peace-making smile.

Matthew glanced at him, then around at the bustling kitchen. Marthe was pulling the ingredients for frosting, Diana and Ysabeau were chatting excitedly about party plans, Garfield was purring at their feet. Finally, Matthew shook his head in resignation and put an arm around Marcus’s shoulders, pulling him into a brief one-armed hug.

“When does anything with our family ever go according to plan?” he murmured ruefully.

“True,” Marcus conceded softly, leaning into his father’s side. “But it usually turns out alright in the end.”

“Just promise me no more surprise stowaways for a while,” he said, arching an eyebrow. Matthew gave Marcus a gentle squeeze before releasing him.

Marcus grinned, holding up three fingers in a scout’s honor salute. “No more surprise stowaways. I swear.”

From across the room, Ysabeau called, “Marcus, darling, come taste this icing and tell me if it’s to your liking.” She was clearly enjoying every bit of this celebration prep. Marcus shot Matthew a quick look, seeking permission, and his father chuckled and waved him off.

“Go on, birthday boy,” Matthew said, finally smiling fully. “Enjoy it.”

As Marcus bounded over to Ysabeau and Marthe and the bowl of cream cheese icing tinted a lovely shade of blue, Diana slipped under Matthew’s other arm, leaning her head against his shoulder as they watched the happy scene. Matthew sighed, but it was a contented sound. Yes, things hadn’t gone according to plan—they had turned out better. This was a family brought even closer by one mischievous kitten and a whole lot of love.

Chapter Text

Baldwin strode into Marcus’s room without so much as a knock, tossing a bundle of clothes onto the foot of the bed.

“Wake up, nephew,” he said, poking at Marcus’s blanketed form. His voice was brisk with impatience. “We have things to do today.”

Marcus groaned and rubbed his eyes, but he had learned early in this second life not to question his elders—at least not directly. One look at Baldwin’s no-nonsense expression convinced him to obey without protest. He pushed back the covers and got up, shivering slightly in the cool dawn air that seeped through the stone walls.

He eyed the outfit Baldwin had dumped on the bed: a tweed jacket with elbow patches, matching knickerbockers, and even a flat cap. Marcus wrinkled his nose as he pulled the clothes on. The tweed felt scratchy, and he felt utterly ridiculous dressed like a miniature country squire.

Without further explanation, Baldwin turned on his heel and headed out. Marcus hastily laced up the sturdy boots that came with the outfit and trailed after his uncle. Baldwin marched wordlessly, and Marcus followed in silence, still buttoning his jacket as they traversed a long passageway that led out a side door.

Outside, the autumn morning was cool and misty. The sky was just beginning to pale with approaching sunrise. Marcus took a deep breath of the crisp air, catching scents of wet leaves, earth, and distant woodsmoke from the village.

Baldwin cut across the lawn at a brisk pace. Marcus jogged a few steps to catch up as they approached a stone outbuilding nestled near the edge of the formal gardens—the armory. Marcus hovered in the doorway as Baldwin stepped inside and began gathering what they’d need: two rifles, a case of cartridges, and a leather game bag.

“What are we doing, exactly?” Marcus finally ventured to ask, keeping his tone polite. He was intensely curious now, despite the earliness of the hour. Baldwin wasn’t the type for casual morning strolls.

“There’s an overpopulation of wild ducks down by the river. Your grandmother has been complaining about them non-stop since I arrived,” he explained matter-of-factly, handing one of rifles to Marcus. He checked the safety on his own rifle and gave his nephew a sideways glance. “Let’s see if your shooting skills survived” A hint of challenge laced his words.

Marcus’s face broke into a grin. He felt a spark of excitement kindle in his chest at the prospect of hunting. He checked the rifle Baldwin had given him, testing its weight. It was a beautiful piece, likely antique but well-maintained, with a polished walnut stock that fit snugly against his shoulder.

“By the time I was this age the first time around, I was primarily responsible for making sure my family was fed,” Marcus said, sliding a few cartridges into his pocket.

In his human youth, hunting had been a necessity, not sport. He had stalked deer and rabbits in the Massachusetts woods to keep his mother and sister from starving. Baldwin merely grunted in response, neither acknowledging nor dismissing Marcus’s comment. Instead, he slung the game bag over his shoulder and started off toward the woods. Marcus followed, heart thumping a little faster with anticipation.

Dawn was spreading pale gold light over the rolling hills of the Auvergne, and a low ground mist clung to the fields. They reached the edge of a reedy marsh by the river just as the sun crested the horizon. Marcus could hear the distant quacks and rustlings of waterfowl hidden among the cattails.

Baldwin nodded toward the sound and motioned for Marcus to take the lead. Marcus crept forward quietly, keeping low and moving as he’d been taught long ago, careful to step where the ground was solid. Through a gap in the reeds he saw a flock of mallard ducks milling in the shallow water, their emerald heads and russet breast feathers catching the new sunlight.

There were dozens of ducks, far more than the habitat could comfortably support, as Ysabeau had observed. Marcus understood why she was annoyed. The ducks likely were devouring the water plants in her pond and creating constant noise. He glanced back at Baldwin for confirmation. His uncle nodded once, silently granting permission.

Marcus raised the rifle to his shoulder, feeling a calm focus settle over him. In that moment, he wasn’t a magically deaged teenager, he was a seasoned hunter providing for his family. He took aim at a drake swimming at the edge of the flock. In a smooth motion, he squeezed the trigger. The crack of the rifle shot shattered the quiet. The drake flapped once and fell still. Ducks erupted into the air in alarm. Marcus wasted no time before he fired again and brought down another duck mid-flight. A third shot, and a third duck plummeted, kicking up a splash of water.

Beside him, Baldwin took down one of the stragglers with his own rifle. In a matter of moments, the rest of the flock had scattered, quacking indignantly as they fled downriver. The echoes of gunfire rolled across the hills and then faded, leaving silence but for the gentle lapping of water and the pounding of Marcus’s heart in his ears.

A surge of triumphant glee shot through Marcus. He turned to Baldwin, his eyes alight. “That’s three I’ve taken down to your one, Uncle,” he said with a boyish laugh.

“Beginner’s luck,” Baldwin replied dryly, though the hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He clapped Marcus on the shoulder. “Not bad, Marcus. Not bad at all.”

That was high praise coming from Baldwin. Marcus beamed, feeling proud and more than a little relieved—apparently his skills had survived the upheaval of being reduced to a teenager again.

Together they waded out into the marsh to collect the birds. Marcus’s boots squelched in mud and cold water seeped around his ankles, but he hardly cared. He retrieved two handsome mallards and placed them in the leather game bag Baldwin carried, while Baldwin fetched the other two.

The pair turned back toward the castle, moving at a leisurely pace now. Marcus was elated from the successful hunt and the rare opportunity to bond with Baldwin. It wasn’t often his gruff uncle spent time alone with him like this.

Matthew had just finished his own early morning hunt on the far side of the estate. Deep in the woods, not far from the old vineyard, he knelt over a large red deer he had brought down to feed on. That was when he heard distant gunfire echoing over the hills.

He straightened up, listening carefully. Gunshots were not completely unheard of in the area. Ysabeau occasionally permitted the villagers to hunt on the estate’s grounds. This morning, he assumed it was more of the same. Matthew tossed aside the now-drained deer carcass, prepared to dismiss the noise and move on.

But then a sound followed that made Matthew go rigid in an instant: a distant shout of laughter, high and clear. Marcus. Even across several fields and stands of trees, Matthew’s acute vampire hearing recognized his son’s voice. “That’s three I’ve taken down to your one, Uncle!” the words rang out faintly.

Matthew’s blood turned to ice. For a split second, he stood rooted to the spot, uncertain he’d heard correctly. But there was no doubt. Marcus was out there somewhere, bragging about shooting with Baldwin. An overwhelming surge of panic and anger flooded Matthew’s chest. Without conscious thought, he sprang into motion.

In the blink of an eye, Matthew crossed the distance to the marshy riverside where Baldwin and Marcus were walking back toward the house. He appeared in front of them in a blur of movement, his dark form practically materializing among the trees.

Marcus, caught up in the glow of accomplishment, nearly bumped into Matthew before skidding to a halt. His eyes went wide; he hadn’t expected his father to show up so suddenly. Matthew’s expression was thunderous. Marcus instinctively took a step back, bracing himself for Matthew’s wrath. But to Marcus’s surprise, Matthew’s furious gaze was not directed at him. It was fixed entirely on Baldwin.

“What,” Matthew snarled through clenched teeth, “is the meaning of this?”

Baldwin met his younger brother’s glare with a calm, almost bored look. He carefully set down the game bag full of ducks and leaned his own rifle against a nearby oak trunk.

“Sport,” Baldwin answered flatly. “Or in the case of some family members, dinner.” He gestured to the bulging game bag, making it clear that this morning’s activity had been as practical as it was recreational.

“You took him shooting without asking me? He’s a child, Baldwin!” Matthew’s voice was low and dangerous, every syllable clipped. Marcus winced at the barely restrained fury there.

Baldwin rolled his eyes and began unloading his rifle calmly as if Matthew were merely commenting on the weather.

“He’s hardly a child. The boy remembers how to handle a gun, and quite well from what I’ve seen.” Baldwin’s tone was mild, but there was an undercurrent of irritation at being challenged. “Ysabeau wanted those ducks culled. I saw an opportunity to put Marcus’s skills to use.”

“This isn’t funny,” Matthew growled. “What if something happened to him out here? Have you thought of that?” He jabbed a finger in Marcus’s direction, not taking his blazing eyes off Baldwin.

Marcus stood very still, clutching his rifle across his chest. He felt a twist of guilt in his stomach. Physically, he was smaller, weaker, human. Matthew’s protective fury reminded him painfully of that fact.

“And what, exactly, do you suppose I would let happen to him?” Baldwin retorted with a dismissive snort, folding his arms over his chest. “Give me some credit, brother. I’ve been hunting for centuries. Marcus was perfectly safe under my watch.”

“Any number of things could have gone wrong,” Matthew snapped. His temper, already frayed, was unraveling further. “He’s small—”

“He’s nearly back to his full height,” Baldwin interjected sharply, unwilling to concede Marcus’s perceived fragility. Baldwin stepped forward, almost toe-to-toe with Matthew. “And he’s hardly some porcelain doll, Matthew. He was an excellent shot years before you even met him. Or have you forgotten the skills he learned as a human? Marcus hasn’t.”

Matthew’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “He is my son, Baldwin. My word should be law enough on matters concerning his welfare.” Each word dripped with possessive authority.

Baldwin’s own temper flickered at Matthew’s domineering tone. He drew himself up, eyes glittering dangerously. “You can’t keep the boy wrapped in cotton wool. He needed fresh air and a bit of freedom. I won’t apologize for giving him that.” He gestured toward Marcus, who looked down at his muddy boots and remained silent. “Marcus is a de Clermont. We don’t cower and coddle our young like they’re made of glass.”

Matthew took a deep breath, fighting for control. The last thing he wanted was a physical confrontation with Baldwin, especially not in front of Marcus. He forced his hands to unclench.

“You will consult me next time,” he said in a deadly quiet voice. “Do you understand?”

For a long moment, the brothers stared each other down in tense silence. The air between them practically crackled with electricity. Finally, Baldwin inclined his head ever so slightly.

“As you wish,” he replied, voice dripping with a mixture of sarcasm and resignation. “Next time I’ll be sure to ask your permission before allowing your son to enjoy himself.” He bent to pick up the game bag and thrust it at Marcus perhaps a bit more brusquely than necessary. “Marcus, take those ducks up to Marthe.”

Marcus didn’t need to be told twice. Relieved to escape the brewing battle, he slid his rifle off his shoulder and handed it to Baldwin, then accepted the heavy bag of birds. He could feel the tension radiating from Matthew and Baldwin’s simmering annoyance. The two brothers were like flint and steel—on the verge of sparking an all-out blaze. Marcus had no desire to be caught in it.

“Yes, Uncle,” he mumbled, and quickly headed off across the lawn toward the side of the château where the kitchen entrance was, leaving Matthew and Baldwin glaring at each other in the woods.

As Marcus hurried away, Matthew stepped even closer to Baldwin, lowering his voice to a harsh whisper that Marcus’s retreating form wouldn’t catch. “He’s vulnerable right now, Baldwin,” Matthew insisted. His tone wasn’t as loud, but it was intense, quivering with concern. “If something happened—if he got hurt—”

“And I told you, I would never let that happen,” Baldwin interrupted, matching Matthew’s quiet intensity. “He was under my protection every moment. You think I’d let a single hair on his head come to harm on my watch?”

“You didn’t even tell me you were taking him out. Then I heard gunshots. You can’t imagine what went through my mind.” Matthew’s voice cracked just slightly at the last admission, betraying the depth of his fear.

At that, Baldwin’s rigid posture softened a fraction. He studied Matthew’s face. His brother’s expression was a mix of anger and genuine terror at the thought of Marcus in danger. Baldwin sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“He is safe, Matthew. Look.” He nodded toward Marcus’s distant figure, who was already halfway to the house, lugging the bag of ducks. “The boy is fine. Better than fine—he was happy. You should have seen him out there.” Baldwin allowed himself a small, fond smile at the memory of Marcus’s marksmanship and that exuberant grin.

Matthew followed Baldwin’s gaze to Marcus, watching his son disappear around the corner of the château. The adrenaline of panic was receding, leaving exhaustion and frustration in its wake.

“That’s not the point,” Matthew muttered, though his tone had lost some of its edge. He knew Baldwin was right in one respect: Marcus had looked happy, flush with pride and excitement. Still, Matthew’s protective instincts warred with that knowledge.

“I just… I don’t want to lose him,” he admitted quietly.

Baldwin’s expression gentled, an understanding flicker in his light brown eyes. For all their differences, the brothers shared a fierce love for family. Baldwin clapped a hand on Matthew’s shoulder.

“You won’t,” he said firmly. “Not on my watch and certainly not on yours. Marcus is tougher than you think. Remember, he survived plenty before he ever became your son.”

Baldwin gave Matthew a reassuring squeeze, then released him. In Baldwin’s gruff way, that was an olive branch. Matthew took a slow breath and nodded, some of the tension easing from his stance.

“Just…next time, please tell me,” he said, an olive branch of his own in the form of a polite please. “I deserve to know what’s happening with my son.”

“Fair enough,” Baldwin replied. He bent to retrieve the remaining rifles and gear. “Now, if you’re done chastising me, little brother, I’ll get these guns cleaned and get myself changed before Marthe has my hide for tracking mud through her kitchen.”

He gave Matthew a last pointed look, as if daring him to continue the argument. When Matthew stayed silent, Baldwin headed back toward the armory, leaving Matthew alone at the edge of the woods, the echoes of their confrontation lingering in the quiet morning air.

Two days after Marcus’s impromptu duck hunt with Baldwin, Marcus’s latest aging was scheduled to take place. The process that would help undo Philip’s spell had everyone on edge as always, but no one more than Matthew.

Marcus sat in the spacious bedchamber halfway up Matthew’s tower that had been designated as his room for the last 250 years. The walls were thick stone hung with tapestries of faded wine-red and gold. A fire crackled low in the hearth, taking the chill out of the autumn night. Marcus was propped up against a mound of pillows on the grand four-poster bed.

The antique bed dwarfed Marcus’s adolescent frame, making him look younger than his currently fourteen years. He wore one of Matthew’s old nightshirts, the white linen far too large in the shoulders and long in the sleeves. Only his head and a mop of curly blond hair poked out from the top, and his slim legs from the bottom.

Each magical acceleration of his age came with a mix of hope and anxiety. Hope, because it inched him toward reclaiming his adult self. Anxiety, because the process was not without its side effects. The previous aging spells had left him wracked by nightmares as his mind struggled to reconcile the rush of returning memories and hormones to his changing body.

Tonight, however, Marcus felt more prepared. He had spent the day in good spirits—helping Marthe in the garden, playing chess with his father, and going on a long afternoon ride with Diana and the twins. He was pleasantly tired, his belly full of Marthe’s hearty beef stew from dinner, and his mind at ease. In short, he was ready.

Ysabeau sat beside him, perched gracefully in an upholstered armchair she had pulled close to the bed. In the lamp light, her exquisite face was serene, but Marcus could see the concern in her green eyes. Earlier that evening, Ysabeau had firmly insisted on staying with Marcus through the night’s transformation “in case anything happens,” as she put it. Matthew, initially reluctant to leave his son’s side, had finally agreed after Ysabeau fixed him with one of her imperious mother-knows-best stares.

So now it was just grandmother and grandson in the quiet tower room. To keep Marcus’s mind off his nerves, Ysabeau regaled him with tales from the family history.

A knock at the door interrupted their lively discussion. It was Diana, looking weary but determined.

“Is he asleep yet?” she whispered as she slipped into the room.

Ysabeau glanced at Marcus, who was still very much awake and alert. “Not yet. We were just chatting,” she answered. She reached out and smoothed a lock of hair back from Marcus’s forehead in a soothing, maternal gesture. “Perhaps we should let him settle now.”

Marcus knew that was his cue. He dutifully slid down under the covers and closed his eyes. “Goodnight, Grand-mère,” he murmured.

“Goodnight, my darling boy,” Ysabeau said. She pressed a cool kiss to his brow. “I’ll be right outside.”

With that, she stood and nodded to Diana. Together, the two women left the room, leaving the door slightly ajar and the lights dim. Marcus focused on keeping his breathing even, letting his eyelids fall heavily. Within moments he was asleep.

After completing the spell to incrementally restore Marcus’s time thread, Diana studied her stepson’s sleeping face for any sign of distress. Marcus’s features had shifted ever so subtly: the angles of his face slightly more defined, the childish roundness further receding. He even looked a touch taller, though it was hard to tell with him lying down.

She quietly exited the room, leaving the door ajar, and motioned to Ysabeau who was waiting just down the hall. “It’s done,” Diana said softly. “He’s sleeping soundly. I’ll be back to check on him in a couple of hours.” Her own eyes were heavy with weariness; performing such intricate spellwork took a toll.

“Thank you, my dear.” Ysabeau touched Diana’s arm gratefully. The matriarch then slipped into Marcus’s room to take up her vigil.

It was past midnight now, and the château was silent around them. Ysabeau pulled the armchair closer to Marcus’s bedside and sat down, ready to watch over him for as long as needed. Before Diana left to find her own brief rest, Matthew appeared at the end of the corridor. He had been lurking anxiously out of sight during the spell, unwilling to stray too far.

“How is he?” Matthew asked in a hushed voice, striding over. He peered into the dim room at his sleeping son.

“Sleeping peacefully for now,” Diana replied. “Ysabeau is with him. The spell went as planned.” She gave Matthew’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “Try not to worry. I’ll join you in a bit. I just need to rest a bit first.”

Matthew nodded, though his eyes remained on Marcus’s still form. Diana left husband and mother standing guard and headed downstairs for a breath of night air to shake off the lingering adrenaline of magic.

Ysabeau glanced up as her son stepped into the doorway of Marcus’s room and gave a slight smile. “He’s resting. Come in, but quietly,” she whispered.

In the low firelight, Matthew could make out Marcus’s face. There was a noticeable change. It stole Matthew’s breath for a moment. Every time Diana performed this magic, Marcus’s appearance leapt closer to the one Matthew remembered. It was like watching time-lapse photography of a flower blooming—astonishing and a bit unsettling.

“He looks older again,” Matthew said softly, more to himself than to Ysabeau.

Ysabeau paused, studying Matthew’s face instead of Marcus’s. Her keen eyes didn’t miss the strain in her son’s expression—the tight set of his mouth, the worry creasing his brow. “And how are you doing with all this, Matthew?”

Matthew tore his gaze from Marcus and managed a faint smile. “I’m fine, Maman.”

“You always were a terrible liar,” she chided gently. “A parent can always tell when their child is troubled. Now, your little boy is literally a little boy again. How are you holding up, truly?”

Matthew let out a sigh, raking a hand through his hair. She read him too well. There was no more use in him trying to hide his feelings from Ysabeau than there was in Marcus trying to hide his from Matthew.

“It’s been…difficult,” he admitted in a hushed tone. He glanced toward Marcus, ensuring he was still asleep. “He’s far more delicate than I’ve ever known him to be, but under all that, he is still Marcus. Still infuriating, sassy, willful—without the survival instincts God gave a turnip.”

Matthew shook his head, a mix of frustration and affection in his voice. “He drives me mad one minute and makes me proud the next. But seeing him like this—” Matthew’s voice caught slightly, and he swallowed. “I’ve never been so terrified. He’s vulnerable, and I can’t do anything to fix it. I just have to trust magic and time.”

“I know, my son. Watching one’s child suffer, even if it’s temporary, is one of the hardest trials there is.” Ysabeau’s expression softened with empathy. She reached out and squeezed Matthew’s arm.

Drawing a deep breath, Matthew continued quietly, “At the same time, I’ll admit there are moments of joy in this mess.” A reluctant smile curved his lips as he thought of it. “He is thriving in his role as a big brother again. You should see him with Rebecca and Philip—he’s so patient and protective of them. And they adore having an older brother who’s closer to them in age. I try not to imagine the mischief they’ll all get into in a few years when Marcus is back to himself.” He huffed a soft laugh. “I have a feeling we’ll have our hands full.”

“It’s hard when siblings are fighting, but so much harder when they work together to cause chaos.”

Her eyes sparkled with her own memories of raising children through the centuries. “You, of all people, should know plenty about the mischief brothers and sisters can get into when their parents aren’t looking.” She gave Matthew a pointed look.

Matthew actually blushed, a rare sight, and returned a sheepish grin. “I suppose I do. Baldwin, Hugh, and I certainly gave you and Father enough trouble.”

“Oh, more than enough,” Ysabeau sighed theatrically, though a smile tugged at her lips. “The three of you were thick as thieves when you wanted to be, even if you and Baldwin were at each other’s throats more often than not. I still recall the time you snuck a goat into the cellar to prank Pierre…” She shook her head at the memory. “It’s a wonder any of us survived your antics.”

“In our defense, Baldwin dared me to do that.”

“As I recall, Philippe dared you—and Baldwin was simply foolish enough to encourage it,” Ysabeau corrected, laughing under her breath.

At the mention of Philippe, Matthew’s expression grew wistful. “If only Father were here now, he’d know exactly how to handle all this.”

“He would be exceedingly proud of you, Matthew. Of how you’re taking care of your son and your whole family.” She gave him a reassuring nod. “And who knows, perhaps he is watching over us even now.”

Matthew smiled faintly at the thought and squeezed her hand. “Thank you, Maman.”

“Go on now,” Ysabeau urged gently. “You need to feed—you’ve been so worried you haven’t been eating.” She could tell from the tightness around his eyes that hunger was gnawing at him. “I’ll keep him safe. Go.”

Matthew hesitated, eyes lingering on Marcus’s sleeping face. Then he conceded with a nod. “I won’t go far. I’ll hunt something quickly nearby.” He bent and pressed a kiss to Marcus’s forehead, brushing a damp curl aside. Marcus stirred slightly but did not wake, sighing as he snuggled deeper into the blankets.

The castle was still as Ysabeau watched Matthew depart, save for the faint crackle from the fire’s embers. Moonlight filtered in through the sliver of open drapery, casting a silver beam across the floor. Marcus slept on, his chest rising and falling evenly. Ysabeau kept her keen eyes on him, humming a very old French lullaby under her breath.

For the first hour, all was quiet. Then, as the spell’s effects wound their way through Marcus’s mind, his peaceful expression began to crumble. His brows drew together, and a tremor passed over him. Sweat broke out on his skin. Nightmares, Matthew had warned. Memories from his long life, normally neatly compartmentalized by centuries of vampire existence, were no doubt drifting through his subconscious, especially the buried traumas of his human youth and early vampire years.

Marcus’s breathing hitched, and a soft whimper escaped his lips. His head moved side to side on the pillow, as if trying to escape some unseen horror in his dreams. Ysabeau reacted at once. She rose and perched on the edge of the bed, laying a cool hand on Marcus’s forehead.

“Shhh, mon petit,” she whispered soothingly. With her other hand, she began to stroke his hair, untangling the damp curls with her fingers. When that did not immediately calm him, Ysabeau did what she used to do for her own children many centuries ago. She sang.

Ysabeau softly crooned an Occitan lullaby that had been passed down through the de Clermont family. The melody flowed like gentle water in the silence of the room. Marcus’s tense form gradually relaxed at the sound. The creases in his brow smoothed and his restless tossing stilled. His subconscious recognized the music. Ysabeau had sung this same lullaby to him once, long ago. The memory of that comfort seemed to reach him even now. By the time Ysabeau finished the song, Marcus had slipped back into a deep, calm sleep, the nightmare banished.

A short while later, Matthew returned from feeding. He entered the room quietly, not wanting to disturb either his mother or his son. He found Ysabeau still sitting on the bed beside Marcus, gently holding his hand while she watched him sleep. At Matthew’s approach, she looked up and smiled.

“How is he?” Matthew asked softly.

“Better now,” Ysabeau replied in a whisper. “He grew a bit fussy for a few minutes, but it passed. He’s been silent for the last couple of hours.” She rose from the bed, satisfied that Marcus was truly at peace for the moment.

Matthew noticed how Marcus’s hand clung to Ysabeau’s even in sleep, and his heart swelled with gratitude for his mother. Ysabeau bent down and planted a gentle kiss on Marcus’s temple.

“Sleep well, my dear,” she whispered. She then squeezed Matthew’s hand in farewell and swept out of the room, leaving father and son in quiet solitude

Chapter Text

Marcus lay in bed staring at the ceiling of his bedroom. It had been hours since he’d been sent to bed—far earlier than he would have liked. He was annoyed that even now he was still subject to Matthew’s strict bedtime. Determined not to sleep out of sheer principle, he had spent the evening tossing under the heavy duvet, thinking midnight might never come. Eventually, though, fatigue crept in and Marcus drifted off.

Sometime after two in the morning, Marcus woke with a start. He groggily shuffled to the bathroom adjoining his room. The castle was silent at this hour, the stone floors cool under his bare feet. He was padding back toward his bed when a phosphorescent smudge in the corner of his room caught his eye. It was emanating from the high-backed armchair by the window. Marcus froze. The chair was occupied.

Marcus turned his head, squinting toward the source of light. There, in the old upholstered armchair by the window, sat the transparent figure of a man, illuminated by a soft, otherworldly luminescence. Marcus’s heart skipped a beat. A ghostly face regarded him calmly, eyes twinkling with a familiar mix of authority and humor.

Marcus’s mouth fell open. The ghost of Philippe de Clermont was staring back at him. He still looked the same as Marcus remembered him, with his broad shoulders and devilish grin.

Before he could stop himself, Marcus blurted out in alarm, “What the fuck?!” and stumbled back against the bedpost.

Immediately his father’s muffled voice came from the other side of the thick oak door.

“Do you need a reminder about appropriate language?” Matthew called, tone stern. Clearly Matthew had still been awake down the corridor and heard Marcus’s outburst.

Marcus clapped a hand over his own mouth, heart pounding. How was he going to explain this? He glanced toward the chair. Philippe’s ghost just raised an eyebrow at him, looking amused about the whole situation.

Without thinking, Marcus stammered, “It’s not my fault—your father just jump-scared me like Ghostface in Scream!” He kept his eyes on the ghostly figure in the chair, who was chuckling silently.

There was a short, disbelieving pause from behind the door. Then Matthew replied sharply, “Stop lying, Marcus. Go back to bed. And I swear, if I find out you’ve been watching those slasher films again without permission, you will greatly regret it.”

Marcus groaned, flopping back onto his bed. Of course his father assumed he was making it up to cover for using foul language or possibly for sneaking horror movies that were far too scary for his current age. In the chair, Philippe’s ghost rolled his eyes sympathetically. Then he leaned forward and spoke in a low, echoing voice only Marcus could hear.

“That boy does love to threaten you, doesn’t he?” Philippe observed wryly, speaking to Marcus.“Tell him I said ‘éclairs.’ He will understand the reference.”

Marcus shot the ghost a confused look, but Philippe just nodded encouragingly. Shrugging, Marcus raised his voice and called through the door, “He—um, Philippe—says to tell you ‘éclairs’ for some reason!”

For a second, there was utter silence out in the hall. Then the door flew open so fast it nearly hit the wall. Matthew was in the room faster than Marcus’s human eyes could track, eyes sweeping warily over the furniture and flickering past the window shadows. Clearly the word éclairs had triggered something. Matthew’s gaze finally landed on the apparently empty armchair that Marcus was still staring at.

“Someone is there,” he said, full of wonder. “I can almost smell them and hear faint sounds. But I can’t see them.”

“He’s sitting right there,” Marcus whispered.

Feeling a bit foolish but unwilling to dismiss it, Matthew inclined his head respectfully toward the apparently empty chair. In a low voice he addressed the space, “He should be sleeping.”

It came out more chastising than he intended. The absurdity of Matthew scolding a ghost, his own father, no less, for waking his child was not lost on him.

At that moment, Diana appeared at the threshold behind Matthew, drawn by the commotion. She had been lying awake in their bedroom down the hall.

“Oh,” she breathed in surprise, a smile touching her lips. She stepped fully into the room. “Hello, Philippe.” She inclined her head graciously to the ghost. “What brings you down from the Round Tower this evening?”

Marcus let out a relieved breath. Thank God, she sees him too! he thought. He hadn’t been hallucinating; Philippe’s ghost was real, and now he had backup. Marcus looked at his father triumphantly.

“Told you I wasn’t fucking lying,” he said under his breath, unable to keep a hint of teenage petulance out of his tone. In his defense, he had been telling the truth, profanity notwithstanding.

Matthew whipped around and fixed Marcus with a severe glare. In a flash, he closed the distance to Marcus’s bed. Marcus’s smug expression evaporated as Matthew seized his upper arm and yanked him out of bed. Matthew briskly turned Marcus and landed several sharp swats to his pajama-clad bottom.

“Ow! Hey!” Marcus cried, ears flushing red as the warm sting spread across his backside. Matthew spun him back to face forward. Marcus’s eyes were bright, one hand reflexively rubbing his smarting rear.

Matthew kept a firm grip on his arm, voice a low growl edged with iron. “I’ve had quite enough of your backtalk and foul mouth. If you choose to continue, I will march you to the bathroom and we can revisit this conversation with a bar of soap, do you understand me?”

Marcus’s stomach dropped as he gave a quick, breathless nod.

From the armchair, Philippe’s ghost shook his head, looking somewhat disapproving. “Don’t you think that was a bit harsh, Matthieu?” he said, voice low and carrying a note of reproach. Marcus could hear him clearly, but of course Matthew could not. Still, something in Matthew’s demeanor shifted, as if he felt the weight of his father’s judgment in the air.

Keeping his voice low but firm, Matthew addressed the presence he knew was there. “I will parent my son as I see fit,” he said to the darkness, knowing exactly what Philippe had been thinking.

He then guided an embarrassed Marcus back onto the mattress. Marcus sat down gingerly, more upset at being spanked in front of an audience than truly hurt.

“As I said, you should be sleeping,” Matthew admonished Marcus, pulling the blankets back up around him in an oddly gentle gesture.

Matthew stepped back and ran a hand over his face, trying to gather the shreds of his composure. Diana moved to his side and put a calming hand on his arm. Philippe’s ghost watched this with raised brows and an expression that could only be described as exasperated.

Sensing the tension still thick in the room, Diana spoke up gently. “Matthew, why don’t we let Marcus get some rest? It’s late.”

She subtly tugged Matthew toward the door. Matthew hesitated, looking like he had more to say—perhaps to Philippe, perhaps to Marcus—but he ultimately nodded.

“Yes. Sleep, Marcus,” Matthew said in warning. He pointed a finger at Marcus in emphasis. “I will be checking on you shortly. I suggest you be sound asleep when I return.” The implicit or else hung in the air.

Marcus nodded meekly and sank down under his covers, turning on his side away from his father to signal compliance. “Good night, Dad,” he murmured, trying to sound contrite.

Satisfied that his son was going to at least try to sleep, Matthew gave a curt nod to the chair, a semblance of a goodnight to Philippe, and escorted Diana out of the room. He closed the door behind them, plunging the room once more into quiet darkness.

“Spoilsport,” Philippe muttered the moment they were gone, aiming it at the closed door through which Matthew had vanished.

But Philippe’s expression when he turned back to Marcus was one of compassion mixed with a conspiratorial twinkle. He floated over from the armchair to stand by the bedside.

“My apologies, Marcus, I truly didn’t mean to get you into trouble,” Philippe said kindly. “Sometimes your father forgets what it was like to be young.”

“He’s been on edge lately,” Marcus whispered in Matthew’s defense. “This whole situation has been hard on him.”

Philippe nodded in understanding. “It has. On you all.” He reached out a ghostly hand as if to pat Marcus’s shoulder, though of course his touch didn’t land. Marcus just felt a cool tingle of static where Philippe’s hand would be.

“You gave us quite a scare, you know, turning up as a little boy,” Philippe continued, voice gentle. “But you’ve all handled it as well as could be expected. Your father loves you dearly, even if he is rather quick with a heavy hand.” Philippe winked as Marcus felt his ears get hot.

The old vampire’s ghost gave Marcus a mischievous grin. “To be fair, you did give him a bit of cheek. I’m impressed.” Philippe let out a warm chuckle. “You remind me of him when he was young.”

Marcus’s eyes widened. It was hard to imagine his controlled father ever being a rebellious fledgling vampire.

“Really?” he breathed, curiosity overcoming any remaining sulkiness.

“Oh, absolutely,” Philippe nodded. “Matthew was a handful.” He stroked his transparent beard thoughtfully. “Why don’t I tell you an embarrassing story or two about your father? Strictly for your ears. It might help you drift off with pleasant dreams.”

Marcus wriggled upright, fluffing the pillows behind his back and making sure the blankets were snug over his legs. He felt like a little kid about to hear a bedtime story—ironically appropriate, given the situation. Only this was far better than any fairy tale; this was Matthew’s childhood folly about to be laid bare by the one person who knew him best and could get away with telling it.

“Now, let me see… Ah yes. When Matthew was about twenty years old, he decided he should be allowed to go on adventures with his elder brothers.” Philippe’s tone was light and nostalgic. “Ysabeau, and I expressly forbade it. He was far too young to be tangling with the likes of Hugh and Baldwin on one of their escapades. But did he listen?”

Knowing his father’s stubborn streak, the answer was obvious. Marcus grinned and shook his head.

“Correct. He did not,” Philippe chuckled. “One summer evening, Hugh and Baldwin planned a boar hunt in the forests beyond the castle. They set out at dusk, thinking their little brother was safely occupied at home. But your father had other ideas. Matthew thought if he could follow without us noticing, he could prove himself.” Philippe’s ghostly eyes twinkled. “He waited until the rest of us were busy. Then he snuck out of his bedroom window and began to climb down the south wall of the castle to chase after them.”

“You’re kidding.” Marcus’s eyes widened.

“Well, he almost made it,” Philippe continued dryly. “About halfway down, Matthew lost his footing. He grabbed at the vines to keep from falling and ended up tangled in them, hanging upside down by his ankle.” The ghost shook with silent laughter. “He was dangling there like a pheasant caught in a snare!”

Marcus pressed a hand over his mouth to stifle a giggle. The mental image of his dignified father thrashing upside down in a tangle of ivy was simply too good.

“Now, Ysabeau had been out hunting,” Philippe went on, clearly enjoying himself. “She was returning home when she spotted something wiggling on the south wall in the moonlight. Imagine her surprise to find it was her beloved son, wrapped in vines and cursing up a storm in Occitan!” Philippe winked. “She told me later his language would’ve made a sailor blush. Not so different from a certain someone’s choice words earlier tonight, hmm?”

Marcus blushed, remembering his own outburst.

Philippe chuckled and continued. “Ysabeau plucked him off the wall with ease—one of the benefits of having a vampire for a mother—and deposited him at my feet in the courtyard. Oh, Matthew was furious at being caught. Tried to claim he was just ‘getting some air.’” Philippe snorted. “I wasn’t born yesterday. I knew exactly what he’d been up to. But instead of tanning his hide then and there, I decided a different lesson was in order.”

Leaning in, Philippe lowered his voice as if sharing a great secret. “I pretended to be sympathetic and ordered Hugh and Baldwin to take Matthew along on the hunt after all.”

“You let him go? Wasn’t that dangerous?”

The old ghost waved a translucent hand. “You were younger than that when your father let you prance about Paris with your revolutionary ideals. Besides, Hugh and Baldwin were more than capable of keeping him safe. And I suspect Matthew thought he’d won that battle. Ah, but it was just beginning.” Philippe’s grin was positively wicked.

“Out in the woods, they loosed the dogs to track a wild boar that had been troubling the nearby farms. Matthew insisted on proving himself, so his brothers hung back and let him go charging ahead.” Philippe chuckled, shaking his head. “The boar, naturally, did not cooperate. It led him on a merry chase straight into a pig farmer’s pen at the edge of the forest.”

“Oh no…” Marcus murmured, grinning in anticipation.

“Oh yes,” Philippe sighed happily. “Matthew vaulted over a fence in pursuit of what he thought was the boar’s shadow. In truth, he’d cornered the farmer’s prize sow and her piglets. The moment Matthew landed in the pen, he slipped right into a giant mud puddle. Completely coated from head to toe in filth!” Philippe stroked his beard, eyes dancing.

“Hugh and Baldwin were doubled over laughing, the dogs were barking like mad, pigs running everywhere, and there stood your father, drenched in mud.”

A strangled laugh escaped Marcus despite his efforts. He quickly smothered it with his pillow. Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes. He could picture it: Matthew sputtering with indignation, dripping muck, while his older brothers roared with laughter.

“Well,” Philippe said dramatically, “Matthew’s grand adventure ended with Baldwin pulling him out of the mud—after nearly dying of laughter, according to Baldwin’s account—and Hugh calming the pig.”

“He sulked for weeks after that,” the ghost confided. “But he learned his lesson. At least, until the next time he got it in his head to do something foolish.” Philippe gave a theatrical sigh. “Parenting, I’ve learned, is a never-ending endeavor. And now it seems it’s Matthew’s turn to chase after a headstrong youth.”

Marcus felt his cheeks flush, but Philippe’s tone was fond, not scolding. The boy yawned. The combination of warmth, late hour, and Philippe’s gentle voice was making his eyelids heavy. He snuggled back down into his pillow, feeling warm, content, and far less alone than he had earlier. Philippe’s presence was deeply comforting—a link to the strength and guidance of the family’s past.

“Alright, I think that’s enough storytelling for one night,” Philippe said softly. “Time to sleep, mon petit-fils.”

Marcus’s eyelids were heavy. “Will you stay?” he mumbled drowsily.

“I’ll be nearby,” Philippe promised. “I might peek in on your father too, see if he’s calmed down. But you sleep. We’ll have more stories another time.”

Marcus nodded, already sinking back into his pillow. He thought he felt a faint brush of something like lips against his forehead. He wasn’t sure if he’d imagined it, because when he cracked his eyes open, Philippe’s ghost had vanished. With a contented sigh, Marcus closed his eyes again and drifted off, a faint smile lingering on his lips.

Morning light filtered through the drapes when Marcus woke again. For a moment, he wondered if the events of the night before were all a bizarre dream.

He dressed quickly in jeans and a t-shirt and practically ran downstairs to the formal dining room. He found Matthew and Diana seated at the long table, mugs of steaming coffee in hand. Ysabeau was also there, reading the morning paper as if it were any other day. The moment Marcus entered, three sets of eyes turned to him.

“Well, look who’s up,” Diana said warmly. “Happy rebirthday, sweetheart.”

“Hmph, almost noon,” Ysabeau noted, arching a perfectly shaped eyebrow. But the small smile she gave him belied her stern tone. “Joyeux anniversaire, Marcus.”

“Thanks,” Marcus said, suddenly shy under the attention. He slid into a chair and reached for a croissant from the basket on the table.

Matthew cleared his throat. “Good morning.” His voice was calm, maybe a touch hesitant. Marcus risked a glance at his father. Matthew was studying him intently. “How did you sleep?” Matthew asked.

Marcus busied himself buttering his croissant. “Um…okay,” he said lightly. “Once I finally fell asleep.”

An awkward beat passed. Marcus sensed everyone was thinking about last night but no one knew who should speak first. Finally, Matthew set down his coffee cup. “I talked with your mother about what happened,” he began, a bit stiffly. “It seems I owe you an apology.”

Marcus looked up in surprise. Matthew was meeting his eyes now, and there was remorse in his expression. “I shouldn’t have accused you of lying about Philippe,” Matthew continued. Admitting he was wrong clearly wasn’t easy for him, but he forged ahead. “I should have believed you, son.”

Hearing one of Matthew’s rare apologies made Marcus’s throat feel tight. “It’s okay,” Marcus replied quietly. Then, in a burst of honesty, he added, “I know it sounded crazy. I probably wouldn’t have believed me either.”

“Well, I’m glad your grandfather finally decided to make an appearance. Even if his timing leaves something to be desired.” He gave Marcus a wry look as his lips twitched slightly. “He always did have a flair for the dramatic.”

At that, Ysabeau let out an amused little sniff behind her paper. “Like father, like son,” she murmured, and Matthew shot her a patient but warning glance.

“That said,” Matthew said in a slightly stern tone, eyes flicking back to Marcus, “we do need to discuss your language.”

Marcus winced. Of course.

“I understand you were startled, but I will not tolerate that kind of profanity, or the cheek you gave me afterward. Birthday or not, you know better.”

“Yes, sir,” Marcus muttered, face heating.

Apology or no, Matthew clearly wasn’t about to claim last night’s punishment wasn’t warranted. Marcus bit back any further retort and instead took a big bite of croissant to occupy his mouth.

“We have a surprise for you today, Marcus,” Diana announced brightly, changing the subject.

“A surprise?” Marcus perked up, swallowing his bite.

“Yes. It’s a beautiful day,” Diana said. “So I’m sending you and your father out for the afternoon. A little excursion.”

Matthew looked as curious as Marcus. “Oh? And where are we going?” he asked, one eyebrow arched.

“That’s for you two to decide. A ride, a hike. whatever you’d like, just so you’re out of the house for a few hours. I thought some father-son time would do you good.” She took a sip of her coffee, feigning nonchalance.

Ysabeau folded her newspaper, eyes sparkling with mirth as she caught Diana’s true intent. “What Diana means,” Ysabeau said dryly, “is that she wants the pair of you gone so we can prepare your birthday celebrations without a certain someone snooping around.” She gave Marcus a pointed look.

Diana laughed, not the least bit ruffled at being found out. “Guilty. We do have some party preparations to finish. So, out!” She shooed playfully at Matthew and Marcus. “Shoo, both of you. Be back by late afternoon. And Matthew—” she leveled a look at her husband, “—keep him busy and don’t let him peek at what we’re doing here. Understood?”

“Understood.” Matthew stood from the table and patted Marcus on the shoulder. “Finish up breakfast and change into something suitable for riding. We’ll make a day of it.”

Marcus felt a flutter of excitement. Riding with his father, just the two of them? That was a rare treat. “Really?” he blurted out, unable to hide his grin.

“Really,” Matthew said, smiling now in earnest. “It is your rebirthday, after all. And I believe we have a new horse that needs exercising.”

Marcus didn’t need to be told twice. He wolfed down the rest of his croissant in two bites and bolted upstairs to change into his riding clothes. In minutes, he reappeared in the courtyard in his boots, comfortable jeans, and a navy sweater. Matthew was already there, talking quietly with Georges, the human stablemaster.

Two horses were saddled and waiting: one was Matthew’s massive black stallion, Balthasar and beside it was a smaller dapple-grey thoroughbred mare tossing her head impatiently. Marcus’s face lit up. The grey mare was new—she’d arrived only a week ago, a gift from one of Baldwin’s clients in Kentucky.

Matthew handed Marcus a box crowned with a black-velvet-covered helmet.

“For you,” he said.

Tearing the box open, Marcus found a black padded vest with a long tail and stiff metal supports sewn into the seams. It looked and would no doubt feel like a turtle’s shell—uncomfortable and unwieldy.

“This isn’t necessary.” Marcus held it up, frowning.

“It is if you’re going riding.” His father’s voice didn’t show the slightest hint of emotion.

Marcus growled in frustration. He’d been riding for centuries. A warning look from the older vampire cut off any vocal protest.

“You wear a seat belt in the car,” Matthew said evenly. “You’ll wear a vest on the horse.”

With a resigned sigh, Marcus mounted the mare. She danced a little under his weight, but he steadied her with a calm pat. Matthew swung up onto Balthasar with effortless grace. Father and son guided their mounts out through the courtyard gate and into the open fields beyond the castle. The late-morning sun shone bright over the Auvergne countryside, illuminating rolling meadows and distant green forests.

They set off at a gentle walk down an old hunting trail. For a time, neither spoke. Marcus savored the moment: the creak of saddle leather, the rhythm of hooves on soft ground, and the sheer freedom of being outside the castle walls without worrying about rules or chores. Beside him, Matthew looked more at ease than Marcus had seen in a while. There was a faint smile on his lips as he watched the horizon.

After they’d warmed up the horses, Matthew nudged his stallion into a trot. Marcus grinned and urged the mare on. She responded eagerly, matching the stallion’s pace stride for stride. His father’s Percheron had nothing on the thoroughbred for speed. Soon they were cantering across a broad pasture, the wind whipping Marcus’s hair. He laughed aloud, feeling a rush of joy. It felt so good to gallop free, with his father thundering alongside him, both of them leaving any worries far behind.

They slowed as they reached a gentle slope overlooking a glimmering lake that reflected the sky. The horses tossed their heads, breathing hard but content from the run. Matthew dismounted and Marcus followed, looping the reins loosely over a low-hanging branch of an oak tree.

Marcus was about to ask a question when he noticed Matthew pulling a small picnic basket from the stallion’s saddlebag. He hadn’t even realized it was there. Matthew caught his surprised look and chuckled.

They settled on a patch of soft grass by the lake shore. Matthew opened the basket. Inside were two bottles of water, a thermos of what smelled like Marthe’s vegetable soup, a baguette sandwich, cheese, apples, and even a small bottle of wine for Matthew.

“A proper French picnic,” Marcus joked as he helped lay everything out.

Matthew poured soup into two travel cups. “Marthe insisted,” he said. “She can’t let anyone in this family go hungry for more than a few hours.”

They both chuckled lightly, father and son sitting by the lake without a care. When the laughter faded, Matthew reached out and gently squeezed Marcus’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry I was hard on you last night,” he apologized again, voice earnest. “Truthfully, this whole raising-a-teenager business is new territory for me. I might make mistakes.”

Marcus ducked his head. “I… I know I can be a handful,” he admitted quietly. He picked at a blade of grass. “I don’t mean to worry you and Mom.”

Matthew sighed and put an arm around Marcus’s back, pulling him into a brief side-hug. “We worry because we love you.” He paused, then added in a lighter tone, “And because you are a handful, no denying that. You always have been.”

Marcus snorted, leaning into the hug for the second it lasted. He felt a warm glow in his chest at his father’s words. It wasn’t often Matthew said those things out loud. “I’ll try not to swear at ghosts or you anymore,” he offered with a grin.

“Appreciated,” Matthew replied dryly. “And I’ll try to remember that sometimes when you say something unbelievable, it might just be the truth.”

They shared a smile, a quiet understanding passing between them.

When evening fell, Marcus stepped through the arched double doors and was momentarily struck mute by the sight. The cavernous hall—usually dim and drafty—had been transformed into something out of a fairy tale. Strings of twinkling lights crisscrossed the high wooden beams of the ceiling, casting a warm glow.

Blue was clearly the theme of the night. The de Clermont family crest banners had been swapped out for rich sapphire draperies along the stone walls. The guests milling about were all wearing some shade of blue, creating a shimmering sea of color when viewed from the balcony above. Marcus looked down at his own outfit—a pair of smart navy slacks and a tailored button-down shirt in a lighter blue, which Marthe had laid out for him—and realized with a start that he matched everyone else. Grand-mère must have set a dress code, he thought with amusement.

Directly across the hall, a treats table stretched an impressive length, covered in every decadent pastry and confection imaginable. Marcus’s eyes nearly popped at the spread: fruit tarts, cream puffs, petit fours, macarons, and an enormous pyramid of chocolate éclairs. At the center stood his birthday cake, a towering confection iced in ombré blues. And on that cake… Marcus had to stifle a laugh. The cake was ablaze with what looked like every blue candle in all of France. Tiny flames flickered from dozens upon dozens of candles crammed onto the cake’s top.

“What do you think, nephew?” boomed a familiar voice. Marcus turned to see Baldwin. His uncle was dressed in a sharp cobalt-blue suit, the exact shade of a peacock feather. On anyone else it might look ridiculous, but Baldwin carried it with his usual aristocratic confidence.

“It’s a lot!” Marcus replied honestly.

“That it is,” Baldwin agreed, clapping Marcus on the back. “Ysabeau has outdone herself, wouldn’t you say?”

Across the hall, Ysabeau was deep in discussion near the musicians. The de Clermont matriarch was resplendent in an indigo silk gown, her golden hair swept up in an elegant twist. Even from a distance, her sharp eyes were monitoring every detail of the event. When she caught Marcus looking her way, Ysabeau lifted a champagne flute in a tiny salute and gave him a radiant smile that was both proud and a touch concerned.

Just then, something soft brushed against Marcus’s leg. He glanced down to see Garfield winding between his feet. Someone had tied a satin ribbon around his neck in the same light blue as Marcus’s shirt. Marcus chuckled and bent to scoop the cat into his arms. The kitten snuggled against Marcus, allowing Marcus to scratch behind his ears, before leaping down to pursue a tempting scent coming from the treats table.

As Marcus straightened, he heard a familiar cackle of laughter approaching. “There’s the birthday boy!” Sarah’s voice rang out. Sarah bustled over in a flowing royal-blue caftan covered in unique stars, clearly one of Agatha’s new designs. She enveloped Marcus in a warm hug. “Happy birthday, kiddo,” she said, pulling back to pat his cheeks affectionately.

Soon Marcus was surrounded by more well-wishers: Hamish, his father’s daemon best friend, who gifted Marcus a first-edition science book; Miriam, who ruffled Marcus’s hair and teased that he was “almost tall enough to look her in the eye again”; Aunt Fanny; and his Aunt Verin and her human husband Ernst, who had flown in from Germany and brought him a beautifully carved antique compass. There were also familiar faces from the broader family of friends: Agatha Wilson, Nathaniel and Sophie and their young daughter Margaret, who shyly gave Marcus a homemade card she drew of a blue birthday cake.

It felt like everyone whose opinion mattered to Marcus was here, showering him with attention and gifts. He tried to focus on each thank you and each hug, but it was overwhelming. The noise of conversation, the music, the constant good-natured ribbing made his senses swim.

Marcus realized he hadn’t had a moment to himself since they’d walked in. He didn’t want to seem ungrateful; he truly appreciated that everyone had come for him. But after about an hour of nonstop socializing, he felt a tightness in his chest. The hall was warm, the candlelight suddenly too bright, the laughter too loud. Marcus tugged at his collar, trying to take a deep breath. It’s all too much…

He scanned the crowd and spotted Matthew and Diana across the room. They were chatting with Baldwin and Hamish, but Matthew’s eyes were subtly tracking Marcus even as he talked. Marcus knew his father’s hyper-vigilant look; Matthew had been watching to see how he was holding up. And Marcus realized if he stayed in this hall one more minute, he might burst. He needed air.

Seizing a lull in the attention, Marcus carefully set down his half-finished cup of sparkling cider. He edged backward toward the hall’s side door, the one that led out to the gardens. Garfield, as if sensing an escape, trotted after him.

With practiced stealth, Marcus slipped through the side door and out into the evening air. No one seemed to notice the guest of honor had fled, and Marcus felt immediate relief as the heavy door thunked shut behind him.

Outside, dusk had fully fallen. The courtyard was lit only by a few torches flickering along the walls. Marcus inhaled gratefully, drinking in the cool, fresh air that smelled of jasmine and the distant pine forest. The stars were just beginning to emerge in the indigo sky.

Garfield meowed and rubbed against Marcus’s calf. He smiled, bending down to scoop up the kitten, before heading to the old northern wall of the chateau. This part of Sept-Tours was quieter, away from the glow and noise of the great hall. Marcus climbed a short set of stone steps that led to a narrow walkway atop the outer wall.

From up here, he could see the entire valley spread out below: dark silhouettes of trees, the silver ribbon of a river, and beyond, the faint lights of the village of Saint-Lucien twinkling in the distance.

He tilted his head back, gazing up at the night sky. The stars here in rural Auvergne were breathtaking. Here, the Milky Way unfurled across the heavens in a gauzy band. Marcus let the silence and starlight wash over him. Up above, no one demanded anything of him. The stars didn’t tell him how much he’d grown, or ask if he was behaving, or tease him about the trouble he’d been in. The stars simply were—distant and steady. Watching them made Marcus feel small in a comforting way, and the pressure in his chest eased.

Maybe Aunt Fanny knew what she was doing with that telescope, Marcus mused. Freyja must have known that sometimes he’d need an escape, a way to lose himself among the stars. He silently reminded himself to thank her later.

Marcus wasn’t sure how long he stood there, lost in thought. The muffled sounds of music and laughter from the hall drifted occasionally on the breeze, but no one had come after him yet. It was possible no one even noticed his absence—there were so many people inside. He felt a twinge of guilt for hiding during his own party, but he truly needed this breather.

Footsteps scuffing on stone alerted him that his solitude might be ending. Marcus stiffened, hoping it wasn’t Ysabeau with a disapproving frown, or worse, a cluster of guests coming to drag him back to the festivities. He turned to look, and to his relief, it was just one person: Matthew.

His father emerged from the shadow of a turret, hands in his pockets. He had shed his suit jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his crisp shirt, looking more casual and approachable than he had all evening.

“I always liked the view from here,” Matthew said softly, coming to lean on the wall beside Marcus, reaching out to rub Garfield’s furry head.

Marcus offered a tentative smile. “Sorry I slipped out… It was getting kind of hot in there.”

“No need to apologize.” Matthew gazed out over the dark landscape, his profile lit by moonlight. “Maman’s parties do tend to become overwhelming. She can’t help it. She’s just so grand herself that any event she plans must be equally grand.”

Marcus chuckled lightly.

“Believe it or not, I hid from a fair number of her parties in this exact spot when I was younger. Far enough away to have some peace, but still technically within the castle walls, so not breaking any rules… if only just barely.” He turned to look at Marcus, a knowing twinkle in his eye. “Sound familiar?”

Marcus flushed. Leave it to Matthew to recognize his little rule-balancing act—he had promised to stay on castle grounds, after all, and he had kept that promise.

“Maybe a little,” he admitted. He mustered a sheepish grin. “I just needed a minute.”

“I understand.” Matthew reached over and gently squeezed the back of Marcus’s neck, a comforting gesture. “Your grandmother means well. She adores you and wants to show you off. But she forgets that not everyone enjoys being the center of so much attention.”

Marcus exhaled, relieved that Matthew truly did get it. “It’s not that I’m not grateful,” he said quickly. “I mean, the party’s amazing and everyone came so far for me… I just…” He struggled to find the words. “It’s a lot. I’m a lot, apparently, and now this party is a lot,” he joked weakly.

“You are you, Marcus. And that’s all you need to be. If it’s all a bit much, you’re allowed to step away.”

Marcus felt a lump growing in his throat. He turned and hugged Matthew impulsively, wrapping his arms around his father’s middle and pressing his face into Matthew’s shoulder. Matthew seemed taken aback for half a second, then Marcus felt his father’s arms come around him, strong and steady. Matthew held him close, resting his chin atop Marcus’s head.

They stayed like that for a few quiet moments, father and son under the starlight. Marcus closed his eyes, committing the feeling to memory. He felt safe. He felt loved.

Garfield meowed loudly, interrupting the tender moment. Matthew cleared his throat and gave a small, somewhat shy smile.

“Happy rebirthday, Marcus,” he said, ruffling his son’s hair.

Marcus smiled brightly. “Thanks, Dad.”

From somewhere above, perched on the highest tower of Sept-Tours, a faint golden light glimmered—Philippe’s ghost watching over them. Neither Matthew nor Marcus saw the spectral figure, but Diana, standing by a window in the hall, did catch a glimpse. She quietly stepped away to give the men outside their privacy, a knowing smile on her lips.