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The Hecate cabin has seen some things over the years. Still, Nico’s fairly sure it’s never suffered like this.
Sequins cling to the floorboards like spores. Capes hang from the rafters like bats. A single plastic hook is impaled in the wall at a vaguely alarming angle. Someone — probably Cecil — managed to tangle a feather boa into the ceiling fan, where it now spins with slow, ghostly menace. Lou Ellen’s costume trunk has exploded across every visible surface, spilling fabric and props like a stage manager who’s finally lost it.
This was supposed to be a quick thing. A warm-up party. Hermes cabin’s unofficial pre-Halloween celebration — the one where everyone throws together half-baked costumes and pretends it’s not just an excuse to drink illicit pumpkin beer and show off questionable dance moves. The real festivities won’t be until the end of the week. This was meant to be low effort. Casual. Fun.
Three hours later, they’ve cycled through enough outfits to costume a Broadway revival.
Lou Ellen went from fairy wings to a Renaissance gown to something involving tulle and sequins that made Cecil cry actual tears of laughter. Cecil himself has been a cowboy, a gladiator, a vaguely cursed mermaid, and now — to everyone’s regret — a pirate. Will was briefly a disco ball before Lou Ellen vetoed him for stealing her “aesthetic.” He’s landed on vampire, which suits him too well to be fair.
Nico has not survived this unscathed.
He’s standing behind the curtain now, staring into the mirror like it’s betrayed him. The costume fits. That’s the problem. He looks convincing, which feels like some cruel joke the universe has been saving up.
On the other side of the curtain, Lou Ellen is rustling in sequins like a magpie with poor impulse control. “Nicooo,” she singsongs. “Come out.”
Nico stares at his reflection. “Gods,” he mutters, just loud enough for the mirror to share in his suffering, “this is more traumatic than when Cupid made me do that.”
“Dramatic much?” Cecil calls. “It can’t be that bad.”
It can. It absolutely can. He’s already spent three hours being strong-armed through a parade of costumes, most of which he’s tried on under protest and taken off with extreme prejudice. If there’s a ranking of humiliations, this one deserves a medal.
The lanterns overhead give that low, steady hum unique to the Hecate cabin after dark—like the walls know something they shouldn’t and find it very, very funny. It sits quietly under everything, soft enough to ignore if you’re not listening too hard.
“Babe,” Will calls softly, and somehow that’s worse than the jeering. It’s warm, coaxing, and entirely too amused for someone not currently dressed like an idiot.
Nico stares at his reflection and mutters something sharp under his breath, then pushes the curtain aside like he’s stepping onto a stage he never auditioned for.
The reaction is immediate, deafening in its silence. Lou Ellen is the first to crack, a low, delighted whistle that sounds like vindication. Cecil follows, loud and entirely too pleased with himself.
Will doesn’t whistle. He just stares—wide-eyed, open-mouthed, looking at Nico like someone’s handed him the punchline to a joke he didn’t know he was waiting for.
Nico steps into the wreckage of fabric and sequins wearing the full cowboy ensemble: boots that creak against the floor, hat tilted just enough to feel like a personal insult, fringe swaying with every begrudging step. The belt buckle is a crime against fashion. It’s… a lot.
Lou Ellen throws an arm over her chest, glitter flashing like a warning light. “Oh, that’s beautiful,” she sighs, and she sounds far too pleased.
Cecil grins like a fox in a hen house. “Yeehaw, partner.”
Will inhales wrong. It comes out as a startled, ridiculous choke.
Nico folds his arms and glares at them as if he might erase the entire night by sheer force of will. “I hate this. I hate you. I hate Halloween.”
The lanterns flicker—soft, unassuming, just enough to make the air feel different. It’s the kind of thing he could dismiss if he wanted to. Hecate cabin has always been strange around the edges, like the magic soaks through the floorboards after a while, waiting for something stupid to happen.
Tonight, apparently, that something is him.
Nico folds his arms tighter, shoulders hunched like the fringe might bite if he moves too much. “I feel stupid,” he mutters. “I’m changing.”
Will startles like someone’s just threatened national security. “No—wait—don’t.” He’s already on his feet, hands hovering in that useless, wide-eyed way he does when he’s both flustered and trying very hard not to show it. “Please don’t.”
Cecil, of course, looks like all his birthdays have come at once. He leans against the wall, arms crossed, grin slow and mean. “Oh this is perfect,” he says, like he’s narrating it for posterity. “Will Solace, born and bred Texas boy, absolutely fantasised about cowboys when he was a horny teenager, and now his boyfriend’s standing here looking like that. This is karma. This is divine.”
Will goes scarlet so fast it’s almost impressive. His ears are pink, his neck’s blotching, and Nico briefly entertains the idea of burying himself under a sequin pile and letting the cabin collapse on him.
Lou Ellen tips her head, sequins catching the lantern light like tiny smug stars. “You realise what’s happened here, right?” she says. “You’ve swapped aesthetics.”
And gods, she’s not wrong.
Will, with his half-buttoned black shirt and cape hanging a little too dramatically off his shoulders, looks like the cover model for a very unserious vampire romance. The fangs gleam faintly when he bites the inside of his cheek, like he’s too aware of them. He’s still all warm sunlight under it, but the costume drapes it in just enough darkness to make Nico feel like he’s been tricked into someone’s slow burn plot.
Nico, meanwhile, is wearing a cowboy hat.
He huffs. “The whole Will and Nico, vampire–cowboy thing is so overdone in this gods-forsaken camp. I’m not playing into someone’s bad clichés.”
Lou Ellen shrugs, the motion sending a soft shimmer across her shoulder. “It’s a classic for a reason.”
Will straightens his cape like that’ll somehow make him sound reasonable. “For the record,” he says, voice doing that too-bright thing it does when he’s trying to sound casual and failing, “you don’t even have time to change. We’re late.”
Cecil snorts, the sound sharp and delighted. “Uh-huh. Sure. Definitely about the schedule and not your cowboy fixation.”
Will’s blush resurfaces, ears leading the charge. Lou Ellen tips her head back toward the ceiling, like maybe the gods will spare her if she pretends not to know any of them. “Can we not,” she mutters, already edging toward the door. “He’s right, though. We should move before Hermes Cabin eat all the good snacks.”
They pile toward the door in a sort of sequined, fringed, and velvet-cloaked chaos. Nico’s still scowling but he doesn’t bother arguing; there’s no point. The hat is staying. His dignity is not.
The air shifts as Lou Ellen opens the door—soft at first, a breath, and then a thin purple mist drifts by along the ground, spilling over their boots like it has somewhere better to be.
Nico slows at the top of the steps, the mist pooling at his boots like it’s got ideas. “Uh,” he says, because eloquence isn’t worth wasting here, “what’s that.”
Lou Ellen barely glances down. “No clue,” she says, already sounding bored with the question. “Hermes kids asked my cabin for help with decorations. Probably that.”
The mist curls lazily down the path, too purposeful to be innocent. Nico watches it go, jaw tightening. He’s not convinced. But trying to get a straight answer out of a Hecate kid about magic is like arguing with fog itself — it’s just going to slip through your fingers and keep drifting.
They cut across camp through the cool October dark, the kind that seeps in slow and quiet, settling in their sleeves. The party’s already bleeding out into the night somewhere ahead—music carried thin on the wind, bursts of laughter rising and falling like it’s got its own pulse. The mist trails after them, low and patient, clinging to the path like it’s made up its mind about following.
Will’s the first to start complaining. “I swear these fangs weren’t this sharp an hour ago,” he mutters, the words caught on a slight lisp where the plastic edges press against his lip. He pokes at one with his tongue like it’s a problem he can solve by sulking at it.
Lou Ellen doesn’t even glance over her shoulder. “Then stop biting yourself.”
“I’m not trying to,” Will hisses, sounding more flustered than genuinely put out.
Nico starts to reply—something dry, probably unkind—but the words snag halfway out of his mouth. There’s a crack, sudden and strange, like his voice has decided it belongs to someone else. It slips into a soft twang at the edges. He freezes. “What the—” Another crack.
Lou Ellen doesn’t even slow down.
“See! Now you’re getting in character, the hat is working,” Cecil says, positively glowing with joy, which is never a good sign.
The Hermes cabin comes into view, already spilling light and noise across the lawn. The place is packed. Campers are clustered on the porch and spilling into the grass, costumes ranging from gleefully unhinged to unnecessarily impressive. A cluster of fairies hover by the steps, glitter drifting off their wings in clouds. A trio of zombies lurch past with half-eaten cupcakes. Someone in a mermaid tail is perched on the railing, sipping something suspiciously pink through a straw. There’s a Minotaur arguing with a clown.
It looks less like a pre-Halloween party and more like Olympus sneezed on a costume store.
The night slides by in that soft, chaotic way camp parties always do—noise swelling and splitting across the lawn, lanterns leaking gold light into the mist, the kind of steady, syrupy warmth that seeps under your skin before you notice. They don’t mean to get separated. One second, they’re shoulder to shoulder in the doorway; the next, the room exhales, and the party just… takes them.
The haze inside is thicker than it should be—part smoke machine, part whatever the Hecate kids cooked up, curling low along the floor and soft around the edges, the kind of fog that eats up corners and makes everything feel a little less real. Someone’s wings brush past, sequins catch the light, a cape snaps across Nico’s face, and by the time he blinks the others are gone.
Lou Ellen’s being pulled into the orbit of a glitter-stained dance floor, spinning under the mirror ball like she was built for it. Cecil disappears into the pirate horde with alarming ease, a man lost to his natural habitat. Will’s surrounded by a flock of fairies who seem determined to apply glitter to every available surface, including him.
The room doesn’t clear so much as rearrange itself around Nico—smoky, loud, humming with some low, deliberate pulse—and he’s left standing there with his hat tipped low, boots catching on the sticky floor, watching everyone else slide further into their costumes.
He ends up wedged between two Ares kids who’ve apparently decided this is the perfect moment to debate sword-fighting technique like it’s a moral imperative. They talk with the fervour of men who’ve never lost a duel and clearly don’t plan to start, all elbows and enthusiasm, one of them doing the thing with his hands like the air is going to illustrate his argument for him.
Nico nods along, mostly out of self-preservation. If he looks too disinterested, one of them will hand him a sword. If he looks too engaged, one of them will hit him with one. There’s no winning here.
He opens his mouth to say something neutral and forgettable, but the words catch halfway out—sliding sideways into that treacherous drawl like his mouth’s been hijacked by someone’s southern grandpa.
“Reckon that’s a mighty fine grip y’all got there,” he hears himself say, and wants to die on the spot.
The Ares kid beams like they’ve just discovered a kindred spirit. “Knew you had good taste in technique, di Angelo.”
Before Nico can even process a response, the other one slams him on the shoulder with the weight of a man who thinks friendship is measured in blunt force. Nico nearly bites through his tongue trying to smother the accent—and fails spectacularly.
“Well ain’t that just peachy,” he says, voice honeyed and awful.
The universe chooses that exact moment for Katie Gardner to float by. Not walk. Float. Her wings catch the light, scattering it in glittery shards across the porch. She’s wearing the most aggressively fairy-coded costume he’s ever seen, which somehow suits her enough to be unsettling.
“Wow, di Angelo,” she says, grinning as she drifts past. “You’re really committing to the cowboy thing.”
He blinks at her. It takes a beat for the words to click because her feet aren’t touching the ground. Her wings are beating, slow and steady, like this is the most normal thing in the world.
“Oh, for cryin’ out loud,” Nico mutters, because apparently that’s how he talks now.
He doesn’t stick around to explain himself. He tips the Ares kids an unnecessarily warm “Y’all have a real nice evenin’ now,” like some cursed southern belle, and then bolts. He shoulders past a witch with a lopsided hat, a pair of skeletons dancing out of sync, and a ghost that smells suspiciously like pumpkin beer, until Cecil’s foam cutlass flashes in the crowd.
He’s halfway up a table, hat crooked, swaying like the deck’s pitching beneath him. He’s talking in full pirate now—no hesitation, no irony—each word rolling out in a gravelly growl like he was born to plunder.
“Matey,” Cecil announces to no one in particular, “there be no law on these seas—”
Nico stares up at him, equal parts appalled and impressed. “Well, ain’t that just a damn comfort,” he drawls before he can stop himself. It comes out smooth as butter, and he hates every syllable.
Cecil catches sight of him and lights up like a man spotting treasure. “Aye, cowboy!” he crows, grinning. “I be makin’ my peace with the briny deep!”
“You’ve never even set foot on a boat,” Nico says. Or tries to. What actually comes out is, “Ain’t a lick o’ sense in that—y’ain’t even been on a boat.”
Cecil just laughs, loud and delighted, like that’s encouragement instead of proof of Nico’s slow demise. Somewhere behind him, someone starts chanting “Captain! Captain!” and Nico has the distinct, sinking feeling they mean it.
They find Lou Ellen next. She’s in the centre of the crowd, sequins scattering light like a glitter bomb went off and decided to stay. Her hair’s bigger, shinier, alive somehow, and there’s a faint shimmer around her that suggests she’s personally communing with the disco gods.
“Lord above,” Nico mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “She’s fixin’ to start a revival in here.”
Cecil leans closer, voice still pitched somewhere between a growl and a hymn. “By the gods, she be radiant.”
“Yeah,” Nico says, “and you sound like a fella who ain’t seen fresh water in months.”
Lou Ellen spins, sequins throwing the light like a mirrored grenade, catching Nico clean in the eye. She doesn’t look remotely surprised to see them hovering at the edge of the crowd—just points, grins like she’s cracked the meaning of life via Bee Gees, and keeps dancing. It’s less party, more cult with a disco ball.
“Gods help me,” Nico mutters, shifting the brim of his hat lower like that’ll protect him from her sparkle.
Cecil leans close, watching her like someone witnessing a religious experience. “She’s gone,” he says, voice pitched somewhere between reverent and impressed.
He catches Cecil’s wrist and jerks his head toward the door. “C’mon. We’re findin’ Will before this whole damn hoedown grows teeth.”
The party tilts around them as they move. The fairies aren’t pretending anymore—they hover a few feet off the grass, wings beating with a low, insect hum that vibrates in Nico’s teeth. Zombies weave between groups with a practiced lurch, glassy-eyed and in perfect rhythm. A Medusa drifts past, vines spilling like green ribbons in her wake, curling around the mist that’s pooled low to the ground.
Nico reaches Lou Ellen, who’s still spinning like she’s got a mirror ball lodged in her soul. He grabs her elbow mid-turn. “Alright, Sugarplum, disco hour’s over,” he mutters, wincing at himself the second sugarplum escapes his mouth.
Cecil gives an overly dramatic “Aye aye, captain,” which earns him a glare. Lou Ellen just shrugs like she’s made peace with being the dancing queen. Nico drags them anyway.
The mist thickens as they push through the crowd, purple and heavy, clinging to their boots like it knows where they’re going. The music’s blurred at the edges now—less a song and more a pulse running through the night. Nico’s skin itches with it.
Outside, the air sits heavier than it should. The mist’s bled out from the Hermes cabin like it owns the lawn, curling slow and deliberate across the grass, folding itself into boots and shadows and porch steps. The party noise drifts through the walls in loose, distorted threads—bassline, laughter, some kind of shriek that doesn’t sound entirely like a joke anymore. It’s the kind of sound that stays just far enough away to make you uneasy.
Will’s hunched against the porch rail, shoulders tight, one hand pressed hard to his throat like he’s holding something in place. His breath drags rough against the quiet. When he shifts, the light catches his teeth—fangs, now. Not plastic. Not party-store. Real.
“Guys—stay back,” Will rasps, the words clipped, like they cost him something.
Cecil tilts his head, pirate hat sliding crooked over one eye. “Arr, why’s the lad talkin’ like he’s fixin’ to keelhaul us?”
Lou Ellen, glitter still catching at the corners of her hair like she’s carrying a disco ball’s ghost, leans lazily on the railing. “Hey, baby, what’s got you twisted up?”
Nico’s not sure if it’s the mist or the lantern light, but Will’s expression looks sharper in it—panic drawn tight around the eyes, jaw locked like a dam about to break. The kind of fear that isn’t loud but still fills a room.
“Do y’all realise what’s happenin’ right now?” Nico says. The drawl spills out thick as honey, and for once he doesn’t have the bandwidth to fight it. “Everybody in there’s literally turnin’ into their damn costumes.”
Cecil gives a single slow nod, like a man acknowledging the obvious. “Aye, we be aware.”
Nico turns on Lou Ellen like she’s already guilty of something—which, statistically speaking, she usually is. “And I’m bettin’ it’s somethin’ from your cabin. Some cursed fog or sparkly voodoo or whatever the hell you people get up to in the dead of night.”
Lou Ellen gives him a look that’s all too smug for someone wearing sequins. “Wow, sugar. Real fast to blame the Hecate kids, huh?” She flips her hair like the glitter’s on her side. “Let’s not forget: Camp is sittin’ right on top of a big ol’ cluster of ley lines. Magic here gets freaky if you look at it funny. You turned into a bat on Saturday for no reason, and don’t even get me started on your cat that’s been turnin’ the lights on and off. It’s Halloween, honey. Weird’s got a reservation.”
She says all this in a voice that belongs on a vinyl sleeve, not a battlefield.
“Yeah, well,” Nico says, hands cutting through the air in a gesture that’s more panicked than he wants to admit, “it ain’t all bell-bottoms and disco lights, darlin’, ‘cause look at Will—he’s about two seconds from puttin’ his teeth in somebody’s jugular.”
Will’s still got a hand at his throat, voice rough like he’s been swallowing glass. “I felt fine one minute,” he rasps, “and then suddenly all I could think about was—” He cuts himself off, cheeks going pink all the way to his ears. “—the neck of the Aphrodite girl I was talking to.”
Nico lets out a huff that lands somewhere between disbelief and a laugh that got lost on the way out. “Well, of course it was the Aphrodite girl,” he drawls, slow and smooth, crossing his arms like the motion might keep his dignity from leaking out too. “Ain’t like there ain’t a dozen other perfectly good necks hangin’ ‘round this damn party.”
Will gives him a look that hovers somewhere between fond and tired, because of course he does. “I didn’t choose it, Nico. It just… happened.” His fingers twitch against his throat like they’re not quite sure what to do with themselves. “And then somebody dressed as a nun walked past with a crucifix, and I hissed at her. Hissed. I didn’t even know I could do that.”
Cecil clutches his pirate hat like he’s witnessing the finest theatre of his life. Lou Ellen stands with her hands on her hips, glitter flashing in the lantern light, righteous disco energy radiating off her like heat. Nico stares at all three of them — the vampire, the pirate, and the sequined prophet — and has the distinct, sinking feeling he’s the only one still living in anything resembling reality.
Will drags a hand through his curls, restless, like if he just musses them enough he’ll undo whatever cosmic joke this is. “I tried to come back into the cabin to find you—” He flicks his wrist toward the door, sharp and frustrated. “—but I couldn’t cross the threshold. Like, physically couldn’t. It was like somebody slammed up an invisible wall. I nearly face-planted in front of a satyr and three fairies.”
Nico lets out a slow, unimpressed breath. “Well ain’t that just dandy,” he drawls, the words lazy as molasses. “Guess I’m datin’ a real live vampire now. That’ll keep things interesting.”
Will gives him a look — soft, stupidly fond, like he can’t help himself — but it folds fast under the weight of whatever’s thrumming through him. His shoulders knot up, the tension climbing higher. “It’s… a lot, Nico. I can smell everything. Blood. Sweat. Nerves. I can tell blood types. I think I can tell godly parents too — Hephaestus kids smell like iron and smoke, Hermes kids smell like citrus and bad ideas—” He breaks off, sucking in a ragged breath. “And I can’t even enjoy the science part of this because my throat feels like it’s been sandblasted.”
Nico watches him for a long moment, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, hat tipped low against the mist curling at their ankles. “So what you’re tellin’ me,” he says, slow and dry, “is we gotta fix this real quick before you start singin’ Feed Me, Seymour and eatin’ campers.”
Lou Ellen spins, sequins catching the porch light in short, sharp bursts, the kind that make Nico’s eyes ache if he looks too long. “Oh sugar,” she says, voice slipping fully into that vinyl-smooth drawl of a woman who’s decided she lives on a dance floor, “why would we fix it? This is Halloween, baby. Magic’s loose. Just groove with it.”
Cecil grins like a man halfway through a mutiny, his voice gone full sea-dog. “Aye, ye be fightin’ the tide, partner. Best t’ride it where it takes ye.”
Nico just stares at them with the kind of disbelief that sours at the edges. His mouth pulls into a thin, unimpressed line. “Am I the only one here with a lick o’ sense left?”
Lou Ellen throws her arms out like a glittered messiah, light sliding over her sequins in waves. “Sense is square, sweetheart. You gotta flow with the vibe.”
Cecil nods solemnly, as if the porch has turned into the deck of a doomed ship. “Aye. What she said.”
Nico drags a hand down his face, slow and weary, hat tipping low. “Lord have mercy,” he mutters, voice gone warm and slow, “I’m standin’ on a porch in the middle of October, knee-deep in mist, with the biggest buncha fools this side o’ the Mason-Dixon.”
Will makes a strangled little whimper—part animal, part apology—and the porch goes quiet like someone hit pause. Nico moves before he can think, boots scuffing against the wood. “Will, sweetheart, what in the hell—are you okay?”
Will’s eyes lock on him, wide and sharp and a little desperate. “Nico—” his voice scrapes thin, “seriously, stay back. I don’t think I can control myself around you. Your blood—Gods, your blood smells like—” He chokes, the words falling apart in his throat. “—it smells like everything I want and if you come any closer I think I’ll snap and drain you.”
The words hang there, awful and honest. Nico doesn’t faint, though that might’ve been more dignified. He just stands there with his hat brim low, caught somewhere between proud and desperate, which is an unholy combination for a porch at dusk.
Meanwhile, the rest of the porch has descended into full-blown chaos. Cecil is fencing a wooden beam like it insulted his mother, shouting “Arr!” with alarming sincerity. Lou Ellen—because of course—has conjured ABBA from the ether. “Dancing Queen” pours out of nowhere, and she’s shimmying like a woman born under a disco ball, sequins scattering light like guilty confetti.
Nico can feel the headache forming. He plants his hands on his hips, voice honeyed and low, the drawl thickening like it’s got something to prove. “Lou Ellen, darlin’—go find whichever one o’ your siblings cooked up this fog and figure out how we stop it. Take Cecil with you. And for the love of the gods Cecil, keep her off that dance floor.”
Lou Ellen gives a scandalised gasp, hand to her glittered chest. “Sugar, I am in the vibe.”
“Yeah, well, get out the vibe,” Nico snaps, sweet as magnolia syrup.
That’s when Cecil, who’s been grinning like a man who’s just struck gold, saunters over with all the theatrical solemnity of someone appointed by fate. “Aye aye, captain,” he declares, full pirate cadence, already reaching out to lay a hand—gentle but firm—on Lou Ellen’s glittered elbow. “Come on, lass. The captain’s orders. Best be off afore the band plays us under.”
He gives her a little tug that’s almost affectionate, steering her off the porch before she can whirl into Waterloo.
When they’re gone, the world folds small—just Will and the narrow stretch of porch between them. The lanternlight softens everything except him; it makes him sharp and pale, all edges and shadows, like someone decided to sculpt desire out of marble and bad decisions. His fingers still press against his throat, trembling like they’re the only thing holding him back. He looks more vampiric with every breath—not the monstrous kind, but the kind that gets invited in anyway. The hollows of his cheeks catch the light just so, like a painting designed to ruin people. It’s unfair, Nico thinks, that he gets to look like a brooding gothic fever dream while Nico’s over here sounding like Blanche DuBois.
“Gods,” Nico mutters, quiet and warm in a way that surprises even him. “I hate seein’ you like this.”
Will lets out a breath that catches halfway between a laugh and a sob. “This is horrible, Nico,” he says, voice fraying at the edges. “I’m so—” His hand digs harder against his throat, knuckles gone white. “I’m so scared I’m gonna hurt someone. Hurt you.”
The words land sharp and low, like something pulled straight from the gut. Nico feels it all the way down to the bone. Lou Ellen gets sequins. Cecil gets a pirate accent and delusions of grandeur. Nico’s stuck talkin’ like a Southern belle. But Will—Will gets stripped down to this: hunger and panic threaded tight together. And for a healer, for someone built out of gentleness and sun, this kind of power is a cruelty that hits too close.
Nico understands it. The way a power can sit inside your ribs like a blade you have to keep sheathed every second. How easy it would be to snap. How it never really stops whispering that you could. He’s carried that weight so long it feels like part of his pulse.
He takes a step forward before he can stop himself. Will flinches, subtle but sharp, like a match caught too close to flame. His pupils are wide, face drawn tight, breath coming fast. “Don’t,” Will rasps. “Nico—don’t. If you come any closer, I’m not—I can’t.”
“Alright, sugar,” Nico drawls, low and steady, hands lifted just enough to show he isn’t pushing. “I ain’t fixin’ to make it harder on you.”
Will’s breathing is ragged now, jaw clenched like he’s holding something back with sheer force. His throat moves like it’s already imagining the taste of him. The lanternlight catches on his face—pale and feverish, all sharp edges and hollowed cheeks—and it should be frightening, it should be monstrous, but it’s not. It’s—Gods help him—it’s beautiful.
Nico can feel it tugging at him, that magnetic pull. Will looks like something half-starved and holy, and Nico’s got no business liking it as much as he does. He stays rooted, just far enough to keep them both from tipping over the edge.
“You’re stronger than this,” he says softly, the drawl wrapping round the words like silk. “Ain’t nothin’ that fog can do that’s stronger’n you.”
Will’s throat works around a sound that’s almost a growl. His fingers curl uselessly against the porch rail like they’re meant to hold onto something—preferably Nico. The hunger in his eyes is so naked it borders on obscene, and the only thing keeping him back is his own stubborn willpower.
The night starts to stretch in that peculiar way it does when everything’s balanced on the edge of something stupid. Will’s still at the railing, every line of him strung tight, hunger sliding closer to the surface like it’s just waiting for the right excuse.
Nico shifts his weight—barely anything—but the wind moves with him, tugging at his clothes, carrying something in the air he can’t name. Will’s head snaps up so fast it makes Nico’s pulse stutter. His eyes catch the lanternlight, pupils blown wide and black, mouth parted like he’s already tasting it. There’s something feral about it, that sharp, single-minded focus.
For a heartbeat the world narrows. Porch. Mist. Will, looking at him like he’s the only thing worth sinking his teeth into.
It should scare him. It doesn’t. Or maybe it does, just not in the way it should. It curls low and warm, slides right under his ribs. Gods help him, he’d be lying if he said it wasn’t a turn-on.
The porch door bursts open like the world’s least subtle joke, and Lou Ellen and Cecil spill back into the night. Lou’s sequins catch the lanternlight, throwin’ little stabs of gold into the fog; Cecil looks like he’s just lost a very dramatic naval battle and lived to brag about it.
Nico’s on his feet before either of ‘em can get a word out. “Well?”
Lou Ellen leans against the railin’, glitter smeared down one arm like war paint, lookin’ entirely too pleased with herself. “Well,” she drawls, “there’s this whole thing happenin’ inside. Everybody’s really leanin’ into their costumes. That Ares boy dressed like a werewolf? He’s over there howlin’ at the snack table like it’s a full moon. And don’t even get me started on the mermaids—”
Nico pinches the bridge of his nose. “Lou. The damn fog.”
“Oh.” She blinks, like that’s somehow the least important part of this evening. “Right. Talked to my brother. Fog’s set to clear at midnight. Ain’t a blessed thing we can do till then, sugar.”
Nico stares at her. “Now don’t go feedin’ me that nonsense. You’re Lou Ellen Blackstone. There’s always somethin’ you can pull outta that witches hat of yours.”
Her grin goes slow and shameless, chin tiltin’ like she’s about to start trouble. “Not tonight, baby. Tonight—” She snaps her fingers, and the air answers her. ABBA roars back to life, “Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! (A Man After Midnight)” spillin’ through the mist like the world’s tackiest prophecy. “—I’m the Dancing Queen.”
Cecil raises his sword like a man born for bad ideas. “Give me a man after midnight,” he bellows, pirate accent in full swing, “an’ I’ll make ‘im walk the plank!”
Nico lets out a long-suffering breath and pinches the bridge of his nose again, mutterin’ something that probably offends half the pantheon. “Lord have mercy,” he says, drawl heavy, “y’all ain’t right. You won’t be a pirate after midnight, Cecil—you’ll just be Cecil again.”
He looks between them—glitter, sea-shanties, and what can only be described as advanced brain rot—and decides logic’s not invited to this particular party. “Alright,” he sighs, drawl sliding low, “y’all are absolutely useless. Ain’t there really nothin’ we can do?”
Lou Ellen twirls a piece of hair around her finger like she’s spinnin’ a fairytale. “Zilch. My brother got the spell from some witch who specialises in midnight enchantments. She’s kinda famous—you know, glass slipper, pumpkin carriage, very dramatic exit.”
Nico blinks slow. “You are not standin’ on this porch tellin’ me Cinderella is real right now.”
Lou grins, all teeth and glitter.“Honey, all the stories are true. Magic’s just got a way of makin’ itself sound pretty.”
Nico exhales through his teeth, long and slow. “Fine. Y’all stay here—groove, duel the air, do whatever nonsense it is you’re doin’. I’m takin’ Will back to my cabin to wait this out.”
Cecil tips his hat, sword raised in salute. “Fair winds, partner.”
Lou Ellen blows him a kiss, sequins catching the light. “Don’t let the vampires bite, sugar.”
Will’s already swaying, knuckles white against the railing. “Gods,” he mutters, breath catching, “I’m so dizzy I’m seein’ stars.”
“Lord have mercy,” Nico sighs, stepping in close without a second thought. His arm slides around Will’s waist, steadying him, and Will lets out this soft, cracked little sound that lands somewhere between a whimper and a prayer. It hits low and hot, the kind of sound that sticks.
“Nico,” Will breathes, voice gone thin, “I’m gonna hurt you. I can feel it—I’m right on the edge of snapping.”
Nico tilts his head, drawl slow and sweet as sin. “Hush now, baby. You ain’t gonna do a damn thing ‘cept breathe.” His thumb brushes the fabric at Will’s hip, subtle and dangerous. “But if you’re really a vampire tonight… maybe what you need’s a little blood.”
Will shudders at that, his breath dragging against Nico’s throat like he’s already imagining it. “We don’t—” he manages, voice breaking on the word, “—we don’t have any. Blood bank’s empty ‘til the next draw.”
Nico goes quiet, the air between them warm and close. He can feel the heat of Will’s body, the tension running under his skin like a live wire. His mind flickers through half-formed thoughts, sharp and fast—reckless little calculations he shouldn’t be making. “Well, ain’t that somethin’,” he murmurs, low enough that it slides right between them. He tightens his arm just a little, close enough that Will has to breathe him in. “C’mon now, sweetheart. Let’s get you back to the cabin ‘fore you fall all over me.”
They make it across camp in fits and stumbles, Nico half-dragging, half-steadying him the whole way. The mist curls thick around their boots, lanterns burning soft and distant. By the time they reach the cabin, Will’s breathing has gone ragged, every exhale sharp at the edges.
The door clicks shut behind them, and before Nico can even reach for the light, Will moves. One second he’s heavy against Nico’s side; the next he’s a blur across the room, pressed into the farthest corner like a trapped animal with too much power in his veins.
Nico blinks once, slow. “Baby,” he drawls, soft and incredulous, “what in God’s good name are you doin’ all the way over there?”
Will curls tighter, knees up, fingers clawed against the floorboards, eyes gone too dark to pass for anything human. “Tryin’ to restrain myself,” he rasps, voice cracking clean down the middle.
Nico sets his hat on the nightstand, kicks his boots off with a lazy thud, and sits back on the bed like this is all part of the plan. “Sweetheart,” he says, low and coaxing, “come on now. C’mere. It’s alright.”
Will shakes his head so hard his curls stick to his forehead, jaw clenched like he’s got a war in his mouth. “You can’t help me, Nico.”
Nico sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Lord above. Is this what I sound like every time you’re tryin’ to patch me up and I get all high and mighty about drainin’ your energy? ‘Cause if it is, I owe the whole damn universe an apology.”
Will’s head snaps up at that, breath catching sharp. For a second, the hunger flickers with something else — something that understands.
His voice drops to a whisper, shaky and terrified. “No. No, you can’t—don’t say that. You can’t offer that.”
“It’s fine,” Nico murmurs, slow and syrup-thick, reckless in the way that always gets him in trouble. “Just come here, sweetheart. There’s still two hours till midnight, and you’re circlin’ the drain real pretty.”
Will swallows, throat working like the effort alone might keep him human. Even from across the room Nico can see the shift settling over him, carving through him quiet and deliberate. His skin’s gone pale as candlewax, cheekbones knifed sharp, the red of his mouth too vivid against everything else. His pupils have all but eaten the light.
It’s a hell of a thing—watching him starve and turn beautiful at the same time. Like the hunger’s a sculptor and Will’s just been standing still too long.
Nico leans back against the headboard, watching him with the kind of quiet steadiness that only makes Will shake harder. “I ain’t gonna let you hurt me too much,” he says, low and sure, like it’s already decided. “And I’ve got a set of rosary beads sittin’ in that drawer I can’t seem to throw out. If it comes to it, sugar, I’ll get that crucifix right up in your face.”
Will makes a sound that doesn’t know what it wants to be—half laugh, half growl—and curls his hands into fists like that might keep him tethered to the floor. His voice scrapes low, cracked open at the edges. “All I’ve ever wanted was to keep you safe,” he whispers. “I can’t—Nico, I can’t do this to you.”
Nico tilts his head, drawl soft and warm as whiskey. “Don’t you get it, sugar? That’s exactly what I want for you. If the tables were turned, you’d’ve opened a vein an hour ago and told me to hush up and drink, now ain’t that right?”
Will’s throat works. He makes a small, broken noise—like the thought alone could undo him—and nods, sharp and helpless.
Nico’s voice drops lower, slow as a match catching. “Then come on over here, sweetheart.”
Will moves like something’s dragging at his heels, each step stitched out of hunger and hesitation. By the time he reaches the bed, his breath’s gone shallow, pupils blown wide. Nico reaches out, catches him by the wrist, and pulls him down with an ease that doesn’t leave room for arguing. He tips his chin back, baring his throat like a sin offered up neat. “It’s alright, baby,” he murmurs, steady as a heartbeat. “Ain’t nothin’ you can take I won’t give.”
Will hesitates—just for a heartbeat—then huffs out a shaky breath. “At least let me… kiss you first.”
Nico doesn’t bother answering. The kiss lands warm and trembling, soft enough it feels like it might shatter if either of them breathes too hard. Will’s mouth is desperate without meaning to be, teeth dragging a little too close to dangerous. One fang catches on Nico’s bottom lip—quick, precise—and the skin splits with a small, startled sting.
Blood blooms across his tongue, hot and metallic, sharp as struck copper. Will jerks like the taste has punched through something vital, eyes flaring wide and dark—starved and gorgeous in a way that shouldn’t make Nico’s pulse jump, but absolutely does.
Then Will’s mouth finds the curve of his neck. The breath there is shaky, hot against the pulse, reverent in its own crooked way. The bite isn’t a clean shock—it’s a slow, bright cut, like a match striking skin. Pain flickers through him sharp at first, teeth pressing deep, and his breath stutters, back arching up and away from the sheets. It should hurt more than it does.
Then the burn settles, a low, liquid thrum that spreads behind his ribs and down his spine. The sting melts into something heady and dangerously soft, the kind of feeling that hovers on the edge of pain and pleasure, impossible to untangle. His body yields without asking permission, drawn into the shape of Will’s hunger.
And gods help him—it feels good. There’s a dark thrill in it, in the press of fangs against skin, in the way Will’s breath shakes against his throat like something holy and starved. Nico lets it pull at him, lets the pulse in his neck sync with the pull of Will’s mouth. It’s warm and dizzying, like stepping over a line and deciding not to look back.
He’s read about this before—back in the Underworld library, brittle pages about blood-drinkers who carry a trace of their own magic in their bite. Venom, or something like it, seeping under the skin and making the body go soft around the edges. A kind of evolutionary trick: calm the prey, keep them still. And gods help him, it works.
But he also knows this won’t change him. Turning’s got rules — annoying, old, dramatic rules. You bleed, they bleed, then you die. Heart stopped, no exceptions. They plant you in a grave like a daisy, and if it sticks, you crawl out on your own. A bite on its own doesn’t make you a vampire. It just makes you the idiot who let someone get their teeth in your neck for fun. Not that he’s in any place to judge.
The world narrows to heat and breath and the soft, broken sounds Will makes against his skin—whimpers that vibrate against the pulse, low enough to make his head swim. Nico isn’t sure if the dizziness comes from blood loss or how close it feels, how intimate it is to be known like this.
Will pulls back with a sharp, shuddering breath, fangs catching the light—wet and gleaming. There’s a smear of red at the corner of his mouth, and Nico’s pulse jumps hard, an involuntary stutter that feels a lot like wanting.
Will presses their foreheads together, breathless, heartbeat staccato against Nico’s. Nico swallows, voice low, a soft rasp threading through it. “You told me once… ’bout my blood,” he murmurs. “How it’s different. All that Underworld power sittin’ in it. High iron, low oxygen. Don’t crash easy. Takes a hell of a lot more to put me under.”
Will lets out a shaky breath against his skin, the words catching at the edges as they form. “Exactly,” he whispers. “Your blood’s… denser. It oxygenates slower. The magic binds tighter. If this were anyone else—” He breaks off, swallows hard. “I’d be pushing them into shock right now. But you—” Another breath, softer. “You’ve got that built-in buffer. I’m not—I'm not gonna hurt you.”
Nico huffs a quiet laugh, the sound low and warm. “Reckon that means you can take a little more, sweetheart. Still thirsty? ”