Work Text:
Aunt Erika
PROLOGUE
After the destruction of Ördögház, Erika found herself alone for the first time in twenty-seven years. No more gothic manor, no more silent servants, no more Kraven elegantly ignoring her while she fluttered around him like a moth drawn to a flame that stubbornly refused to scorch her. Just a third-floor studio flat in a drab 1970s block in Croydon, blackout curtains bought from IKEA, and a cleaning contract for night-shift office work — just enough to cover rent and bills.
Blood, however, was another matter. No more prisoners in the dungeons, no more discreet deliveries arranged by fellow coven members. She had to fend for herself: rough sleepers under bridges, dealers in shadowed alleyways — people no one would miss too keenly.
She didn’t always kill; often, she left her “donors” merely dazed, just enough not to recall what had happened — she’d quickly learned that corpses drew attention. And yet, when she did kill, she had to admit she felt far more like a vampire than she ever had before. Sometimes, she even employed the same tactics she’d seen big cats — her favourite animals — use in David Attenborough documentaries, her new obsession. The highlight had been watching a lioness take down a hyena: it had reminded her of Selene versus the Lycans, though the narrator’s voice had then dashed her hopes by revealing the sad truth — that hyenas weren’t oversized dogs at all. Humans and their foolish classifications, she’d muttered.
At least her vampiric strength gave her an edge at work. While her human colleagues took twenty minutes to clean a bathroom, she managed in five. While they struggled with bin bags, she hoisted them as if stuffed with feathers. Her supervisor had noticed, even praised her:
“Erika, you’re a gem. A machine. I don’t know how you do it.”
Erika had smiled, tempted to bare her fangs and reveal exactly who she was — but instead simply murmured, “Good genes.”
For six months, everything ran smoothly: a grey existence, yes — but stable, routine, safe.
Then management announced an “optimisation of service hours” and sent a group email: starting next Monday, shifts would run from 7 a.m. to 3 p.m.
Erika read the email at 4 a.m., during her break, and laughed — a dry, hollow sound. She rang her boss without even waiting for dawn, knowing her boss was on the night shift that evening.
“I’m afraid I can’t accept the schedule change.”
“Erika, dear, this isn’t a request. It’s a corporate reorganisation.”
“I understand completely. And I hereby resign.”
“But…”
“Effective immediately. Good morning.”
She hung up, powered off her phone, went home, and slipped into bed, savouring the bitter satisfaction of having sent someone elegantly to hell — while knowing full well she’d just shot herself in the foot.
She idly wondered what her boss’s blood type was.
---
I.
She woke around six with a headache she shouldn’t have had — vampires don’t get headaches — yet there it was, likely psychosomatic, certainly stress-induced. She turned over, buried her face in the pillow, and tried to drift off.
The doorbell rang.
Erika ignored it. It rang again. And again. And again.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake — ” She rose, wrapped herself in a dressing gown, double-checked the curtains were fully closed, and approached the door. Peering through the spyhole, she saw Marissa — her former colleague from the floor below, with whom she’d exchanged a few words during breaks. Marissa looked desperate.
Erika cracked the door. “Marissa? What’s wrong? It’s terribly early…”
“I’m so sorry, Erika, but — ” Marissa’s eyes glistened, her hands clenched tight around the strap of a pink unicorn-shaped bag. “I know you refused the shift change — I did too — but they called me this morning and said if I don’t show, I’m fired, and I, Erika, I can’t lose this job — I’m the only one working at home, and…”
“Marissa. Breathe.”
She did — barely. “Angela’s school is closed today. I’ve no one to watch her. Mum’s in Birmingham, my sister’s working, my ex is — well, my ex. I’ve got no one. And you’re the only person I know who lives nearby, and…”
Erika understood. Her stomach — useless, decorative by now — nonetheless clenched.
“You want me to babysit your daughter.”
“Just for today. Please. Until six. I’ll come straight after, I swear — and — and I’ll pay you, of course…”
“No need.”
“Erika…”
“No need.”
Erika was thinking hard, frantically. She could refuse, of course — but she wasn’t at all sure her refusal would pass unnoticed in the human world. A flicker of anxiety — panic, not yet, but close — rose at the thought: doing something odd would ripple through reality like a stone dropped in a pond, each wave expanding until one caught the wrong eye.
She resolved to delay disaster as long as possible. She opened the door — just enough for the child to slip through. “Alright.”
Marissa nearly sobbed with relief. “Thank you. Thank you, Erika, I don’t know how…”
“Go. Go — or you’ll be late.”
---
II.
Two minutes later, Angela was in her living room.
Eight years old. Chestnut pigtails. A sparkly kitten T-shirt. Light-up trainers. And blood group O-positive, emanating from every pore like a fine perfume in an exclusive boutique.
Erika stood by the kitchen doorway, arms folded, forcing a smile.
“Hello, Angela.”
“Hello, Auntie Erika!”
Auntie. Of course. Marissa must have instructed her to use that.
“Mum says you’re so kind.”
“Your mum exaggerates.”
“She also says you’ve got a beautiful flat.”
Erika glanced around. The studio was sparse, clean, functional — decorations limited to a fake plant (real ones always wilted, for some reason) and an ironic IKEA print reading LIVE LAUGH LOVE, which she’d never bothered to take down.
“Thanks,” she said.
Angela beamed — a sweet, open, trusting smile. The kind that made everything worse.
Erika swallowed. Pointlessly.
“So,” she said, striving for cheerfulness rather than desperation, “what would you like to do?”
---
III.
The first two hours were a masterclass in self-restraint.
Angela wanted to play. To talk. To show Auntie Erika every drawing in her rucksack, every sticker in her collection, every song she’d learned at school. And each time she bounded forward — enthusiastic, unguarded — Erika had to stop herself stepping back.
The blood. Good lord, the blood! She could taste it — warm, vital, pulsing just beneath Angela’s delicate skin. She heard it in the child’s heartbeat, in her breath, in the heat she radiated like a small, living radiator. And Erika hadn’t fed since the previous night. She’d planned to go out that evening — to find someone, to settle her hunger. But now she was trapped here. Starving. With a little girl who smelled like lunch.
“Auntie Erika?”
Erika looked up. Angela was studying her, head tilted.
“Yes?”
“Why do you always stay so far away?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, every time I come near, you move away.”
Erika laughed — a note too sharp. “Me? No, no. It’s just — Auntie Erika needs her personal space, darling.”
“Oh.” Angela considered this. “Mum says she needs personal space too when she’s stressed.”
“Exactly. I’m a bit stressed.”
“Why?”
Erika scrambled for an excuse. Any excuse.
“Because… I lost my job this morning.”
Not even a lie.
Angela’s eyes widened. “Oh no! I’m sorry!”
“Not your fault.”
“Can I do anything to make you feel better?”
Yes, Erika thought. You can stand still and be quiet and not come near me until your mother collects you.
“No, sweetheart. You’re already doing plenty. You’re being very good.”
Angela smiled again. That smile.
Erika looked away.
---
IV.
At lunchtime, Angela announced she was hungry.
“Alright,” said Erika. “What do you like?”
“Pasta!”
Naturally. Erika opened the almost-empty cupboard — she didn’t eat — and miraculously found a forgotten packet of spaghetti. Probably bought for appearances, in case of visitors. No one had ever visited.
She boiled water, added the pasta, drained it, tossed it with a drizzle of olive oil and a pinch of salt — no sauce in sight. She placed the bowl before Angela.
“Here you go.”
“Thanks, Auntie Erika! Aren’t you eating?”
“I… already have.”
“When?”
“This morning. Early.”
Angela looked sceptical. “Really? Mum says you’ve got to eat at least three times a day.”
“Your mum’s wise. I’m just… not very hungry.”
“Ever?”
“Never.”
Angela studied her a moment longer, shrugged, and began eating. Erika leaned against the counter, focusing on her breath — in, out. In, out. Don’t breathe too deeply. Don’t smell too much. Don’t think how easy it would be —
“Auntie Erika?”
“Yes?”
“Why’s your skin so cold?”
Erika glanced at her hands — pale, icy, dead.
“Poor circulation.”
“What’s that?”
“It means my blood doesn’t circulate well.”
“Does it hurt?”
“No. I’m just… always cold.”
“You poor thing.” Angela pondered. “Want my hoodie?”
Erika almost laughed. “No, sweetheart. Thank you.”
“Sure?”
“Very sure.”
---
V.
In the afternoon, Angela wanted to watch a film. Erika turned on the telly, queued up a cartoon — something with princesses and magic — and sat at the far end of the sofa. Angela curled up with a cushion, blissfully absorbed.
Erika tried to relax. Tried not to think of hunger. Tried not to count down the minutes to six.
Then Angela shot up.
“I need the loo!”
“The bathroom’s there.”
Angela dashed off. Erika heard the door close, water running — then a cry.
“Auntie Erika!”
Erika leapt up. “What’s wrong?”
“I hurt myself!”
Erika reached the bathroom door. Angela stood there, one hand under the tap, the other outstretched — a small cut on her finger. Nothing serious. Just a few drops of blood.
But it was blood.
Fresh.
O-positive.
Erika froze in the doorway. Every muscle locked. Her pupils dilated. Her fangs — those fangs Len Wiseman had inexplicably deemed too long — pressed against her lips.
“Auntie Erika?” Angela’s eyes glistened. “It hurts.”
Erika forced words out. “How… how did you do it?”
“There was a little nail poking out near the towel rail. I didn’t see it.”
A nail. Of course. The flat was old, shabby. She should’ve checked, fixed it — but why bother? She didn’t get hurt.
“It hurts,” Angela repeated, voice trembling on the edge of tears but trying to be brave.
Erika took a breath she didn’t need. “Was it rusty?”
Angela shook her head. “No. Sort of… silvery.”
Good. At least that.
Erika turned sharply. “Wait here.”
She strode to the kitchen, braced against the counter, breathing. Then she grabbed antiseptic — the same she used to scrub traces of blood from the sink after her nocturnal outings — and a plaster from the cabinet (left by the previous tenant, long expired — but plasters don’t spoil).
Back at the door, she knocked.
“Angela?”
“Yes?”
“Open up. I’ll put a plaster on it.”
Angela opened the door. Erika took her hand — quick, efficient — dabbed antiseptic on a tissue, pressed it to the cut (“Ow!”), applied the plaster, released — deliberately focusing on the task to block out the scent.
“There. All better.”
As an afterthought, she plucked the nail out with two fingers — it was intact.
Angela examined her bandaged finger. “Thanks, Auntie Erika.”
“You’re welcome.”
Erika stepped out, closed the door behind her, leaned against the hallway wall, and shut her eyes.
Four more hours.
---
VI.
At quarter to five, Angela grew restless.
“I’m bored.”
“Want to watch another film?”
“No.”
“Draw?”
“No.”
“How about — ”
“I want to go out.”
Erika looked at her. “Outside?”
“Yes! To the park! There’s one nearby, right?”
Erika checked the clock. The sun was setting. Winter meant early dark. Perhaps — perhaps it could work.
“Alright. But only for a little while.”
---
VII.
The park was nearly empty. The sky hung leaden-grey; the sun was a thin orange line on the horizon. Erika pulled her leather jacket tighter — not for warmth, but appearances — and followed Angela to the swings.
“Watch me, Auntie Erika! Watch me!”
Erika watched. Angela swung, laughed, lived. So vibrantly alive.
Erika looked away — and saw a woman.
Young — maybe twenty-five. Dark hair in a ponytail. Joggers and a hoodie. And — Erika sensed it instantly — O-positive. She felt it in the woman’s movement, the heat she radiated, the pulse echoing in the cold air like a drumbeat.
Instinctively, Erika tracked her. Assessing. Jugular — fast, but too exposed in public. Femoral — slower, less conspicuous. Or the wrist: classic, discreet.
“Auntie Erika?”
Erika snapped back. Angela had hopped off the swing, watching her with quiet curiosity.
“Why were you looking at that lady?”
Erika recovered — barely. “Me? Nothing! I was just… admiring her… coat. Very nice.”
Angela raised an eyebrow. Eight years old and already sceptical. “She’s not wearing a coat.”
“The hoodie. I meant the hoodie.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Angela held her gaze a beat longer. “Sure?”
“Very sure. Come on — it’s time to go back.”
---
VIII.
At six exactly, the doorbell rang.
Erika opened the door. Marissa stood there — exhausted, grateful, apologetic.
“Thank you so much, Erika. I don’t know how to repay you. Angela — were you good?”
“Yes, Mum!”
“Good. Come on, let’s let Auntie Erika rest.”
Angela shouldered her rucksack, slipped on her trainers, and headed for the door — then stopped. Turned.
“Auntie Erika?”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Can I tell you something?”
Marissa was already in the corridor, scrolling her phone, distracted. Angela stepped back, lowered her voice.
“I know your secret.”
Erika’s blood — what little she had — turned to ice. Her fangs pressed against her lips. Part of her screamed to hiss, to bare her teeth, to make the child and her mother disappear before…
“You don’t have to pretend with me,” Angela said, solemnly, far too seriously. “I figured it out.”
Erika didn’t breathe. “Figured out… what?”
“That you’re sad.”
Silence.
“Sad?” Erika’s voice was a thread. “Me?”
Angela nodded, with that gravity only children possess.
“Yes. Because you keep everything shut away… you never eat… and you stay alone in the dark. That’s what my teacher does when she’s sad.” She paused. “And you speak softly. And you always look… like something hurts. Inside.”
Something rose in Erika’s throat — not hunger, not thirst, but something older: a wound she’d forgotten she carried.
“But it’s alright,” Angela said. “I’m not scared. And you shouldn’t be ashamed.”
She took Erika’s hand — scorchingly warm.
“I love you anyway.”
Erika stood frozen. A part of her — the part that had died when she stopped being alive — softened.
Angela smiled, turned, and ran off. “Bye, Auntie Erika!”
“Bye, Angela.”
The door clicked shut.
Erika remained still in the flat’s silence. Then, slowly, she slid down the wall to the floor.
She closed her eyes.
For one moment — just one — she felt no hunger.
And the impossible happened: something hot and wet slipped down her cheek.