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Upon returning to Castle Dimitrescu, you make the bold—and likely stupid—decision to start taking matters into your own hands. You only half remember the conversation you’d had with Angie in the workshop—you were, after all, quite literally lying in a pool of your own blood—but what you do recall is enough to make your head spin.
You’re not a scientist, but you’re smart enough to know that anything involving fungal spores, mold, and parasites is bad news. You can’t even feel too conflicted about whatever happened between you and Bela. You’ll unpack it later. Or never.
You lie in bed that night, wide awake, dressed like a new day is about to begin.
An hour after midnight, you’re creeping through the halls, following a hand-drawn map by candlelight to the castle library.
You don’t need the map, not really; you’ve tidied those shelves before. But with your heart pounding in your chest and cold sweat beading at your temples, you don’t trust your sense of direction.
Luckily, it’s just a matter of finding the northern stairwell. It spits you out right next to the library. The doors are unlocked, which isn’t unusual, though the way they creak as you open them is cringe-inducing.
Did they creak like that last time? You can’t remember.
It’s dark, shrouded in shadows as you tiptoe inside—save for the faint orange-ish glow of your candle and silvery moonlight streaming in through the circular skylight.
It’s not the tidiest of places, despite your and the maids’ best efforts.
Books, stacked in waist-high piles, crowd the floors. Others sit idly on the furniture.
Bela is an avid reader, yet surprisingly, she has nothing on Daniela.
You’ve yet to see it yourself, but you don’t doubt the others when they tell you that most days, Daniela will spend hours up here reading.
You just struggle to imagine her doing something so innocuous.
You make your way over to the non-fiction section—no more than a handful of shelves—and begin reading the titles by candlelight. Most are in Romanian, though a good portion of them are in English and French.
Bone tumors, blood transfusions, psychiatry... None of that seems right. Ophthalmology? Nope. Child birth and midwifery—definitely not.
You’d kill for a search engine.
You’re on the third shelf when you hear it: a faint rumbling. Coming from inside the room. You freeze where you stand, ice slithering down your back. It’s a consistent, almost rhythmic noise, like... purring?
Shit.
You blow out the candle, veiling yourself in darkness. It takes a minute for your eyes to adjust, but once they do, you turn toward the noise.
Nothing. You creep forward, squinting ahead. Where—?
There. A crumpled heap lies on the settee. Black fabric. Slender build. Reddish hair peeking out from a hood...
Daniela.
Your stomach drops. The purring continues.
This can’t be happening. Your body still twinges with phantom aches, never mind that they all healed themselves hours ago. You watch, horrified, as Daniela shifts, providing a glimpse of the stone around her neck. Forest-green.
You need to get out of here immediately—but you need to do it slowly. You go the long way, step by agonizing step, giving Daniela the widest berth possible.
A part of you rejoices when you reach the door, but you know you’re not out of the woods yet. They creaked loud as hell when you came in.
How did she not hear it?
Maybe she’s a deep sleeper.
Only one way to find out.
You set the candlestick holder, its flame extinguished, at your feet. Gripping the door with both hands, you shut your eyes tight and pull, gentle as you can—
Creeeaaak. You stop short, sparing a quick glance over your shoulder. You don’t see any movement. The purring continues.
You pull again.
Creeeeaaak. Fuck, that was loud.
You can’t keep doing this. You can barely fit your hand through the gap you’ve made.
With bated breath, you pull. Creeeaaak. And pull. Creeaak. And pull. Creeeaaaak.
That should be enough. You’re just wriggling your way through when—
“Where do you think you’re going?” comes Daniela’s voice, husky with sleep, from right next to your ear.
All rational thought flees your mind. You bolt.
— —
Or at least, you try to.
Daniela manages to get a grip on your collar before you break away. You’d seen horse-collar tackles on the television before, but seeing it doesn’t prepare you for the reality.
Legs flailing, you drop like a stone, hitting the floor back-first with enough force to expel every ounce of oxygen from your lungs.
Ow. You writhe in the doorway, hacking like a cat vomiting up a hairball.
Eventually, the static in your vision subsides and the air returns to your lungs. With some effort, you drag yourself to your knees, only to find Daniela already crouched beside you.
She’s close, so close that her nose brushes yours. Her skin, pale as moonlight, seems to glow in the darkness, and her eyes—marigold yellow—are wide like saucers.
“H-human!” she wheezes, managing to sound excited and agitated at the same time. “Where are you running?”
“Miss Daniela,” you manage weakly. “I’m sorry that I disturbed you.”
Confusion flits across her face. Her eyes dart to the door and back to you. “That door creaks a lot,” she informs you.
“I noticed.”
If she registers the sarcasm, she doesn’t show it. “Do you like books?”
You blink. “Books?”
“Books!”
Everything about this interaction is mind-bending. What happened to the bloodlust? The frenzy, the chasing ? “I— Yes, I like books.”
“Me too,” Daniela says with a pleased hum. “Do you want to read with me?”
“It’s late, Miss Daniela.”
“But I’m awake, and you’re awake. Read with me!”
Why the hell not? “Alright.”
— —
Candles, now lit, bathe the room in a warm, yellow-y glow. Daniela insists that you sit together on the settee, so you do. Your back is a little bruised, but the settee is well-cushioned, and there is no shortage of pillows to be found.
Your selection—some dry-looking text about madness and civilization—isn’t exactly light reading, but in a thematic sense, it’s regrettably fitting. Everything about this feels like dancing on the edge of madness.
Daniela is reading a collection of short stories by a Russian author. She’s on “The Nose,” she tells you. You don’t ask any follow-ups.
You don’t make much progress on your own, either. The adrenaline wears off quickly, and exhaustion begins to set in soon after. With every page, you’re having to read and re-read more to absorb the words. Worse still, Daniela has inched her way ever closer over the past hour. Despite all reason, you cannot bring yourself to move away.
You can’t bear to ruin this moment—break this fragile truce—that’s manifested itself into being… even when her head finds its place on your shoulder.
You’re much too tired to tense up in fear, and the contact is not what you expected: It’s gentle and warm. As the chapter you’re reading draws to a close, the sounds of gentle purring return, closer now than ever. You almost think to check whether she’s fallen asleep, but minutes later, her ghost-pale fingers are turning the next page in her book.
It’s only then that you think to wonder how long she’s been free of her punishment. And how on earth she’s reading sideways. Questions for another time, perhaps.
You don’t know when—or how—you fall asleep, but you do: bathed in candlelight, Daniela’s lazy purrs filling your ears as darkness drags you under.
— —
You wake in a most unsettling manner. Hot breath warms your lips in quick, energetic pants. A writhing, restless body vibrates on your lap. It doesn’t get better when you open your eyes.
Immediately, you’re met with expectant citrine irises. “Human!” Daniela chirps. Her nose nestles alongside yours.
“Hello, Miss Daniela,” you croak. Her breath comes even faster now, like you’ve excited her. Fortunately, it doesn’t smell of anything unpleasant.
What time is it? you wonder. The pale light of early morning seeps in from overhead, and the throbbing in your skull tells you you weren’t asleep for long. There’s a clock in here, isn’t there? You crane your neck and try scanning your surroundings.
Daniela follows, like her face is glued to yours.
You attempt to level her with your best scolding look, but it’s early—not to mention hard to do without going cross-eyed. “Can I help you?”
“Will you play with me?”
“Now?”
Daniela nods eagerly. “W-Was so good! Didn’t bite—all night, wanted to—once!”
“Um, yes, that is true.” You clear your throat. You’re not sure what compels you, but you add, “Good girl.”
The rumbling purr returns in full force. On a whim, you give her an awkward head pat. She seems to love that even more, if the way she arches into it with half-lidded eyes and a dopey grin is any indication.
It makes you smile despite yourself. It also makes your chest feel all kinds of weird.
“Play with me?” she repeats. Her eyes are hopeful.
“Can I eat first?”
— —
It’s well before breakfast. Down in the kitchens, Iulia and her crew aren’t anywhere to be seen. Daniela watches you intently as you shuffle around, taking bites of a not-yet-ripe apple while mixing together a mug of instant coffee.
“That looks gross,” she comments when it’s finished.
“It is.” You choke down a sip. The first one’s always the hardest. “Want some?”
Daniela makes a face. Her gaze is narrowed, laser-focused on the mug like it’s dangerous. “What’s it taste like?”
“Bitter. Watery.” You don’t want to sugarcoat it. “It’s not for everyone.”
She watches you take another sip. And another. “Can I try?”
You pass it over.
“Warm,” she sighs happily, cradling the ceramic with reverence. Without further ado, she takes a healthy gulp.
You see the moment it hits her tongue. You see the way her yellow eyes go wide—not with delight, but with immediate distaste.
You leap out of the way just in time. She does a spectacular spit take—good volume, great reach—that showers the floor (and countertop) in diluted brown liquid.
“Blech!” She retches, dissolving into a swarm only to reappear at the kitchen sink and begin guzzling water straight from the tap. Lucky for you, she had the good sense to set the mug aside first.
You bite back a laugh, and busy yourself with fetching some cleaning supplies instead.
It doesn’t take long. In minutes, the kitchen is spotless once more, and Daniela—the ends of her hair damp—is perched on the countertop. She doesn’t ask for more, and you don’t offer it. She watches you finish the rest in silence.
— —
“This seems like a bad idea.”
“You said you’d play!”
You peer over the balustrade. One floor down—smooth, polished stone. “I’m gonna break my leg.”
“You’ll heal!”
You pinch the bridge of your nose. You’re going to regret this. “Fine.”
At Daniela’s urging, you shed your blazer and take a few steps back. As you do, a large, fuzzy fly settles on your collar. You swat it away. It comes right back.
“Losing your nerve?” Daniela taunts.
You flip her the middle finger. Forget the six-legged stowaway; you need to focus. The angle of the curve isn’t too steep, and your balance is better than most people’s. Before you can think too hard about it, you lunge forward.
You don’t eat shit immediately, which is cool. Your aim is perfect, actually. Your weight is well-balanced on your thighs, and you’re careful not to lean back—until you reach the midpoint. You feel yourself pitch forward. On impulse, you jerk backward to compensate.
It’s a textbook over-correction. It’s also worse with enhanced strength. You tumble off the handrail, twisting mid-air as your momentum sends you hurtling across the main hall.
By some miracle, you don’t hit your head on the way down. Your shoulder takes the brunt of the impact, but you’re still going too fast. You ricochet off the floor, roll a few times, and end up sprawled face-down with your limbs askew.
You groan as a throng of humming insects gathers in your periphery. “That hurt.”
Daniela giggles—a light, airy sound. “Silly human. You did it wrong!”
With some effort, you haul yourself onto your back. “Oh, yeah? Why don’t you show me how it’s done?”
Daniela’s face lights up. “Yes, yes, yes!” She dissolves into a swarm, streaks up the steps, and reforms on the landing. Her sprightliness is truly something to behold.
You sit up and watch as she clambers onto the railing—no running start, which you’ll be first to say was especially reckless on your part—only to pause and flash you a grin. She’s facing you, you note, which is also something you likely should’ve done. Better chance to land on your feet that way.
“Don’t eat shit,” you call.
She doesn’t. She slides down, smooth as can be, with only the barest hint of a wobble up top. She loses it a bit near the end though, prompting a high-pitched squeal that quickly gives way to energetic buzzing as her figure atomizes into a sea of flies.
When she reforms next to you, you scoff. “You cheated.” You’re beginning to suspect it runs in the family.
“Did not!”
“You were gonna fall, but you went fly mode!”
“Oooh. Fly mode. I like that.”
“Whatever.” You roll your eyes. “I’m going again.”
Daniela claps, ecstatic. “Okay!”
After being express-shipped across the Pacific, you ended up in New York City. It wasn’t anything like the movies, but eventually, you got picked up by a team of guys, some of whom were even more fucked up than you. They taught you conversational English and a lot of creative swears. They also introduced you to shitty comedies and viral clip compilations.
As such, you don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that the next thirty minutes are chock-full of enough wipe-outs for a halfway-decent cringe-fail compilation. Or one of those videos with the car crash test dummies.
Three fingers end up jammed after another crash landing in the main hall. You dislocate your elbow trying to jump balcony-to-balcony across the Hall of Four. (You bully it back in quickly. Daniela helps.) You get a swollen cheek after toppling off another banister, this time in the southern stairwell.
By that point, you can’t deny you’re having fun. There’s no cleaning or scientists or veiled women with needles. There are only fun, stupid hijinks that give you bruises for all the right reasons—and it’s not even 07:00 yet.
Naturally, that’s when things take a turn. Daniela tears after you like a bat out of hell, chasing you every which way across the ground floor. She can walk on walls, you’ve discovered, which is as impressive as it is disconcerting.
You’re in the northern corridor, whipping around a corner when you feel it: a hand on your ankle. Fuck, did she dive after you—?
“Shit!” You trip and careen into the nearest delicate object: a large, tapered vase with gorgeous golden accents.
It shatters on impact, which is bad enough. Falling directly onto the jagged remains is definitely worse. Shards of ceramic tear through fabric, then skin like tissue paper. Stinging, red-hot pain erupts across your abdomen—and one of your forearms, which is the only reason your face doesn’t look like Angie’s. Small mercies.
Wincing, you roll off to the side only to be pounced upon by a feverishly keyed-up Daniela. “Got you!” she sings.
“Fuck,” you wheeze. Her weight only adds insult to injury, pressing mercilessly into your wounds.
That’s when it hits her. The smell registers first. You see her nostrils flare and her pupils dilate. Then her gaze dips lower, lower, lower… “Human! You’re hurt?” Without waiting for an answer, she tears open your shirt. Buttons go flying.
Together, you stare at the mess of sliced-up skin, how it oozes around blood-stained shards.
“Daniela…” you warn.
Honestly, you’re not sure why you bother. She’s already in motion, shimmying down your body until her face is level with your stomach. “Human—hurt… Smells so g-good.”
“Can we take the shards out first?”
If she hears you, she doesn’t let on. You watch, transfixed, as her tongue flicks out and licks a long, hot stripe up blood-slick, ruptured skin. The groan that comes out of you would be embarrassing if it weren’t completely drowned out by Daniela’s keening whines.
She’s not even biting—not yet, at least—but it doesn’t seem to matter. She’s ravenous, utterly single-minded in her quest to lap up every drop she can find.
You shiver at the sensation: warm breath, pinpricks of pain, and the slippery drag of tongue on skin. A trembling hand finds Daniela’s head. Your head spins, you’re struggling to catch your breath, and you’re not sure it’s just from exertion. “Taste good?”
Daniela nods profusely. “S-So good,” she murmurs between licks.
“Shit!” you curse, arching halfway off the floor when fangs pierce skin.
She drinks from you in a manner that is nothing short of gluttonous. The vibrations from her groans are a constant—and a strange complement to the steel trap of her bite, the dizzying pull as your very essence is drained from you in fervent gulps.
She doesn’t stick to just one area, either. How can she, when there is so much to see and touch and taste ? Within minutes, your torso is littered with overlapping bites that weep blood like a river at low tide, forming deltas and braided channels: an intricate latticework of rich, life-sustaining red.
She has to pause a couple of times to spit out ceramic slivers, which you can’t help but find amusing. It’s funnier the lighter your head feels, you find.
Just like that, you’re struck with the belated realization that maybe this is going too far. “Dani,” you slur, quiet and weak. Your vision swims. You try to shove at her head, but your hand isn’t doing what you want. All you can manage is a weak nudge, and fuck if that does anything. “D-Dani?”
Your eyelids droop. A dark figure emerges overhead. They look like Daniela!
How strange. Daniela doesn’t have blonde hair. Maybe she dyed it?
Another stinging tug tears through your abdomen, only to be followed by… nothing. Nothing at all. The weight of Daniela is gone.
“D-Dani?” you hear a distant, tinny voice ask. It sounds like it might be yours.
Darkness clouds your vision. Blinking takes forever. One second you’re on the floor, and the next you’re in someone’s arms.
Hm. Strong person. You are strong also! They’re a little cold. Their clothes are soft, though. Yellow hair tickles your nose.
You try to blow it away, but you do it wrong. You just get more of it.
The chest vibrates against your ear. Laughter, maybe? Laughter is good. Happy.
You blink again, and remember nothing more.
— —
Wakefulness comes gradually, like the rising tide.
Your head pounds. Everything feels heavy. Stiffness pervades every pore. It feels like the moment you move, you’ll crack every bone in your body. Most curious of all is the sensation of warmth. It’s draped across your legs and curled up into your side, purring like a small engine.
Wait a minute. Purring?
Your eyes snap open. You’re in your quarters—a small, modest space furnished with a twin bed, wooden desk, and combo dresser. Afternoon sunlight streams in through the narrow rectangular window opposite the door.
A familiar blanket covers your lower half. The rumbling lump at your side has their face tucked into your neck, but you catch a glimpse of reddish hair. Daniela.
She’s not cold like this. Maybe it’s because she’s been stealing your heat for the past… however long it’s been. Whatever the case, it feels incredible. A content hum rumbles low in your chest.
You’re not sure why she’s here. Or why you’re both sleeping in the middle of the day. When Anica gets her hands on you…
If you were smart, you’d get up and start filling in the gaps. You’d track down Anica and plead your case for all you’re worth. You don’t feel smart right now. You feel weak, and tired, and warm. Also, your stomach hurts.
Your eyelids flutter shut. When the waves return to drag you under, you go without a fight.
— —
You don’t sleep for long. The next time you wake, it’s late afternoon. A horrible combination of smells invades your nostrils: coolant and ozone. Daniela’s still curled up next to you, and unfamiliar fingers prod your extremities.
When you open your eyes, you’re met with a tall, disheveled man who looks like he’s been living in an abandoned warehouse. A plain-black bush hat partially obscures bedraggled, stringy strands of grey hair from view. Round glasses with tinted lenses perch on a fleshy nose, and his salt-and-pepper beard has reached the length that suggests either an earnest effort to grow it out or a tenuous relationship with personal hygiene. The odor alone seems to suggest the latter.
He’s also commandeered your hand, and looks to be taking measurements—evidently the circumference of your wrist is of interest—with a time-worn measuring tape.
“Who are you?” You jerk away, hand and all.
“I was using that!” His voice is low-pitched and rife with indignation.
“It’s my fucking hand!”
“Finally awake!” Cassandra pipes up. She appears between your legs in a flurry of many-legged activity only to fully assume her human form right on top of your shins.
She’s not exactly heavy, but your body’s still not happy about it. The bed frame groans.
“Miss Cassandra…” you trail off, grumbling unintelligibly under your breath as you wrestle back your limbs. Daniela makes a noise of protest when you haul yourself upright, but remains horizontal. “This is my bed. And who the hell is he?”
The protestation only seems to amuse Cassandra, who props her head up on one elbow and fixes you with a devious smirk. “Did you know you talk in your sleep?” Her eyes seem to burn in the light of the afternoon sun.
Whatever you’d been hoping to say swiftly vacates your mind. “Um...”
“Heisenberg,” the grease-stained man says.
Ah. One of the other two Lords.
You’re grateful for the redirection—even if you feel like punching the glasses off his stupid face. “I’m—”
“Fresh meat,” Heisenberg says with a dismissive hand motion. “Yeah, I know all about it, kid.” He takes a seat. If he takes note of the way the rickety wooden chair creaks under his weight, he doesn’t let on.
You bite back an insult. Instead, your eyes find themselves drawn to the unwieldy instrument he’s brought with him. It looks like what used to be a drive train welded to the guts of a gearbox, all in the shape of a hammer that’s probably as tall as you are. It also seems to be actively testing the load-bearing capacity of your desk.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” After a beat, you tack on (albeit through gritted teeth), “Lord Heisenberg.”
“Oh, cut the hoity-toity bullshit. Makes me sound old.” Out of nowhere, he procures a cigar and a lighter. “You mind?”
“I would prefer you didn’t.”
He shrugs, but pockets the items without comment. “Anyway. Why am I here? Well, to meet you, of course!” His words, despite their zeal, are unhurried and almost over-enunciated. “Myself, I’m more of a cat guy, but you’ll do. In fact, I think you’ll be good for the family.”
Your gaze narrows. “What family?”
He opens his mouth to answer only to stop short. His head tilts. “Did you hear something?”
At the foot of the bed, Cassandra has gone completely still. Is it just your imagination or does her face somehow look paler than usual?
“CASSANDRA!” The thunderous sound of the lady’s summons, far louder this time, is answer enough. Just like that, the temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees.
Hell, it’s not even directed at you, but it still makes some primal part of your brain want to cower and hide. “What did you do?” you hiss.
Cassandra dissolves into a swarm in lieu of answer.
“Fuck,” Lord Heisenberg curses, rising to his feet with a grimace. “Guess I’ll go, too. Save Giganta the trip.” He snatches up the metal beast of a hammer like it weighs nothing and trudges after her.
You look down at Daniela, who is still huddled and dozing in a mess of rumpled bedding. Her hood is down, and her hair is in an absolute state. It’s also shaved on one side, which you hadn’t known. It suits her.
Fragments of memory tease the edges of your mind. Tumbling off a handrail. Running through the halls. Daniela’s mouth on your skin… Pieces of it, but not everything.
It’s a later problem.
You hate the thought of disturbing her. At the same time, you know it’d be foolish to hope that whatever’s going on downstairs has nothing to do with you.
You miss dodging bullets in America.
— —