Chapter Text
It’s not that Cleo is intimidated. They aren’t. They’ve spent 80 years on an estate not unlike this. But they would be lying if they said some part of them didn’t hesitate at the tall wrought iron gates and the towering manor behind them. The gate is held closed with a similarly harsh looking padlock. Above it is a carefully engraved decoration, an arc of the stages of the moon. It’s only at that moment that Cleo realizes they’ve never asked for Pearl’s last name.
“Pearl.” Cleo prompts, tugging on her companion’s arm. Pearl shakes her head like she’s clearing thoughts. She’s been out of it this whole trip, nervous constant motion interrupted by long periods of zoning out. Cleo doesn’t blame her. She’s only barely keeping a handle on her nerves herself, and it’s not her parents they’re coming back to. Not that they could, but she tries not to think about that. They’re both in their weakest forms right now, not wanting to startle her parents immediately, and hunger gnaws at her stomach. She has no idea how Pearl is tolerating it, but she hasn’t complained at all.
Pearl produces a large key from somewhere in her bag and unlocks the padlock keeping the gate shut. Her hands shake, even as she grins at Cleo with a big lopsided smile. Her bottom lip catches on one of her fangs in a way Cleo finds endlessly endearing. The path up to the front doors of the manor is way too long, but Cleo would expect nothing less from this kind of place. The grounds seem to sprawl on forever, even the tree line is ridiculously far away and Pearl has said they have acres upon acres of forest beyond that. 180 acres in total, in fact. The rest of the land is covered in carefully manicured greenery and stables, though the horses and stable workers have long since been let go. Too risky to have the animals around when werewolves are running around the grounds. A man in dirtied clothes walks somewhere in the distance, and when he spots them, he does a double take before running towards the house.
They keep a bare bones staff, Pearl has said, though Cleo’s definition of bare bones is different from hers. Fourteen staff members hardly feels minimal, but apparently the place used to be teaming with people. This is just enough to maintain a place as large as Pearl’s family manor, just the people they trusted with the secret of their family. Each has a key just like Pearl’s on them at all times so they can come and go as they please, and each is instructed to never give it to Pearl’s parents. Oh God, Cleo still doesn’t know how to address them.
“Pearl, darling,” Cleo asks as they walk up to the door, “What’s your family name?”
“It’s quite funny actually,” Pearl’s smile takes on a wolfish quality and Cleo knows that they must be blushing, even if they don’t get warm enough anymore to feel it, “It’s Moon.”
“And your parents, do they have titles?” Old anxiety rises in their chest. Cleo knows the price of pissing off people who thought they were better than you, and they know it dearly. Pearl shakes her head before pressing herself into Cleo’s side, hooking their arms together and leaning her face into the top of Cleo’s head. She takes comfort in it. Despite being turned, Pearl still ran warmer than them (though probably colder than any human), another side effect of being a werewolf as well as a vampire.
“We’re old money, not nobility. No titles, just cash,” She reassures, “Mr. and Mrs. Moon will be just fine.”
“And is there anything else I should know?” They’re at the front door now. Pearl takes a shaky, unnecessary breath (the habit of breathing hasn’t left either of them yet. That kind of unnatural stillness is characteristic of some of the older vampires Cleo knew. She wasn’t exactly in control enough to ask them when they stopped clinging to the last quirks of life.). Even though she’s clearly nervous, Pearl only grips their hand tighter, pressing their interlocked arms straight between them. Her grin gets brighter, in a way that Cleo knows her well enough to read as fake. She wishes she knew her well enough to know how to make it real.
“Just be your usual charming self?” Pearl asks. Cleo barks out a laugh.
“Do you perhaps know a different Cleo who’s charming?” Pearl pretends to think about the question, humming lightly.
“Nope,” She answers, popping the ‘p’, “Just the one right next to me.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere, darling.” Cleo punctuates the statement by pressing her head further into Pearl’s chin. Pearl leans down to press a kiss into her hair. She exhales through her nose and Cleo can feel it against her scalp.
Then, Pearl is knocking on the heavy wooden door and Cleo snaps to attention, pulled out of the soft moment by reality. It creaks open, revealing a large candle lit interior and a middle aged man. A butler, clearly, dressed finely but not fine enough to be the master of the house. His eyes are piercing and defensive before he processes the sight in front of him. As his gaze looks over Pearl, he softens slightly from suspicion to professionalism.
“Miss Pearl, you’ve returned.” He greets simply, “And with a companion?”
Cleo feels the weight of his stare as he directs it her way. It feels like he’s picking apart every aspect of her. She only hopes that it’s been long enough since she fed that her eyes are more green than they are red. She couldn’t exactly look in a mirror to check, she just had to trust that Pearl would tell her if something was off. As his eyes trail from their face and to their general appearance, they are suddenly self conscious about their simple dress, their corset made for practical work rather than aesthetics, their dirtied boots. The finest thing on them is their shawl, which while gorgeous, Pearl has informed them is nearly a century out of fashion. His eyes finish their journey, and Cleo can’t tell if they’ve been found wanting or not. Are even the servants in this home pretentious?
“Yes, this is Cleo, they’re my-“ Pearl seems to get caught on the next word. They haven’t really defined what they are yet. Agreeing to live in a castle with someone for the rest of eternity can’t really be summarized by one word. “Partner. They’ll be here for the duration of my stay,”
“You’re planning on leaving again, then?” The butler asks, professional exterior breaking for just a moment. He’s looking at Cleo with somehow more scrutiny now. Cleo imagines he must have some fondness for Pearl. It would be hard to spend any extended period of time with her and not love her at least a little bit.
“I’ve found a new home, and a new mission.” Pearl declares, smiling. It does little to ease the tension. The butler reaches out his hands, expression cold, and Pearl hands him her bag with practiced ease, like it’s the most normal thing in the world to trust someone with her belongings and to slide the burden of carrying it onto someone else. Cleo hesitates for only a moment before following Pearl’s lead. It makes something twist in her gut besides just the gnawing hunger.
“I will inform the Master and Mistress of your presence. Should Miss Cleo’s bag be placed with yours?” Are you a couple?, he’s asking. Pearl gestures with their still clasped hands.
“Yes, that would be ideal.” Obviously, Pearl replies. As he walks away, Cleo realizes something with a start.
“What's your name, by the way?” They ask, struggling not to feel a bit clumsy in this position. They’re far more used to being on the other side of this kind of interaction, a voiceless servant doing the work for others. He seemingly ignores the question, walking out of sight without responding. Cleo scoffs, offended. Pearl nudges her shoulder with her own reassuringly.
“His name is Oliver. He’s just being a grumpy butt right now.” Pearl sticks out her tongue at his back. Faintly, Cleo hears him laugh down the hall. It does little to make her feel better.
Faint conversation echoes on the walls and off of the lofty ceiling of the foyer. Pearl reaches over to them, long fingers gently adjusting some of the flowers in their hair. Roses to match Pearl’s, because there’s no nightshade around Oakhurst and she had abandoned the ones she had been wearing when she swapped them for her mother’s circlet. The look on her face is so fond and loving that Cleo can’t help but melt under it.
“You look beautiful,” Pearl says, her voice dripping in affection, “My parents will love you.”
“Yes, I’m sure they’ll be quite fond of the monster who turned their daughter into a vampire.” Cleo replies sarcastically. Pearl only scoffs, making one final adjustment before her hands leave Cleo’s hair. They miss the warmth instantly, their body instinctually chasing Pearl’s movement for a moment, bringing them a couple inches closer than they were,
Pearl smiles smugly at the movement, closing the distance and bumping her shoulder playfully against Cleo’s, a move that requires her to lean down slightly so she doesn’t end up knocking Cleo in the head instead. She once again grabs their hand, tugging them to an insanely ornate staircase that stands in the center of the room and splits off to either side, the railing all swirling dark wood with intricately carved lines. The stairs themselves are carpeted in a luxurious deep blue patterned with small white diamonds, or stars, the whole thing covered in a sheen from the glow of the oil lamps that line the walls, like liquid night.
On the walls above the stairs are a few paintings, one of someone who Cleo guesses must be an ancestor, some old man in outdated military dress, one of their family crest, that same arc of moon phases that was on the gate, and one of a little girl in a ruffled pink dress with her hair done up in curls. Cleo recognizes the sharp features and blue eyes, even through the baby fat.
“Oh my goodness you were adorable!” They coo, rushing up to get a closer look at the painting. They take in every detail: the white sash on the dress, the pink blush on toddler cheeks, the way little Pearl posed with a small basket of flowers on her lap. Pearl groans.
“That painting took forever! I remember it felt like torture!” She complains. “My parents had to bribe me to get me to sit still.”
“What did they bribe you with?” Cleo asks. Pearl’s brow furrows.
“Honestly, I don’t remember. Just that they bribed me with something.” Pearl shrugs, leading Cleo up one side of the stairs and down a hallway similarly dotted with paintings of family members and side tables holding precious small statues and vases. Her room isn’t terribly far down the hallway, but it’s far enough that Cleo feels a bit overwhelmed by the size of the place.
Pearl’s bedroom is just as extravagant as the rest of the manor, though something about it rings as familiar to Cleo. The whole room drips with red, from the velvet curtains, to the cushioned and ornate headboard, to the veritable mountain of pillows that sit over a fine blanket. A fireplace is against one wall, a vanity against the other, and an ottoman rests at the foot of the bed. It's the nightstand, Cleo realizes, that feels familiar. On it rests a candle, a book Pearl had left however many months ago, and a crystalline carafe and glass. It’s arranged exactly the same way Pearl keeps her nightstand back at the castle. For some reason, Cleo hasn’t imagined that Pearl is someone with habits that deeply ingrained, she has always felt like too much of a free spirit for that. It makes the world go off kilter for a moment.
“What do you think?” Pearl asks, gesturing all around her. Cleo scoffs, feeling deeply out of place.
“It’s all richy rich and hoity-toity. Exactly what I expected.” They snark. Pearl laughs fondly and pulls Cleo to stand nearer to her.
“That’s what you get for deciding to spend eternity with a hoity-toity rich girl.” She teases. Pearl leans down for a kiss, and Cleo strains up to meet it, but before their lips touch there’s a knock at the door.
“Miss Pearl, I’ve got your bags.” An unfamiliar voice speaks. They pull away quickly, before the new person can enter the room, like teenagers afraid to be caught without a chaperone. A woman about Pearl’s age enters, red hair tied into a severe bun. Even her clothes are nicer than Cleo’s own, a practical but stylish dark green dress. When Pearl sees who it is, her face lights up.
“Gem!” Pearl tackles the woman in a hug, “Cleo, this is my ladies’ maid, Gem. Gem, this is my partner, Cleo.”
Pearl pulls back from the hug, clearly waiting for the two to interact. There’s something in Gem’s eyes that Cleo struggles to identify, that same searching and protective look she had seen earlier on the butler. Cleo does not belong here, they know. It is evident to everyone except for Pearl. The air around them feels hollow, like it’s leaving space between itself and Cleo. She reaches out through the gap anyway, politely shaking Gem’s hand. The woman’s grip is just a bit too tight, a warning. A threat. Gem gives her a thin smile, which Cleo returns, mindful to hide their teeth. They pull away from the handshake, and Gem turns to look at Pearl.
“Do you want me to help you out of your traveling clothes, miss?” Gem asks, “You’re filthy.”
Cleo is taken aback at the insult, but Pearl only laughs.
“Ever so polite, Gem. But no, I think Cleo can help me just fine.”
Gem smiles that same little tight smile at Pearl reply, once again eying Cleo with suspicion. She leaves all the same, placing both of their bags on the floor in front of the door.
Pearl, as it turns out, does need the help. While the wardrobe she had back in Oakhurst was all frontlaced to allow her to dress herself, the outfit she chooses from her old closet is backlaced, meaning Cleo has to do it up for her. Not that she minds, particularly. The sight of Pearl in only her shift is hardly unpleasant. The dress is a bit snug around the shoulders, but otherwise fits perfectly. Pearl makes a soft noise of discomfort as Cleo tightens the corset.
“Too tight?” Cleo asks, preparing to loosen it. Pearl shakes her head.
“No, I’ve just gotten used to my hunting clothes. Anything else would feel restricting” Pearl replies. Then, she smiles, “Alright, you go get changed, then we’ll go down. Dinner should be soon,”
It takes Cleo far less time to get dressed than Pearl, all of her clothes are meant to be put on by oneself. Pearl waits by the door, watching with interest and a smug grin. Cleo tries to ignore it despite the feeling it stirs in her gut, more fondness than anything else. Pearl steps out for just a moment, claiming she needs to go check on something, and Cleo takes the opportunity to run her hand against the blanket, feeling just how fine the material is. She can hardly comprehend how expensive this must have been. This whole estate drips with casual wealth, with a kind of superiority so evident to anyone around that it hardly needs to be enforced. Cleo thinks of the servant’s room she slept in for eight decades with its two small beds and their thin sheets and iron bedframe. There’s probably rooms like that here, somewhere near the pantry, tucked in the back where the owners of the estate will never have to see it. Resentment sparks in her, familiar and safe. Pearl comes back to collect her for the meal and the feeling tempers a bit. But it's still there. It’s Cleo’s oldest friend.
It’s at dinner when the first real cracks start to show.
Cleo takes in the two people standing in the foyer at the bottom of the stairs like she’s taking in a threat. Mr. Moon is a tall man, even taller than his daughter. He’s got a ring of gray streaked brown hair around the sides of his head, though he’s completely bald on top. He has a white neckcloth tucked into a deep blue overcoat whose tail rests on the back of his thighs just above the knee of cream colored pants. Despite seeming to be in his 60s, his clothes are fashionable, right down to his shining black boots, almost certainly maintained by someone other than himself. Mrs. Moon is the shortest of the family, though still notably taller than Cleo. Her dark brown hair is done in precise ringlets that frame her face and pinned into a braid at the back. Her dress is an eggshell white and embroidered with elaborate swirls of red that probably took whoever made it weeks of tireless work, cut long and straight, revealing only the lightest hit of her black heeled boots.
In short, they both look immaculately put together and all together terrifying for Cleo, whose nicest dress just means the one that's been mended the least amount of times.
Pearl greets her parents with a hug that clearly startles them in its force, rushing into them before anyone can even speak.
“You’ve gotten stronger,” Pearl’s father comments, suspicious. “Much stronger.”
“And you’re so pale! Come on, let’s eat, we can catch up on all your travels during the meal.” Her mother cuts in, derailing his train of thought.
“Mother, you haven't even said hello to our guest.” Pearl reminds her gently. Mrs. Moon looks at Cleo like she hadn't even seen them. Cleo scoffs internally. That's about what they expected from a woman of her status. People like Cleo just disappear, silently doing all the work they don't even think about. Making the world more comfortable for people who don't even care that they're-
“Where are my manners? I apologize!” Mrs. Moon’s voice interrupts their thoughts. She reaches her hands to Cleo’s, holding their hand between both of hers. They're more calloused than Cleo expects, a stark reminder of the reality of this manor. “I'm Martha Moon, Pearl’s mother. And this is my husband, Thomas.”
Mr. Moon nods at them, giving a short wave. “Good evening.”
“It's a pleasure to meet you, Pearl speaks very highly of both of you.” Cleo greets.
“I wish I could say the same,” Mr. Moon turns his gaze towards Pearl. “But our daughter hasn't written in months. We don't even know your name.”
Pearl gives her father a tight smile. “You know I was rather busy, father.”
“Of course. I still would have at least liked the courtesy of your friend’s name before she was invited into our home.”
“It's Cleo.” They interrupt, before an argument can start. “Thank you for having me, sir.”
“Cleo.” He says the name like he's testing it out. Or waiting for more. Oh. A last name. Everyone has one these days. Cleo doesn't have one. The coven hadn't exactly made her presence legally known, and her mother had been too old to bother with it. Luckily, he doesn't push. “Well, you're welcome to our estate as long as you want, Cleo.”
The conversation is interrupted by a maid coming in to inform them that dinner is ready to be served, guiding them down the hall to eat. They sit at the table in a small dining room, Pearl’s parents across from Pearl and Cleo. It isn’t until Pearl’s father gives Cleo that same searching look she’s seen on both of the servants that she realizes what it is. It's the same look she gave them. It's hunters assessing a threat.
Cleo’s plate is slid in front of her by the same butler as before, Oliver, she knows now. It’s steak, cooked rare, and potatoes seasoned with only salt and pepper. The silverware itches against her hands, but doesn’t burn, and she once again thanks Pearl’s foresight in advising that the two of them drop to their lowest level before arriving.
Pearl’s plate is similar, but Cleo flinches at the differences she does notice. The steak is well done, and Cleo can see the seasoning that her own potatoes lack is garlic. But Pearl says nothing, her smile stays in place, she’s eating as though this is any other meal. Only Cleo seems to notice the slight paling of her skin after she swallows a garlic laden bite. Her hands shake slightly around her cutlery, her eyes a little unfocused. Cleo slides a hand to Pearl’s knee, squeezing a way she hopes in reassuring.
Pearl’s parents' dinners are far more appealing to Cleo than her own, and Pearl likely feels the same. They’ve both got two steaks, bloody enough that red pools in the shallow depth of their plates. Cleo’s mouth waters at the sight, though she’s satiated enough with her meal.
“So you like your meat bloody?” Mr. Moon asks, as good a conversation starter as any Cleo supposes, even as it makes her jump out of her skin. She’s been so focused on eating, she must have zoned out for a moment. Cleo clears their throat.
“Yes, I see you do as well.” She doesn’t know if they know that she knows, and she can see that he doesn’t know if she knows either. They’re both speaking around it. He smiles politely, eyes narrowed. Cleo grips their knife a bit tighter, a warning and a challenge in one.
“Our Pearl has always been a picky eater when it comes to meat. When she was little she’d throw a fit if she could see any pink at all.” He says it teasingly and Pearl laughs a bit beside her. It's fond but weak, and Cleo can visibly see the bile rising in her throat, the slight spasm before the storm. Still, she chokes it down and Cleo gives her knee another squeeze, just enough to remind her that she's here.
“I hate to jump straight to the point,” Mrs. Moon interrupts, breaking some of the tension, “but I am wondering. Pearl, what have you come across that could have made you stray from your mission?”
“Martha! She may not know!” Mr. Moon cuts in. He shoots a terrified look Cleo’s way, the first time this whole night that she's felt anyone look at her like she holds any amount of power.
“She’s got fangs, Thomas. And her skin is ice cold, she's allergic to garlic, she’s touching the silverware as lightly as possible. I can see the red in her eyes in the candlelight.” Mrs. Moon breaks down Cleo casually. They hadn't even noticed her observing. Cleo gets up, prepared to run. They won't catch them if they can get over to the other plates fast enough to eat their bloody meat. It would give them just enough strength to fly away as a bat. Pearl’s chair scrapes beside them, ready to follow. Mrs. Moon tuts. “Sit back down, we're not going to do anything. We can hardly judge.”
“Are you suggesting she’s a vampire?” Mr. Moon asks incredulously. “Vampires don't exist!”
“Um. Well.” Pearl says, timidly and still standing next to Cleo, “They do. And they are. And so am I.”
Mrs. Moon sucks in a breath, like her worst fear has been confirmed. Mr. Moon’s face contorts in grief.
“So that's why you've abandoned the mission then? You’ve become a vampire?” His voice cracks, choked up, “After all we did to prevent you from being infected, you were still turned into something else. Oh God, you died didn't you? We sent you to your death, we sent you away to be turned into some other kind of monster.”
Tears are running down his face as he finishes. Cleo doesn't know what she expects Pearl’s response to be. Maybe defending them. Saying neither of them are monsters. But she doesn't. Instead, Pearl breaks into sobs, navigating around the table to fall into her father’s arms. Mrs. Moon gets up, wrapping her arms around both of them. Cleo simply watches. They don't know what else to do.