Chapter Text
Rio Vidal shoved another sugar packet (for crunch more than sweetness) into her mug of coffee and waited for the inevitable scolding she’d been summoned to the office for.
In front of her sat Frank, editor-in-chief, professional skeptic, and frequent dream-crusher.
He waved her latest write-up at her like it would be the thing that finally chased her out of town for good. “How many times do I gotta tell you, Vidal? No more stories about bog men or creatures from the black lagoon or whatever. No more opinion pieces about whether chupacabras would make good house pets. No more time spent entertaining toothless guys who submit blurry photos of their hunting buddy in a gilly suit and claim it’s the actual sasquatch.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re a decent writer, kid, but you’re wasting it on these ridiculous cryptid corner fairy tales.”
Rio shrugged. “I don’t think it’s ridiculous. I think it would be more foolish to think that we’ve uncovered every mystery of the world. Wouldn’t you? Don’t you think it’s more worthwhile to believe in something? To stay open to the possibility?”
Frank shook his head. “I like you, kid. I do. But I need facts to sell papers. Not fantasies.”
Rio sighed, flipping past several pitch ideas that Frank was certainly not in the mood for. “So what am I writing, boss?”
“You’re going up to the old Harkness estate. A recluse moved in last month. The whole town’s buzzing. They say she only goes out at night, wears lace and these heavy old gowns, some eccentric weirdo flung out of time.”
Rio’s eyes lit up. “So… a vampire.”
Frank sighed like he regretted every life choice he made that led to his path crossing with Rio’s. “Vidal, I’ll say it once again. We pay you for facts. Not fairytales.”
She took another long sip. “Why now? That place has been empty since—what, the '60s? It’s practically folklore at this point.”
“Exactly. Write a human interest piece. Something classy. No mentions of garlic, no wooden stakes, and absolutely no suggestions that the woman might turn into mist. She’s an outsider but there’s no need to make her feel unwelcome.”
Rio tried to keep her face neutral. She didn’t succeed. “Okay but what if I get there and…”
“Get out.”
She grabbed the assignment folder before he could change his mind. “You’ll be glad you sent me if she turns into a bat mid-interview and I catch it on film.”
“Out! Don’t come back until you have something I can publish!”
She breezed out of the newsroom, already planning her packing list. Flashlight. Field recorder. Mirror compact. Extra eyeliner because it never hurt.
Just because she didn’t assume everyone in Louisiana was a vampire didn’t mean she didn’t take the time to prepare accordingly.
After all, not everything in this world could be explained.
But some things could be proven.
The Harkness Estate sat at the edge of St. Florentine Parish.
Half-eaten by creeping ivy and shielded by great sprawling oaks filled with hanging Spanish moss that swayed like cobwebs caught in a breeze, the manor rose in the mist like something dredged up from a feverish nightmare. Its roofline slouched, its shutters hung askew, and the flecks of dark tinted paint had long faded with time.
But none of that stopped it from looking intentionally placed here. As if it had chosen this particular shade of ruin for maximum dramatic effect. Ripped from the pages of a ghost story that was just a little too real feeling not to be based on some kernel of truth.
Rio adjusted the strap of her field bag and stepped through the wrought-iron gate, which gave a long, satisfying scree in protest. The gravel crunched beneath her boots. The heavy, humid air smelled thick of magnolia blooms, petrichor, and rot.
“Alright, mysterious madam,” she muttered to herself as she approached the front door, “let’s see if you’re weird enough to make me look normal.”
She raised a fist and knocked.
The door swung open the instant her knuckles touched it.
Rio blinked, hand still raised.
“Hello?” she called, leaning in cautiously. “I’m with the Gazette. I have an appointment?”
There was a pause, then—
“Do come in.”
The voice was low, velvet-rich, and soaked with amusement. It slinked down the hall ahead of her like a black cat on the prowl. It didn’t just call to her; it enthralled her and beckoned her in.
Rio took a cautious step over the threshold. The foyer was dimly lit, all dark wood and flickering light cast from wrought-iron sconces that she was pretty sure were wired for electricity but had been replaced with candles for ambiance instead. The air was several degrees cooler than the oppressive heat outside, and carried that musty and slightly sweet old-book scent she loved.
She heard footsteps.
A woman descended from the curved grand staircase at the end of the hall. Rio noted that she didn’t hear any more footfalls; the woman seemed to glide, her hand drifting along the banister, trailing a dark purple nail over the worn wood.
This woman looked like a vision dreamed up by a lovelorn poet. High cheekbones, impossible lips, and eyes that seemed impossibly blue even in this dim light. Her robe was a silken dark plum adorned with flowers and vipers, cinched lazily at the waist.
She adjusted it as she moved, pulling it tighter in a gesture that felt less about modesty and more about a gesture of control.
Rio opened her mouth and immediately forgot what she had spent the whole drive over planning to say next.
“I presume you’re the little pet journalist they sent,” The woman said, lips curving to reveal a wide grin. Rio thought she caught a shine, a reflection off her teeth. But before she could examine that further, the woman pursed her lips, hiding them behind a dark burgundy pucker.
Rio coughed to clear her throat. She didn’t know when her vocal cords had decided to turn to sandpaper. “Uh—yeah. Yes. Rio Vidal, ma’am. From the Gazette. Special interest beat. For the paper. My personal interests are mostly cryptids and unsolved mysteries.”
The stranger hummed. “Cryptids and mysteries. How deliciously novel.”
Then, with a small, mocking half-curtsy, she added, “Agatha Harkness. Mistress of the manor. Purveyor of oddities, antiquities, and the occasional glass of something red.”
She extended her hand, pale and cool. Rio shook it before thinking, then immediately wondered if she was supposed to kiss it. Was that a thing? Was this an elaborate bit?
Agatha was close enough for Rio to catch the scent of something dark and floral—night-blooming jasmine and… ink? Iron? It didn’t matter. She was intoxicating.
“Do you always let out all the cold when you invite yourself in?” Agatha asked lightly, eyes darting to the still-open door behind her.
She scrambled to pull the door shut, feeling a little foolish for already forgetting her manners. “To be fair, you let me in. Or your door did I guess? Either way, really good timing.”
Agatha gave her a humoring smile. “So. A true believer. You must be quite popular at parties.”
“I do okay,” Rio said, straightening up. “People usually get interested once I mention the Jersey Devil. Or the time I joined a lizard-man hunting expedition down in Georgia.”
Agatha turned, one elegant brow arched. “You don’t say. Did you catch him?”
“No,” Rio said, “just some ticks.”
Agatha laughed, rich and delighted. “Nasty little bloodsuckers. You really believe in all that, don’t you?”
Rio hesitated. “I believe not everything in this world can be explained. Doesn’t mean it’s not real.”
“Mm.” Agatha looked her up and down. “That’s either sweetly naïve or dangerously wise.”
Rio crossed her arms. “I’m guessing you don’t believe in cryptids?”
“Oh, I didn’t say that,” Agatha said breezily. “I simply don’t have to believe in them. I’ve dated a sea hag, shared poker nights with a banshee, and once spent a long, regrettable summer with a werewolf who insisted on trying to convert me to veganism.”
Rio’s brain short-circuited somewhere between sea hag and vegan werewolf but she did her best to recover.
“Look, if you’re joking… well, I’d just like to be in on it.”
Agatha glanced at her, eyes sharp. “Do you often find yourself the butt of jokes, Miss Vidal?”
Rio’s mouth tightened. “Only when people assume I’m stupid.”
Agatha stopped walking. Turned fully to face her. “Oh, I certainly don’t think you’re stupid.”
“Good,” Rio said, a little more defensive than intended. “Because I like to believe I know when I’m being baited. I don’t want to waste my time or yours.”
Agatha smiled, but it was different this time. Less teasing and more… curious. “You think I’m baiting you?”
“I think,” Rio said slowly, “that you enjoy being hard to pin down. And I think you’re trying to make me question everything I see here, so I’ll either walk away or write you up a profile like you’re some kind of eccentric old-money ghost.”
“Am I not?” Agatha asked, feigning surprise as she crossed her hand over her heart.
“You might be. Or you might just be bored and messing with the latest local reporter who showed up at your haunted Barbie Dreamhouse.”
Agatha laughed, full-bodied and delighted, clapping her hands together. “Now that is a headline I’d clip.”
Rio flushed despite herself.
Agatha stepped closer, her voice softening. “Do you actually want the full truth, Miss Vidal?”
“I’d settle for half of it,” Rio gulped.
“Mm. Dangerous thing to settle for, truth in halves.” She paused, a glimmer of mischief returning. “But fine. Let’s play it straight—just for a moment. I’m not here to humiliate you.”
Rio arched a brow. “Even though you just suggested your ex was a sea hag.”
“Well,” Agatha said, turning to open the door to the drawing room with a dramatic push, “that part was true. She was a miserable, wretched hag.”
Rio stared at her. Agatha winked.
Then, against all better judgment, Rio stepped through the parlor door after her.
The drawing room was every inch what Rio expected. Dusty velvet drapes in shades of wine and ink, fainting couches with an ostentatious pattern, a marble fireplace with a half-burned log smoldering lazily inside. The room had a distinct, inescapable sense that it had hosted either a séance or a duel sometime in the last century. Perhaps both. Perhaps many of each.
Agatha sank gracefully into one of the overstuffed armchairs. “Sit wherever you’d like, sugar,” She said, one leg crossing over the other. “I’ve already judged you. There’s no wrong choice now.”
Rio picked the edge of a loveseat opposite her and tried not to perch like she was expecting it to swallow her whole.
She pulled out her notebook and her battered recorder. “Do you mind if I record?”
Agatha’s lips curled. “Oh, I insist. If I’m going to lie to you, I’d like to be quoted properly.”
Rio pressed record and tried to ignore the way her pulse jumped.
She glanced down at her notes. “Okay. Let’s start simple. The estate—how long have you lived here?”
“Oh, on and off for a few decades,” Agatha said, waving a dismissive hand. “You know how it is. You get a taste for a place, then someone cries witch in the bog and you have to go put your hexes elsewhere for a time.”
Rio blinked.
Agatha blinked back.
“…Right,” Rio said, scribbling down possible environmentalist slant. “In my research, there’s no record of next of kin from the original Harkness line. It just sort of… ended.”
Agatha laughed, sounding caught between a scandalized debutante and a self-satisfied villain. “Well, if my mother had been placed in a grave, she’d certainly be rolling in it. If she knew I’d placed roots back here.”
Rio looked up. “You’re descended from the original Harknesses, then?”
Agatha tilted her head like a cat suddenly catching notice of something small and edible. “Something like that.”
“Care to clarify?”
“I could,” Agatha purred, “but that would spoil the mystique.”
Rio stared at her. “This is the version of events that’s light on mystique?”
Agatha beamed. “Clever girl, now you’re catching on.”
Rio leaned back a little, letting herself breathe. “Alright. You said you’ve been here on and off for decades. What drew you back this time? Folks in town seem to be under the impression that you’re new.”
Agatha studied her, as though deciding whether to answer seriously or not.
Rio waited. It wasn’t good journalistic practice to break the silence first.
Finally, Agatha spoke. “Loneliness, perhaps. Or boredom. Or maybe just… the weather. I enjoy a warmer climate. I feel more like myself when I have a little touch of sweat at my brow.”
Rio doubted vey much that Agatha sweat. She had the pallor of someone who had not seen much sun.
“That’s—very specific,” Rio mumbled.
“It’s honest,” Agatha said with a shrug. “It’s been some time since I’ve had any decent company out here. Historically, most of the locals are either terrified of me or trying to sell me Avon.”
Rio snorted. “What makes you think I’m decent company?”
“Oh, I didn’t say you were,” Agatha replied sweetly. “But you’re interesting. That’s even rarer.”
Rio frowned down at her notebook, flustered. “I’m not the story here.”
Agatha leaned forward, and Rio desperately tried to look anywhere other than where her robe had fallen open, exposing the heavy swell of her breast. “Aren’t you? Cryptid chaser. Defender of the inexplicable. Little Miss Vidal, who doesn’t flinch when a stranger mentions curses and exes from under the sea.”
She twirled her fingers through the air. “Tell me something, and then I’ll answer another one of your questions. Why do you believe? Did something happen to you, or did you just pop out of the womb already looking for moving figures in the wallpaper?”
Rio paused. Her fingers tightened on her pen.
She hadn’t expected this.
But Agatha was looking at her like the question wasn’t a trap—just something she genuinely wanted to know.
Rio didn’t answer right away. Her gaze dropped to her notebook, though she wasn’t really seeing it.
She swallowed once. Then again. Her voice, when it came, was quieter than usual. “When I was fifteen… my parents disappeared.”
Agatha’s expression shifted instantly. The mischief evaporated, replaced with something still and keen.
“They were on their way home from Baton Rouge,” Rio continued, her thumb running absently along the edge of her recorder. “No crash. No signs of struggle. Car was just… parked on the side of the road. Doors locked. Keys still in the ignition.”
Agatha said nothing.
Rio kept going. “No ransom. No credit card activity. Just gone. For three days.”
She looked up, blinking hard. “And then… they came back.”
Agatha tilted her head slightly. “Came back?”
Rio nodded. “Found wandering down the levee road at dawn. Like nothing happened, but it wasn’t them. Not really. Not anymore.”
Her jaw tightened. “They were different. Not like—brainwashed or possessed. Just… empty . They didn’t recognize each other. Or me. Didn’t speak. Wouldn’t eat. Just stared straight ahead. Like they were waiting for someone to turn them off.”
A long silence hung in the air.
“They passed a few days later. The coroner didn’t find any injuries. No signs of trauma. Not even dehydration, which was impossible.” Her eyes flicked back to Agatha’s. “He said it was like something had drained everything in them. But there was no reasonable explanation he could report.”
Agatha rose without a word. Crossed the short distance and lowered herself onto the loveseat beside her.
“I’m so sorry,” she said gently, placing a cool hand on Rio’s knee.
Rio blinked, startled by the contact. Startled again when she realized how close Agatha was now—close enough to smell that heady mix of jasmine and amber. And very aware that Agatha’s robe had slipped higher as she sat, revealing a long stretch of thigh that very obviously had nothing beneath it.
Rio cleared her throat and stared determinedly at the far wall. “It was a while ago.”
“But not long enough,” Agatha said, her voice softer now.
Rio shifted slightly, trying not to draw any more attention to herself.
Her gaze wandered around the room itself. At first, everything looked just as it had: ornate, old, and wildly theatrical. But there. On the mantle.
Something was… off.
A photograph.
Not a painting. Not a faded daguerreotype in silver trim. A photograph. Glossy. Modern. Out of place.
Rio leaned forward, squinting.
It showed a group of people in neon clothes posing in front of the Harkness estate. And right in the center, beaming like a pageant queen?
Agatha.
Same robe. Same smirk. Same cheekbones and sharp eyes.
Rio’s voice came slowly. “This photo. When was it taken?”
Agatha didn’t even turn to look. “Oh, that one? Some time in the eighties, I think. Lovely group of tourists. Very enthusiastic about ley lines. A bit too into interpretive dance, if I’m honest.”
Rio’s head snapped toward her. “You haven’t aged.”
Agatha smiled.
Not teasing. Not mocking.
Just… smiled.
“I moisturize religiously.”
Rio stared at her.
Agatha tilted her head, amused. “Would it make you feel better if I said I was a witch instead? Maybe I made a little deal at the crossroads. Or bathe in rose water and the blood of virgins.”
The woman patted her cheek. It wasn’t hard enough to sting, but Rio felt her skin flush. “You’re tense, Miss Vidal. That won’t do. I was taught to offer guests something to drink before we get to the unspeakable horrors. Please excuse me, just a moment.”
“Charming,” Rio muttered as Agatha disappeared through a tall arched doorway.
Left alone, Rio exhaled slowly and reached into her bag. She palmed her compact mirror, flipping it open and angling it carefully over her shoulder, toward the doorway Agatha had just walked through.
She didn’t expect to see anything.
But she did.
Agatha.
Looking directly at her.
Her reflection was sharp and smiling in the little silver mirror, teeth just visible at the corners of her mouth. Rio realized what the glint she had caught before was. Her incisors were pointed, and the very tips capped in gold.
“Peeping Tom,” Agatha drawled from behind her. "Naughty."
Rio yelped and spun around. Agatha stood in the doorway, holding a glass of something rich and red, one brow still arched in wicked delight.
Rio flushed. “I was just—”
“Verifying my reflection?” Agatha handed her a glass. “Let’s have a better look at us.”
She took Rio’s elbow gently in one hand and guided her to standing and marched her across the room. There was a long object along the far wall, something tall and rectangular, shrouded in a dustcloth. Agatha stopped in front of it and lifted Rio’s hand.
“Go on,” she said, voice soft now, low and coaxing. “Pull it back.”
Rio hesitated, then tugged the cloth away.
A mirror.
Full-length, antique, carved wood frame. Ornate as all hell. The glass was burnished but clear.
And in it, stood both of them.
Rio. And Agatha, just behind her, close enough to feel the warmth of her breath at the nape of her neck.
“I’m not a ghost,” Agatha said, brushing Rio’s hair away so that she could press her lips near her ear. “And I’m not a parlor trick. You’re not losing your mind.”
She stepped forward again, raised her glass to her lips, and took a slow sip.
“Go on,” Agatha said, her voice like honey as she reached around Rio. “Taste.”
Rio allowed the glass to be lifted to her mouth and took the tiniest sip she could manage.
Copper. Salt. Death.
She gagged.
Agatha didn’t flinch. Just reached out and tapped two fingers gently under her chin, coaxing her to lift it, to swallow.
Rio forced it down.
There was no mistaking the taste.
“I thought vampires were unable to see their reflection, Ms. Harkness.” Rio ventured.
Agatha laughed and adjusted her mane of hair while admiring her reflection. “Honey, I’m exceptional.”
The room tilted.
Rio stumbled back a step, blinking hard, but Agatha moved fast. A firm and unyielding arm slipped around her waist, catching her just before her knees buckled.
“Come now,” Agatha murmured. “Can’t have you falling to the floor. That fainting couch is much better suited.”
Rio tried to protest, but it came out as a low gasp as Agatha gently guided her down, easing her onto the plush, wine-colored cushions like she weighed nothing at all. Her hand lingered for a moment at Rio’s hip, then ghosted away.
Agatha settled herself beside the couch—not on it, but on the floor—lounging like an old cat who had chosen to linger in her favorite sunbeam. Her robe slipped slightly as she reclined, revealing an even more bare thigh.
Rio turned her head to look at her and immediately regretted it.
Agatha had the nerve to smile sweetly and take another long, languid sip from her glass.
“Now then,” she purred, swirling the crimson liquid like a bold merlot. What’s your next question, sweetness?”
Though not unpleasantly, Rio’s stomach flipped at the endearment. She sat up a little straighter, brushing hair out of her face, trying to compose herself even as her heart pounded in her ears.
“What was that?”
Agatha leaned her chin into her palm and regarded her with open amusement. “Oh, the drink? Vintage.”
Rio shivered. “Jesus.”
“No,” Agatha said, “but we did meet once. Lovely fellow. A bit prone to dramatics.”
Rio tried not to stare, tried not to care about the awful truth she just swallowed. “That’s not a joke.”
“Darling, neither am I.”
There was a long beat of silence, heavy and humid.
Rio took a breath. “So am I to believe you’re…”
Agatha leered as she leaned closer. “I expect you to believe what you see with your own clever little eyes. You’re a smart girl.”
Rio deflected. “Why show me all this? If you’re trying to keep a low profile, this is a hell of a way to do it.”
Agatha tilted her head. “Oh, sweetheart. You know better than that. You never would've found me if I wanted to stay hidden.”
Rio swallowed. She wanted to say something snarky. Wanted to tease. Wanted to run, maybe—but also wanted to know.
Instead, she whispered, “What happens next?”
Agatha’s smile deepened, slow and dangerous. “Now? Well, that depends on how much more of the truth you’re willing to swallow.”
Rio licked her lips. “So… vampires.”
Agatha’s eyes danced with wicked glee. “Mm, yes. Go on.”
“There are… a lot of legends. Holy water, silver, garlic, mirrors…”
Agatha stretched her arms above her head in a slow, languid arc, like she was sunbathing instead of casually unraveling centuries of mythology. “The garlic thing is quite unfortunate and annoying. I'm not sure where that came from. And I think I look much better in gold. Don't you? Silver washes me out.”
Rio blinked. “That’s it? That’s your whole objection?”
“Well,” Agatha said thoughtfully, “that and the fact that most silver I’ve come across has been terribly tacky. All those crucifixes and clunky blades? Please. If you're going to try and kill me, at least have the courtesy to do so with style. I really wouldn’t suggest it. Look at the state of you. You poor thing.”
“What about Bram Stoker? Dracula? Any truth there?”
Agatha rolled her eyes. “Bram Stoker? I hardly know her. ”
Rio snorted, choking on a laugh despite herself.
Agatha looked smug. “That man spent a single week in Eastern Europe, got drunk off some fermented goat’s milk, and built an entire charlatan legacy off shadow puppets and hearsay.”
Rio squinted. “So… you’re saying you’re not from Romania?”
“I’m saying I’ve been from many places, and that one was not particularly welcoming.” She sipped her drink again. “You can only tolerate being called a demon by candlelight so many times before it gets repetitive. And it hurts my feelings.”
She stuck out her bottom lip in an exaggerated pout.
Rio tilted her head. “Is that why you’re in Louisiana?”
Agatha smiled like someone about to take a very long bite out of the truth. “Mmm, not quite. Though I do like the aesthetic here. The mausoleums are a nice touch. A place should honor their dead. But yes, I suppose I may have left a few... impressions here over the years. Some whispers.”
“Wait— you’re the cause of the hauntings around here?”
Agatha gave a theatrical shrug. “Some are mine. Others… not so much.”
Her tone shifted slightly, light but cautious.
“For example, Voodoo is very real,” she said. “And very much outside my realm of influence. I respect it—and I keep very, very far away from it.”
Rio looked at her, surprised. “You’re scared of it?”
“I’m respectful,” Agatha repeated.
Rio sat back. The velvet couch seemed to swallow her a little more with each passing minute. “So, let me guess. All the stories—mirrors, coffins, sunlight—they’re all just… what? PR?”
Agatha twirled the stem of her glass between her fingers. “Some were accidents. Some were experiments. A few were… shall we say… strategically placed in the cultural bloodstream.”
She glanced at Rio over the rim of her glass. “It’s fun to see what sticks. A single whisper in the right ear, a little performance art in the right century, and suddenly everyone’s wearing turtlenecks and jumping at their own shadows. Just a little harmless fun.”
Rio narrowed her eyes. “What about stakes to the heart?”
Agatha’s smile bloomed across her face, slow and syrupy. “Oh… Bless your heart, sugar.”
She set her glass down and leaned in, just enough to brush a fingertip over the inside of Rio’s wrist. Rio had always had prominent veins. In that instant, she became hyper aware of them and wished she had worn something with longer sleeves.
“Miss Vidal,” she purred, “let me ask you something...”
Rio tried very hard not to tremble.
Agatha’s voice dropped, sultry and warm. “Wouldn’t a stake through the heart kill most people?”
Rio opened her mouth, then closed it again, swallowing roughly before admitting. “That’s fair.”
Agatha nodded solemnly. “Exactly.”
She reclined again, robe shifting dangerously again as she stretched out along the floor, her hair fanning out behind her. “You humans are so obsessed with symbolism. Wood, blood, thresholds… it’s all metaphor.”
Rio studied her for a long moment, heart pounding. “So which part’s real?”
Agatha’s smile thinned just slightly. “Depends on what you’re afraid of.”
Rio hesitated, the question catching in her throat before she forced it out. “What about… thralls?”
Agatha’s nose wrinkled in something close to disgust. “Ugh. Dreadful word. Makes it sound like I keep a stable of hypnotized unfortunates in my basement.”
Rio sighed in relief. “You don’t?”
“Darling,” Agatha drawled, leaning on one elbow now as she traced the rim of her glass lazily. “No. I find the idea of forced devotion a bit… barbaric. Boring, even. Power without permission lacks flavor. The sweetest fruits are offered willingly.”
Her eyes met Rio’s, steady and dark and knowing. “Are you the offering type, Miss Vidal? I bet you are. You’re very eager, aren’t you?”
Rio’s pulse jumped. “I think I’ve had enough to taste for one night.”
Agatha’s smile curled. “I wasn’t talking about the drink.”
Something in Rio’s chest tightened—an old, primal sort of alarm. Not fear of danger. Something deeper. Instinctual.
Every nerve in her body screamed at her to run. Get up. Out. Away.
But she didn’t move.
Not because she couldn’t.
Because beneath the fear was something worse: the ache of curiosity. Of wanting to know. To be certain. Of what? She wasn’t quite sure.
Rio fought to find her courage and steadied her voice. “Can I have another drink?”
Agatha’s lashes lifted slowly. “Do you want something sweeter?”
Rio nodded. “That… would be nice.”
Agatha’s expression changed—just slightly. Approval. Amusement. Hunger.
She took the last long sip from her own glass, draining it with slow ceremony. Then she set it aside and rose, silk whispering against her skin.
Rio barely had time to process before Agatha was straddling her lap. One knee on either side, close but not touching. Crouched like a goddess at an altar to something sacred and terrifying.
She leaned in, mouth just above Rio’s. “Open.”
Rio heard the words even though Agatha’s mouth didn’t move.
Rio parted her lips. Agatha did the same.
And from her mouth, warm and red, a stream of blood poured.
It hit Rio’s tongue—and she flinched. But it didn’t taste like copper this time. It tasted like wine. Dark and heady, sweet and dry. Like cherries and smoke.
Agatha watched her, eyes locked on Rio’s mouth, on her throat as she swallowed.
“Good girl,” she murmured.
Rio gasped softly as the heat bloomed low in her belly.
Everything about this was wrong.
And yet…
She licked her lips. “What… was that?”
“No, dear pet. That wasn’t our agreement. It’s your turn to answer one.”
She cupped Rio’s cheek, thumb brushing her skin with alarming tenderness.
“Do you want to keep going?”
Rio didn’t trust her voice. But she nodded.
Once.
And Agatha smiled like the moon had just risen for her alone.
“Good,” Agatha purred, the word thick with pleasure. “Then be still.”
She shifted, settling more fully into Rio’s lap now, the weight of her grounding and incendiary. The silk of her robe slid against Rio’s bare forearms as Agatha leaned closer—close enough that her lips nearly brushed Rio’s cheek, her breath warm against her ear.
“You would taste better if you were afraid,” she whispered, “but you’ll enjoy it more if you’re brave. I would so much rather ensure your pleasure.”
Rio’s breath hitched.
She wanted to move, to speak, to pull back. But Agatha’s hand was cradling her face like she was something precious, and for a moment, Rio felt like she was.
Agatha’s thumb traced the corner of her mouth, catching a smear of red, and brought it to her own lips. She sucked it clean with a hum that made Rio’s pulse stutter in her throat.
“That wasn’t just any blood,” Rio whispered, voice hoarse.
“No,” Agatha murmured. “That was mine.”
She dragged her gaze up Rio’s body, slow and deliberate. “I don’t offer it lightly.”
Rio’s hands had been clenched in the velvet of the couch, but now they rose, uncertain, trembling, settling against Agatha’s waist. She was warm. Too warm for a corpse. Too alive to be a monster.
“What does that mean?” Rio asked, the words barely leaving her lips.
Agatha tilted her head. “It means,” she said slowly, “I want more. But also, I’m not going to take anything you don’t give me freely. That’s not my style.”
She leaned in and kissed the edge of Rio’s jaw. Not a bite. Not yet.
Just lips. Soft. Inevitable. Pressing but not taking.
“But I am going to ask you another question.”
Her mouth brushed the shell of Rio’s ear. “Would you like to be mine tonight?”
Rio shivered.
Every part of her wanted to say no. Wanted to say run.
But her mouth parted again—and no words came.
She was trembling under Agatha’s hands, but she nodded. Just once.
“Yes,” she said, breathless.
Agatha pulled back just far enough to meet her eyes, her expression going dark with something that looked dangerously close to reverence.
“It would be a gift to show you what eternity can taste like.”
And this time, when she kissed her, it was deep and languid and soaked in wine-dark hunger. Agatha’s lips moved with slow purpose, coaxing Rio open—not just her mouth, but her will, her fear, her doubt. One kiss at a time.
Rio melted beneath her.
Not under any spell.
Just desire.
Agatha’s fingers traced the column of her throat, lingering just at the pulse.
“Calm yourself. I won’t bite,” she whispered
Rio’s breath came fast. “Until when?”
“Not until you beg me to.”
There was no clean division between the heat pooling in her belly and the ache curling low in her spine. Just the slow realization that she was being undone.
Agatha moved languidly like she had all the time in the world and intended to spend it unraveling her. Her fingers skimmed down Rio’s throat, tracing the notch of her collarbone with infuriating delicacy.
"You tremble so beautifully," she murmured, brushing a kiss against Rio’s jaw, then lower, just under the ear. Her lips grazed there, then lingered. “Are you afraid of me?”
Rio gasped. “I don’t know.”
“Mmm. I appreciate your honesty. Do not be afraid of me. I take the best care of delicate things.”
Agatha kissed her again, deeper this time. Her mouth was warm and slow, tongue parting Rio’s lips. There was no rush, no blood frenzy—just the unbearable patience of someone who had mastered the art of want over centuries.
Rio’s hands rose of their own accord, burying in Agatha’s hair. She didn’t remember when she’d stopped thinking. She didn’t want to think anymore.
Agatha shifted, sliding her thigh between Rio’s, coaxing her legs wider. The heat of her body pressed flush against Rio’s center and the friction stole the breath from her lungs.
She whimpered—quiet, involuntary.
Agatha smiled into her mouth. “Beg me,” she cajoled.
“Please,” Rio breathed.
Agatha shivered in response, the sound like praise caught between her teeth. “What are you asking me for?”
Rio flushed hot, but didn’t look away. “Touch me.”
“It would be my pleasure.”
She kissed her way down Rio’s throat, over the delicate shell of her clavicle, down to the buttons of her sleeveless blouse. Her hands moved like silk, slow and reverent, undoing them one by one, not just with skill but intention, as though unwrapping a particular gift she’d waited lifetimes to receive.
Rio arched beneath her, breath stuttering as the cool air met her flushed skin.
Agatha laid a hand flat over her chest, just above her heart.
“Still so fast,” she murmured. “Do you want me to slow down? I’ve learned to be careful with mortal things. Is this all too much for you?”
“No,” Rio gasped. “Please don’t stop.”
Agatha obliged, her mouth replacing her hand, kissing the thrum of life just beneath Rio’s skin. She lingered there, letting her lips trace the rhythm of Rio’s pulse.
Then lower still.
Her hands followed the slope of Rio’s hips, pulling her closer, guiding her thighs around her waist. Every movement, every touch, was worship.
Rio could feel Agatha's hands slipping under her shirt, tracing circles on her bare skin. She shivered slightly at the sensation but didn't pull away. Agatha broke the kiss first, looking into Rio's eyes with a hunger that made her knees weak.
Agatha's hands moved to the hem of Rio's shirt, slowly lifting it up and over her head. She tossed it aside carelessly, her eyes fixed on Rio's chest rising and falling with each rapid breath.
She leaned in, pressing soft kisses along the line of Rio's collarbone before moving lower. Her tongue traced patterns on Rio's stomach, making her squirm beneath her.
“Agatha, please,” Rio whined.
“You’re doing beautifully. Keep going. I know your desire. I feel your heart. But I want you to tell me what you need.”
Rio gasped, arching her back. “I don’t know.” She panted.
“Then you must not need anything. If you don’t have the words to ask for what you want.”
"No. Please," Rio begged, her voice barely above a whisper.
"I need to be touched. I want to feel alive."
She tugged at Agatha's robe, trying to pull her closer.
And Agatha obliged, leaning down to capture Rio's mouth in another searing kiss while her hands explored the planes of Rio's body.
She trailed soft kisses from Rio's lips to her jawline, then down to her neck.
She kissed tenderly at first, nipping gently at Rio's sensitive flesh, making her gasp and writhe beneath her.
Then harder, marking Rio as hers, leaving behind small bruises that would bloom like flowers against her skin.
Agatha's lips brushed against Rio's earlobe, her hot breath sending shivers down Rio's spine.
"Tell me what you want, sweet one," she whispered huskily. "I can smell your desire. Let me taste it."
She slid her hands down to cup Rio's breasts through her bra, teasing the nipples with her thumbs. Rio moaned softly, arching into her touch. "Yes..." she breathed. "Taste me."
“Not yet.”
Rio groaned, bucking her hips against Agatha's touch, seeking more friction. "Touch me," she demanded.
“Like this?” Agatha husked, pinching one of Rio's nipples hard enough to make her cry out. She leaned down and took the other nipple into her mouth, sucking and biting until Rio was writhing beneath her.
Agatha's lips captured Rio's again, silencing her moans as she continued to pinch and roll Rio's nipples between her fingers.
She nibbled on Rio's bottom lip before trailing kisses along her jawline once more. This time, instead of stopping at her neck, Agatha kept going, pressing wet kisses to the shell of Rio's ear.
She flicked her tongue inside, making Rio shudder with pleasure.
“Fuck. What are you doing to me?” Rio gasped.
Agatha chuckled darkly. “Patience. You’re a smart girl. You know that we must only come when invited, Rio.”
She traced the outer edge of Rio's ear with her tongue, then blew lightly on it, making Rio shiver.
Again, she repeated this process several times, each time varying her technique slightly-flicking, swirling, sucking-keeping Rio guessing and on edge.
Reduced to pants and whimpers, there was nothing for Rio to do but succumb to her touch.
Agatha sat back on her heels, taking in the sight of Rio sprawled beneath her. She trailed a finger down Rio's stomach, circling her belly button briefly before continuing south.
She hooked her fingers into the waistband of Rio's high-waisted shorts, slowly tugging them down. Rio lifted her hips to help, eager for more contact.
Agatha grasped Rio's ankles and lifted her legs up, spreading them wide and exposing her completely.
She ran her hands up the insides of Rio's thighs, feeling her tremble with anticipation. Dipping her head down, she paused, blowing a stream of cool air onto the dark damp spot that had formed on her panties.
"Please," Rio begged, her hips bucking up off the couch. Agatha smirked and lowered her head, inhaling deeply.
Rio looked down at Agatha, her eyes pleading. "Please," she repeated desperately.
Agatha grinned predatorily, her thumbs brushing lightly over Rio's covered clit.
"Not yet," she said, watching as Rio bit her lip to hold back a moan.
"Soon," she promised. She dipped her head lower, running her tongue along Rio's inner thigh.
Rio felt Agatha take her hand, guiding her to pull her panties to the side, making room for two fingers from Agatha’s left hand to slip inside her. They both groaned as Rio’s body easily swallowed them.
She began to pump them in and out slowly, curling them slightly to hit Rio's g-spot.
"That's it," she cooed. "Take my fingers like a good girl won’t you? Show me how much you believe."
She picked up speed, sliding her fingers in and out faster, harder. Rio cried out, her hips bucking wildly as she chased each withdrawal.
Agatha withdrew her fingers wholly and suddenly, leaving Rio gasping and empty.
Before Rio could protest, Agatha brought her shining fingers to Rio's lips. "Taste yourself, tell me what it’s like." she commanded.
Rio didn’t hesitate to let her mouth fall open obediently. Agatha pressed her fingers into Rio’s mouth before using her other hand to grab Rio's chin forcefully.
"Bite down," she ordered, her voice leaving no room for argument.
Rio hesitated for a moment, then nodded, sinking her teeth into the soft pads of Agatha’s fingertips.
Agatha hissed in pain but seemed to be delighted as Rio lolled her tongue around her fingers, sucking the taste of herself and the newly sprung blood off of them.
She continued to suckle at Agatha’s fingers until the woman appeared to be satisfied, finally removing them to admire the imprint of Rio’s bite.
“So good. You listen so well.” Agatha growled low in her throat, her eyes flashing red.
“Please, I can’t-” Rio whimpered, her hips rocking up as she spread her legs wider, her hand pulling at the gusset of her underwear until it tore away.
"You can," Agatha snarled. She grabbed Rio's hips roughly, flipping her onto her stomach and dragging her to the edge of the couch.
Rio gasped in surprise, her back arching as Agatha smacked her ass sharply. "I want this to be mine," Agatha hissed possessively, rubbing the sting away.
"Please," Rio begged, pushing back against Agatha. "It can be yours. I want it. Please, fuck me."
“Well done, my darling. I only needed you to ask. I just needed to hear you meant it.”
Then Agatha complied, roughly pressing three fingers into Rio in one smooth thrust. They both moaned loudly at the sensation.
Agatha gripped Rio's hips tightly with her free hand, using them for leverage as she set a punishing pace.
“More," Rio panted, pushing back against Agatha with every thrust. "Harder. Faster. Anything, please."
Agatha obliged, slamming into Rio so hard that the couch screeched across the floor.
Rio cried out as she felt the tickle of Agatha’s hair against the small of her back just before her fangs sunk into her ass cheek. She knew she was bleeding now, felt Agatha lapping at the blood welling up from the wound.
She shivered and cried as Agatha’s tongue lapped over her cheek once more before continuing her exploration, prying deeper swirling over Rio's rim. Agatha slipped one hand beneath Rio's hips, finding her clit and rubbing it in slow circles.
Rio moaned loudly, unable to control the desperate, needy noise, pushing back against Agatha's face.
"Please," Rio begged. She didn’t know when tears had begun to fall, but she tasted the salt on her face. “Give me your mercy." Agatha stopped abruptly, pulling away from Rio's sensitive flesh.
Rio whimpered at the loss of contact, turning her head to look at Agatha over her shoulder.
Agatha laughed softly, her breath warm against Rio's skin. "My poor darling little thing," she teased, trailing kisses up Rio's spine.
"So desperate. So needy." She turned Rio onto her back once more, pushing her legs apart and settling between them.
She looked down at Rio, her eyes filled with lust. "I love seeing your kind like this," she admitted. "So open. So vulnerable. You live such short lives and spend every moment feeling so much. Don’t you?"
Agatha grabbed Rio's wrists, pinning them above her head with one hand. The other hand gripped Rio's chin firmly, forcing her to meet her gaze.
"I want nothing more than for you to be mine," she growled possessively. Rio whimpered softly, nodding in agreement.
"Please," she cried, bucking her hips up against Agatha. "Please, I need you inside me."
She positioned her tongue at Rio's entrance, teasing her with soft licks.
"Who do you wish to belong to?"
"You," Rio stammered, barely choking the single word out as she rocked her hips against Agatha. "I want to belong to you."
“Then I will drink from you.” She pressed her forearm beneath Rio’s stomach before burying her tongue inside her. It seemed to fill her completely, burrowing deep as if Agatha intended to consume her whole.
Rio’s vision began to blur, and she thought she might finally have her release. But the waves of heat suddenly gave way to a feeling as if she’d been plunged into ice as she felt the pinprick tips of Agatha's fangs graze over her clit, causing her to jerk and gasp in shock.
Agatha tightened her grip on Rio's hips, holding her still as she looked up at her.
“Don’t look away until I’m done with you,” Agatha growled. “It’s impolite to not meet the gaze of your maker.”
She caught her wrecked reflection in the shine of those wickedly adorned golden fangs.
Before Rio could find out if Agatha was actually insane enough to bite her there, her orgasm crashed into her.
The last thing she remembered was the sound of her own scream, and then the shattering of every glass surface around them.
Rio woke with a start.
The first thing she noticed was the quiet—not the still, heavy silence of the Harkness Estate, but the familiar hum of her ceiling fan and the soft creak of a settling floorboard. It was her apartment.
Her own bed.
She blinked up at the ceiling in confusion, every nerve in her body buzzing like an aftershock.
The second thing she noticed was that she was naked.
Sheets tangled loosely around her waist, skin still flushed, thighs sticky with fading warmth. Her pulse spiked.
“What the hell,” she whispered, sitting up sharply.
No bruises. No bite marks. No blood.
No proof other than the tacky feeling of her own arousal that had dried against her inner thighs.
She checked her neck, her wrists, her thighs. Nothing.
Just heat and memory and the ghost of Agatha’s mouth.
Rio stumbled out of bed, not bothering with clothes as she tore through her bag, flinging open zippers and digging through notebooks, pens, cables, everything—until her fingers closed around the small black recorder.
Her heart pounded as she hit play.
Static.
A long stretch of silence.
She pressed it to her ear, willing it to say something, to prove it hadn’t all been some beautifully deranged dream.
Nothing.
She groaned. “Damn it.”
Then, just as she was about to shut it off, there was a sound.
A low, velvety laugh.
Rio froze.
It was unmistakable. Sultry and genuinely amused.
Agatha.
Her voice filled the room from the tinny speaker, honeyed and cruelly fond.
“I do so hope, Miss Vidal… you got what you wanted.
A pause. Just long enough to feel like a hand on the small of her back.
“And if you remain… unsatiated… You know my address. I certainly still hunger for you.”
Click.
The recording ended.
Rio stared at the recorder like it might bite her.
Her heart thudded in her chest.
And then—slowly, breathless—she smiled.
Rio Vidal had always been a believer.
And now?
She held in her hand a small private proof.
That sometimes, the stories were true—and worse, better, than she'd ever imagined.
She didn’t know if she'd been chosen or cursed.
But she knew one thing for certain.
She would return, again and again. Until neither of them thirsted anymore.