DAY #1

“This is your soulmate, Tahani.”

The entire situation she'd found herself in was making Eleanor's whole body itch, and if she wasn't already dead, she'd be convinced she was in the midst of a mild aneurysm, at the least. And yet, her brain had the time to stop for a second to think Hot. Damn.

That last up until the moment her so-called soulmate opened her mouth.

“It’s such a… quaint little place! Very charming.” And she kept talking, and talking, and talking.

“And Michael told me you were the person with the highest score in the neighborhood!” Was her smile forced? It looked forced. “It’s such an honour. But, well. I don’t deserve any less, of course!”

Wow, way to make Eleanor’s success about her. Well, not Eleanor’s, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that, when she heard the word “soulmate,” Eleanor had let herself belief she could have an ally, someone who could help her make sense of all the crazy.

And instead, she was stuck with some snob, super-hot woman that talked non-stop about herself. She had trouble believing she ever had her head out of her ass for long enough to help anybody.

DAY #6

Tahani was the worst. She kept talking about all the charities she had organized, making Eleanor feel like shit, she name-dropped celebrities left and right like an asshole, and she remained incredible passive-aggressive about Eleanor’s fake score.

She wasn’t even getting laid, because Tahani said she’d never been with a woman before and she wanted to “take it slow.” Wasn’t this supposed to be paradise, for heaven’s sake? The only good thing about her was that she immediately hijacked Eleanor's Best Person Speech with her enormous ego.

But the stress was killing her, metaphorically speaking. The damn giraffes, the garbage, everything. She needed to do something, and she couldn’t do it alone. She needed help if she wanted to keep up the charade, and her “soulmate” was too unreliable, so she’d have to get it elsewhere.

What was the weird iLady's name again?

DAY #17

“Are you even paying attention to me right now? Because may I remind you, your very soul depends on it.”

She had spaced out again. And the worst was, she felt guilty about it. Guilty about not paying attention to a super boring speech about some Hums guy by the biggest nerd she’d ever met.

“I’m sorry.”

“Okay. That’s a first.”

“Go fork yourself, dude.”

“Now that’s more like you.”

For the first time in what felt like an eternity (ha), she felt her face form an honest smile. Chidi sat next to her, looking worried. The guy stressed too much. He seemed to take her situation way too personally, and he'd gone above and beyond to help her. It was such a stupid thing to do.

She was infinitely grateful.

“It’s just… the whole situation with Tahani is too much. She keeps taking me everywhere, wanting to go on little dates and preying about my life. And I can’t tell her anything, because of course I can’t. I think she believes that when I go out alone I’m cheating on her.”

“Wait. She thinks your cheating on her with me? That’s— well that’s— you know—”

“Yeah, no, totally, dude. But what do I tell her? That you’re teaching me ethics?”

“Well, I mean, I have a soulmate. A real one. No offense.”

Yeah, he didn't need to remind her. She was pretty sure his soulmate was suspicious of her too.

And if she was honest with herself (ugh), not totally without reason.

DAY #29

Tahani insisted on going on a date near the lake, and when Tahani insisted, she insisted. It was all perfectly put together, movie-worthy, with the picnic, and the sunset, and her short summer dress that left her long, long, long legs uncovered.

Eleanor pondered whether throwing herself at the lake was a good idea or not.

For once, though, Tahani wasn’t filling the air around them with her posh accent. She seemed on edge, awkward. It had Eleanor freaked out. What if she had somehow figured it out? Had Chidi being through one of his moral crisis again and decided to come clean to her?

No. Chidi wouldn’t do that to her.

Tahani raised her hand, pulling a strand of hair behind Eleanor’s ear. She smiled shyly at her, and suddenly, her face was right there and they were kissing, painfully tender.

Eleanor kissed back almost automatically. Because that’s what you do when someone kisses you. You kiss back. It’s an instinct, a reflex. That’s it.

“Well,” Tahani said softly, when she drew back, “that was not too bad, wasn’t it?”

Eleanor head was pounding, her mouth open like a fish’s, and she just ran.

NIGHT #29

Chidi was as unhelpful as he was in every situation that didn’t include a book so heavy it gave you cramps by looking at it. “Maybe you could tell her the truth. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Uh, eternal damnation, for one? What a shitty piece of advice.

So she was back there, to their quaint ugly little home, with no idea of what to do next.

The door opened violently, and Tahani was looking at her with an offended expression that would’ve made royals jealous.

“You were with him last night, were you?”

Yikes. She’d heard those words before. And though it wasn’t what she thought, she refused to say something so cliché on principle.

“What is it? You like them short? Am I not good enough for Miss Best Score?”

“Tahani…”

“What, Eleanor? You’re supposed to love me, not to keep choosing someone else over and over and over again! That’s the whole point, we’re soulmates!”

She exploded, right there and then. “No, we’re not! We’re not soulmates.”

“What are you talking about?!”

She couldn’t believe what she was about to say. She was going to hell, literally going to hell after this.

“We’re not soulmates, because I’m not supposed to be here, Tahani.”

DAY #30

Eleanor paced around the room. Tahani was out all day, claiming she needed time to think about everything she’d told her.

She was going to tell Michael, Eleanor was sure of it. She was going to tell Michael and she’d be sent to the bad place to be tortured soon enough, just because she couldn’t keep her mouth shut.

When she heard the door open, her heart stopped. But it was just Tahani.

“Hey.”

“Hey?”

Well, that was it? No clues at all of her mood? Come on.

“I didn’t tell anyone.”

Eleanor released a breath and fell down on the sofa, Tahani sitting next to her. She didn’t know what to say. “Thank you.” At least that was mandatory.

Tahani nodded. She was looking ahead, with a sad smile. “I’m sorry,” she said next, “I know you liked the idea of soulmates.”

“I’ve been thinking,” she said, turning suddenly, with an urgent look on her eyes, “maybe we are soulmates. Maybe that’s why you are here. We— we were meant to be together, and you went through the system somehow, because it’s not designed to keep soulmates apart.”

“That’s absurd Tahani. We are in no way compatible; you got in the good place by yourself, I was mediocre at best.”

“I wasn’t that good. It’s true! I saw the list.”

“What list?”

“In Michael’s office. There was a list of everyone here, and I was second to last. I barely got in, I’m almost— mediocre, too.”

A list… just there, out in the open. Their soulmate situation. The giraffes. Wait a second…

“That motherforker!”

“What?”

“We are in the bad place! We keep getting on each other’s nerves, and I get on Chidi’s nerves, and you just happen to see something in Michael’s office that makes you feel miserable?”

Tahani was looking at her, horrified, speechless.

“This is the bad place.”

NIGHT #30

“Are you absolutely positive about this?”

“Yes, Chidi, we are.”

“But that doesn’t— oh god. The almond milk.”

“We need to leave this place, Chidi. ASAP. Jan—!”

“Wait. Do we warn my soulmate?”

“Are you one hundred percent sure you can trust him?”

“…”

“That’s a no. Janet!”

Janet, at least, seemed happy to be on the train. Chidi was going through probably the biggest meltdown of his life (about almonds), and Tahani looked wistfully through the window.

Eleanor sat next to her, wishing she had any idea for how to comfort her. She didn’t know where to start, she had literally zero experience at that shit.

Out of nowhere, Tahani said: “I understand what you see in him. He’s very cute. In his own midget way.”

“Tahani…”

“Oh, don’t look at me that way. I know you like me too. I mean, obviously.”

She seemed to recover from her self-esteem crisis rather well, didn’t she?

“That’s a weird turn you’ve made there.”

She shrugged. “We aren’t getting any deader.”

The train arrived, and when they reached the house, a strange woman opened the door.

“Let me guess. You didn't bring my cocaine again.”

They didn’t know what to do. Staying there with that woman didn’t seem like an option. According to Janet, the train couldn't reach the real good place, only the bad one. The only way was backwards, where their memories would likely be erased and they’d be condemned to repeat a just slightly different history for thousands of years.

Chidi was the one taking it worse. Eleanor wasn’t much better than him, but Tahani seemed at ease, full of a new resolution.

She walked at Chidi, and appraised him slowly. Chidi stopped mid-pacing, like a deer caught in headlights.

“Chidi, right? We haven’t talked much. I’ve noticed the way you look at Eleanor.”

“What— I— no, I don’t look at her in any way! Ever!”

No, he doesn’t. Wait, does he?

“Please. I’ve also noticed the way you look at me. And we’ve all noticed the way Eleanor looks at me.”

“Yeah, that’s kind of true.”

“I’m NOT having a threesome in a stranger’s house,” she empathized, “and you and I would need to get to know each other better, but I think this is a good start.”

“This?”

“Oh, come on. We are totally fucking. Hey,” Eleanor exclaimed, “I can say fucking!”

DAY #35

Calling it a plan was too generous. Calling it an idea was generous. So it went as well as she would’ve predicted.

Tahani was furious. She kept screaming and insulting Michael. Chidi demanded explanations. Janet had brought that weird monk and they both sat on the sidelines, looking confused.

Michael, though with a bitter look on his face, seemed to be enjoying the situation. Eleanor, as she saw Tahani’s futile attacks on him, felt true defeat for the first time in her life.

“Michael, please… stop doing this to us.”

Everything seemed to stop in that second. Michael turned to her, calculating.

“Well, well, well… you’ve never pleaded. Please, don’t let me stop you.”

Anger raised through her throat, choking her. She ran to him and spat on his face.

“I don’t care what I have to do, but somehow I swear I’m going to forking ki—"

Snap.

It wouldn't have surprised anybody to hear that the first time it happened was in the middle of sex.

Magnus and Camille had left the Queen's party just in time to arrive home before sunrise. Two creatures of the night, both of origins that the guests would've found more than questionable, mocking everything and everyone on sight. Mocking their pomp, their demureness, their fleeting pretensions... Magnus couldn't remember the last time he laughed so hard.

And her. Oh, her. She laughed too, high and improper and irresistible. She dazzled and scandalized everyone around them in equal parts. None of them would ever forget her.

When they arrived home, with the heavy curtains closed to avoid the smallest ray of light, Camille was still laughing, at some witty joke he couldn't remember despite telling it himself less than ten seconds before. This laugh was softer, but just as striking. And while she laughed, he couldn't tear his eyes of her, content with just that.

Pathetic, in hindsight.

She returned his look —Magnus never doubted that she could read him like an open book— and regaled him with an indulgent half smile and a hungry gaze that had little to do with blood.

By the time they made it to the bed they were completely naked, their evening wear describing a path through the house. They knew each other plenty, so they didn't waste any time. Before the next blink, Camille was over him, riding him and keeping him in place with a strength that contradicted her size.

It wasn't the first time the idea had crossed his mind, not by far. But it was the first time he felt euphoric enough and reckless enough to propose it. So he presented his neck to Camille, raising his eyebrows in a challenge.

Camille didn't even stop to think it over. She bit his neck, and after the first flash of pain, the pleasure came. A rush like he hadn't felt before, that made him see the stars and grab her hips hard enough to bruise. He held his breath as to, so to speak, not embarrass himself by ending things too soon.

After a few more seconds she moved away, licking her lips. When he felt her tremble above him, he didn't resist longer, feeling all his muscles loosen up. He felt drowsy, like he was floating over a never-ending lake.

"You really enjoyed that." Camille laid now next to him, staring at him with a probing gaze as she caressed his chest.

"It won't become something regular," he clarified. "But I wouldn't mind doing it from time to time."

She smiled, satisfied, and kissed him on the shoulder —right next to the bite mark.

The second time wasn't nearly as fun.

They had travelled to New York by boat, an experience neither of them was particularly fond of. But the truth is that the both of them fell madly in love with the city as soon as they saw it.

The feeling didn't seem to be mutual, seeing the welcoming party.

Shadowhunters attacked them during one of their outings. They had made a bet about who would try to attack them first: them, or some opportunistic mundane. So he didn't only had to fight, he owed her a gift.

They had been joking when they talked about it. But even if it didn't caught them unaware, they were a lot more than what Magnus would've predicted. A dozen young Shadowhunters, seemingly ready to gamble with their lives if that got them to kill a couple Downworlders.

By the time they finished them, they both were hurt and he had just enough strength in him to vanish the corpses.

It couldn't have been a legal mission, with the Accords on the table and negotiations in such a delicate state. But that wouldn't win them any sympathies from the Clave if they were caught, so he made his best effort to erase any trail they had left. The next morning, he would make sure to wipe out the memories of anyone who could place them in the city that night.

He helped Camille walk to their rooms, thankfully nearby. Her clothes were ruined, stained with her blood and theirs, and she had burns in her face and arms. He placed a small glamour over them, so that they wouldn't call any attention to themselves if someone crossed the street.

"Magnus," she said, with a cold and tight voice, "we can't go back yet, I need to feed."

"Don't worry, I'll take care of that."

Once they arrived, he helped her sit on the bed and rolled up his sleeve.

"You're weakened, Magnus."

"Magically speaking, sure. But this will be fine. Take what you need to heal."

Still reluctant, she grabbed his arm and complied. This time, with the bite came an instant bliss, the feeling that the night's fatigue escaped his body by the tips of his fingers.

Despite what he'd just said, he felt himself faint and fall over her lap.

"Oh, come on. Stay a little longer. We're having a great time, you don't have to leave yet."

"I'm hungry, Magnus."

They'd spent the whole day in their room, hiding from Ra's light and the overwhelming heat of the streets. They talked, laughed, danced and fucked; hours and hours together that left Magnus wanting more.

They were laying in bed and, despite her words, Camille hadn't made any move to leave. Her hair still rested on Magnus' stomach, as he played with her hair. He couldn't imagine someone more beautiful in all the world. And she never looked more beautiful than exactly like this: naked, relaxed, with closed eyes and a cunning smile adoring her countenance. The moonlight that filtered through the window gave her such a radiance that Magnus could understand why she claimed not to miss the sun rays. He didn't miss them that much himself, and when he had to go out during the day, he was even a little resentful of their light, knowing it was what separated him from Camille.

He opened his arms and said, "I'm right here." He laughed to himself, thinking of how crass that would have sound if he wasn't talking to a vampire.

She opened her eyes and looked at him, silently asking if he was sure. Magnus nodded, presenting her his wrist.

But she moved it away, standing up, and sat on his legs, supporting herself with her hands on his chest. With a smirk, she went down and bit him on his hip, right next to the place his navel should have been. Magnus felt himself get hard immediately, and when Camille raised up, looking smug, Magnus grabbed her and turned them around. Ironically, it felt as if her poison had given him strength.

She laughed, and Magnus kissed her slow and steady, as she surrounded him with her arms to pull him closer.

They sat at a Downwordler luxury bar in Saint Petersburg. Albeit in Magnus opinion, the luxury level of any Russian place would necessarily leave a lot to be desired. He would've never let himself be dragged into that country if it wasn't for business. And even then, before he had the power to create a Portal that could get them out of there in seconds, he might still have refused.

He was there to talk with a couple of Warlocks to exchange ideas, and Camille had accepted to come along to sight-see. If she wasn't with him, he'd question her taste.

The aforementioned Warlocks hadn't arrived yet, and Magnus was getting bored. They were in a sofa covered in furs, slightly separated from the centre of the establishment, with a direct view of the entrance. The place was full of Downworlders, each more outlandish than the next, and even a couple of mundanes with the Sight.

Magnus let his head fall into Camille's lap, and she immediately started playing with the strands of his hair. The furs might not be such a bad idea, he thought, if maybe a little tacky. They were extremely comfortable; a little longer and he would fall asleep.

That's when they came in. It was impossible to mistake them for anything else: dressed in black tactical gear, runes sticking out of their necks and arms. He could almost smell the instant tension their arrival caused. But Camille never wavered with her caresses or her conversation.

It was only three of them. Surely, they weren't going to raid the place just by themselves, though you never knew if they had backup waiting outside. If that were the case, they'd hopefully freeze before they could be of any use to their companions.

The Shadowhunters must have come to speak with someone in particular. One of them, a woman, appeared to be trying to locate whoever they were, her gaze travelling intently through the place. The other two didn't dare to stare at much, casting furtive looks to their surroundings.

One of them saw Magnus and Camille and looked away as quickly as he could with unmistakable disgust. It wasn't hard to guess what caused it: Magnus never bothered to hide his eyes in places like these, and Camille always left her teeth uncovered —a warning that there was a predator in the room.

Magnus felt a cold rage arise in his veins. This place was theirs. A haven for Downworlders. Shadowhunters didn't have room in there. They were, at best, mere guests, and that was only if the owner had the courtesy to allow it. How dare they come inside, defile the place with their angelic airs of grandeur—and instead of showing a modicum of respect, of decency, choose to judge them all? Accords or no Accords, they were no one in that bar. It was a lesson they had to learn sooner or later.

Without moving, he raised his arm to Camille. She stopped speaking with the vampire sitting next to her, and looked at him questioning. He let one of his fingers caress her lips, her fangs, and she smiled slowly. She rolled down his sleeve and, staring straight to the Shadowhunters, she bit him.

The rush was as sudden as every other time, and he let them see it. See his feline pupils react, enjoy the show. The truth is that they appeared frozen with terror, incapable of tearing their eyes away. The woman said something quick to the barman and the three of them left the place as if they were running from a burning building.

Camille stopped then, wiping a drop of blood from the corner of her mouth. She laughed raucously, a sound that spread through the bar, in an unusual moment of Downworlder solidarity.

Magnus always thought there was something particularly beautiful about the romance between two immortals. At the end of the day, what other love could compare? Eternal love, true love. Two concepts that, in his opinion, went together.

He didn't love Camille because she was immortal. He loved her because he loved her, because she had fascinated him from the moment he first saw her, because she was unique and incredible, because next to her every experience intensified, multiplied.

But maybe her immortality made him cling to her. Way longer than he should have, seeing what happened with that little friend of hers. Russian, to add insult to injury.

How naïve. What had he expected? Eternal love?

Magnus liked things to fulfill a perfect circle. Perhaps that's why the last time he offered his blood to Camille, it too happened during sex.

It wasn't as if they never had rough sex. They had, dozens of times. When one of them needed the release, or both did, or simply for fun.

But that night felt different. Maybe because the violence wasn't mutual, a give and take between them. Magnus was the only one lashing out, and Camille just let it be, as if she was amused by his uncouth attempt at punishing her.

Magnus couldn't stand to watch her act like she hadn't done anything wrong. Like she hadn't just thrown away a love story worthy of a ten-volume epic.

He raised her in his arms, pushing her against the wall with such force that the painting next to them fell on the floor, the crystal covering it in shatters. She just laughed, with a mocking pout on her mouth, surrounding his hips with her legs and his neck with her arms, dragging him closer.

He grabbed her arms, that he now felt like they were chocking him, and pushed them too against the wall, holding them in place.

"If I had known this is what jealousy does to you, I would've done this much sooner."

Like another stab at his chest. He raised her from the wall and sank her to the floor, placing himself over her, between her legs, as he pushed his pants down. She got rid of her own clothes, pulling him in with her legs. But that, he though after a few thrusts, wasn't the catharsis he was looking for. It wasn't enough.

After a moment of inspiration, he reversed their positions, which seemed to be the first moment of the night where Camille didn't seem to know what to do. Confusion and doubt painted her face when he ordered, "Bite me."

Camille frowned, apparently disliking were things were headed.

"Bite. Me."

Camille, reluctant, as if she wanted to make sure she could stop if he changed his mind, and with a tenderness she'd never showed before, complied.

This time Magnus didn't make any efforts restraining himself and the effects of the poison made him came in barely a minute. He then rested on the cold floor, feeling loose. But the rush was gone too soon, and reality hadn't changed with it.

He moved Camille, brusquely. She still seemed disoriented. He fixed his clothes and intended to walk through the door without looking back.

"Until the next time, love."

He stopped, and turned back to look at her. She was standing up, and even if she looked dishabille, she had recovered her airs of dignified and amused indifference.

"I don't want to see you again, Camille."

And the worst part was that, for over a century, he kept his word.

Magnus walked through the Institute as he made sure to always do: determined, with his best clothes on, and like he owned the place.

A Shadowhunter he'd never spoken with was the one who greeted him. He took it as an insult, and made sure everyone knew it.

At the elevator doors both Lightwood siblings were waiting for him, on twin military stances.

"Thanks for coming, Magnus."

Alec nodded at his sisters words, straight-faced. All business.

Of course.

He send them a vapid smile as they entered the elevator. "I still don't see why you'd need my help with an interrogation. In my experience, you're plenty skilled with that yourselves."

Isabelle seemed uncomfortable, and Alec rolled his eyes. He rolled his eyes, for fuck's sake.

"It's a delicate case;" Isabelle explained, apparently the only one who was going to bother to speak to him, "they couldn't get anything from her, and she kept requesting to talk to you. The Clave thought you might have it easier given your... history."

The doors opened right that second, like they knew what dramatic timing was. Magnus felt like all the joints on his body were suddenly stiff, and almost couldn't believe that he managed to walk the necessary steps to get to the hallway.

"What does the Clave want from Camille?" The voice was so calm it didn't sound like his.

Alec answered him, talking for the first time. "We believe there's evidence that she's involved with Lilith, but we don't know how. You just have to go in there with her and try to make her feel comfortable. You'll be able to visit her until you've gained her trust and she tells you what they're planning. You don't have to hurt her. Besides, your magic won't work in there anyway."

There were so many things wrong with those sentences that Magnus didn't even know where to start. He was about to turn back to the elevator without bothering to respond to them when he saw her.

Other than its prisoner, chained to the wall, the cell was completely empty. Camille wore clothes similar to Magnus's when he was in Valentine's skin. She was thinner and gaunter than he ever saw her in all the years they'd known each other, with a paleness that seemed unnatural even for an undead; her hair was withered, and it fell over her face without grace.

It disturbed him. Magnus hadn't been able to stop himself from imagining her with her captors once or twice, but he couldn't picture her looking so vulnerable. In his mind, she was still wearing the same dress, and she appeared majestic, cold and sardonic, enduring with composure anything those miserable mortals could throw at her.

But hunger was hunger, he guessed.

He started walking towards the cell, without thinking. Alec took that as acceptance, since he opened the door for him. There was no way but forward.

When he came in, he became even more aware of her deterioration. She had noticeable rings under his eyes, her lips were dried and wounded, and she had scars on her face that resembled the ones Raphael had brought with him after his visit to Aldertree.

Magnus tried not to think about the consequences that what he'd done might have for Camille. It had been the right choice, because now that he was face to face with her, he was sure he would've never been able to turn her in if he'd known.

It wasn't easy to see someone like her hit rock bottom. Specially if it was someone you loved.

Camille raised her eyes and gifted him one of her little smirks. "Hello, darling."

Only two words, and he let himself fall next to her, caressing her head. He instinctively called to his magic, wanting to heal her wounds, even knowing it'd be useless.

"What have they done to you?"

"Nothing they won't pay back for tenfold."

He couldn't help his smile. She spoke with mathematical certainty. He didn't know if she truly had a deal with Lilith or Jonathan or whoever, or if she was completely alone. When he saw her state he'd forgotten for a moment one of nature's oldest laws: people like Camille didn't hit rock bottom. Nobody was strong enough to drag them that far down.

"I guess this visit isn't to remember the old times."

"It could be. And there would be many more visits."

She raised her eyebrows, curious.

"I could tell you how the Clan is doing without you."

"I know a few details," she said, dismissive, "but we can leave that for later. How are you? I've heard very... interesting things."

That put him on guard. The last few months of his live hadn't been exactly boring, so that could mean anything. Did she know that Alec and him...?

"Things about demonic spells."

That made him tense even more. He didn't know how she could have known that. Would Jonathan know? Probably, he must have come from Edom alongside Azazel. The Inquisitor knew it too. The story might have travelled around Idris and reached Camille. The idea of anyone talking about it, of Shadowhunters delighting in his tale of pain and humiliation, made his body itch all over.

"How are you?" she asked again.

"I've had better days."

She snorted quietly, laying her head on the wall and closing her eyes.

As much fight as she had in her, she looked miserable. It was painful to see her like that. She looked famished.

He rolled up his sleeve almost by instinct; ridiculous, for he'd done it a mere half-dozen times over several decades. Camille reacted immediately; her fangs grew, her eyes opened with a feral look. Magnus raised his arm in offer.

"Stop me if it's too much." She bit him without another word.

Magnus hadn't exactly abstained from drugs over the last century, but none of them could compare to this. He was hard as a rock in ten seconds flat. His mind floated above him, and any pain or discomfort he felt lost all meaning.

In the middle of the high, he had a moment to wonder if Isabelle stayed to watch, or if she had time to leave.

Camille drank from him longer than she'd ever done before, but when he patted her arm she stopped without making a fuss. His head felt light, and he probably had lost more blood than he would've recommended anybody else, but it wasn't anything he couldn't fix as soon as he got out of there.

When he looked at Camille, seeing how the blood stained her chin was even more unsettling than her initial state. Camille was supposed to be all grace; she never lost control, nothing was ever out of place.

She hadn't taken her eyes off him. She caressed his cheek and told him, with reverence:"If you hadn't been immortal when I met you, I would have turned you."

Absurd, he thought. It was absurd that the tiniest affectionate comment from her could have the power of making his heart beat fast, after all this time.

"Oh, really?"

"A face like yours has to be preserved for future generations."

He laughed, mostly at himself.

They kept gazing at each other, and everything about the situation made all those memories he'd tried so hard to repress come back to him. Memories of times together, with the world laid at their feet, the unofficial king and queen of the Downworld.

He bent down to press a gentle kiss on her lips, not minding the taste of his own blood.

Isabelle took the last steps towards the door that lead to Magnus's loft, filled with more concern than she'd like to own up to. It wasn't a shock —though it was a disappointment— if, after everything that happened between them, Raphael refused to answer her texts or calls; but it seemed as if he'd gone missing from the face of the earth, impossible to locate even for his Clan. She'd witnessed firsthand Raphael's loyalty to his own, and she was incapable of picturing a version of him that would leave them hanging.[1]

What Jace had said, almost in passing, only increased her worries: Raphael had been there, helping them, when Magnus summoned Azazel to find her, and that was seemingly the last anyone had seen of him. Isabelle suspected that the demon might have hurt him, and she felt nearly insurmountable guilt about it.

Magnus's door was unlocked, and she entered uninvited, without knocking. Her brother was there with the host, both of them with frustrated expressions. Magnus leafed through a grimoire, while his magic took care of tidying up the remains of some spell.

"We can't locate Azazel," Alec told her, attuned to her silent entry. "We think something must be blocking us".

"Then try Raphael," she said, eyes on Magnus. "He's missing".

Immediately, he closed his book, and without missing a beat, he started a new spell.

"Why were you looking for Raphael," Alec asked, voice laced with as much suspicion as his gaze. Isabelle valiantly refrained from rolling her eyes.

"Simon asked for my help. It's nothing you have to worry about."

"Uh. That is strange."

"What? What's wrong?" Magnus's tone alarmed her.

"He's not protected from the spell, per se... it's as if I can't reduce his location to just one point. There's a duplicate of him in the map."

Alec grimaced, showing a flash of doubt. Silently —raised eyebrows, crossed arms—, Isabelle asked him to elaborate.

"I thought it was nothing," he stressed, "that it was just Valentine, up to his usual tricks. That's why I didn't say anything."

"What didn't you say?"

"I was in Valentine's cell before and... well, he claimed he wasn't Valentine, that he was Raphael and that the demon must had switched their bodies. Is that even possible?"

"For a Great Demon such as Azazel? Of course it is."

Before Isabelle could say anything else, Magnus had opened a Portal to the Institute.

When they burst into the cell, Valentine's body was tied up to a chair, gagged and bound. Inquisitor Herondale, standing uncomfortably close to him, whispered something threatening in his ear.

"What is the meaning of this?" she demanded, caught in between righteous indignation and utter astonishment.

"We think there's been a mistake," Alec rushed, while Magnus, without looking at her twice, came close to the prisoner. "The leader of the vampire Clan is missing, so now we believe it's possible that he might be..."

"That's absurd," Herondale said. There was no confusion in her voice, just a clear dismissal.

"Magnus." Valentine's voice sounded coarse, vulnerable. Isabelle, who stood in the entryway, frozen in place, noticed the rune that adorned his wrist, the malicious goal in it clear as day. Nausea that could easily compete with the worst of her withdrawal raised in her throat. "Soy yo, te juro que soy yo. Mi madre te contrató para buscarme, pero llegaste demasiado tarde. Ya me habían convertido, pero aun así me ayudaste, nunca te rendiste conmigo. Por favor, no lo hagas ahora. Soy yo. Soy yo."

He said that in quick Spanish, with Isabelle herself only picking up bits and pieces. However, it was enough that, if she'd harbored any doubt still, it would've disappeared in that instant.

"Tranquilo, tranquilo. Te creemos." Magnus's magic, almost on its own accord, healed some of the wounds on Raphael's face, as he caressed it.

"Por favor."[2] He raised his eyes to them, stopping at Isabelle. She swallowed, and nodded; a worldless promise to do anything and everything she could to help him.

"Let's take this outside," Herondale ordered, mouth pressed in a straight line that didn't invite any objections.

"Are you aware of what you just caused?"

They all gathered outside the cell, including Clary, Jace, and Sebastian, attracted by the commotion their arrival had caused. Inquisitor Herondale didn't pay them any attention. If she had, she likely would've kicked them out without much fuss.

"Oh, believe me, I'm well aware of what I just did." Magnus, theatrical as ever, examined his nails; as if nothing else in the room could hold his interest.

"You gave him ammunition. You let him know you buy into his ridiculous charade, and now he has you eating out of his hand."

"It's not a charade. He's told me thinks that only Raphael and I know, and that Valentine has no possible way to figure out. Ergo, he's not Valentine. He's Raphael Santiago, leader of the vampires of this city. And you just tortured him; illegally, I must add. I don't think that'll contribute to mend your relationship with Downworlders."

"Wait, wait," Jace asked, "can anyone here bother to explain what the hell it's going on?"

Imogen Herondale looked at him, a derisive grimace fixed on her face.

"We believe Azazel could have put Valentine and Raphael in each other's body, " Alec answered, "probably so he could get the location of the Mortal Cup out of Valentine."

"So Valentine is going around with a vampire body? With vampire weaknesses and appetites?" Sebastian smirked. "With what little I know of the man, it must be killing him."

The irony wasn't lost on Isabelle, but what mattered was important was the conclusion his comment inevitably led to.

"He's right. Valentine would try to get his body back by any means necessary before giving anything to Azazel," she said, "so we must be alert. I'll do the first round."

"We haven't confirmed if any of this is true," Herondale complained. "We must proceed with the interrogation of the prisoner to dissipate any doubts."

Isabelle approached her until they were so close she could feel Herondale's breath on her face. If she had hoped to intimidate the woman with this, she'd been disappointed. Imogen Herondale had stone-thick skin.

"Don't you think for one moment that I don't know what you were doing in that cell. And I doubt that you had permission for it. So if I even see you in the same floor as Raphael, I won't hesitate before reporting you to the Clave," Isabelle whispered, in the harshest tone she could reach.

She didn't wait to see the outcome of her words. Her heart beat fast, with both fury and trepidation, when she turned her back and walked away. Mere months before, the woman she just threatened had presided over Isabelle's trial and nearly ruined her life. She should be freaking out, but the truth was that she felt a little proud of herself, in that moment.

"What the hell were you just thinking?"

Alec, of course, had follower her. He would have a heart attack if he couldn't have denied her this tiny little high, too.

"Do you have any idea of what you just did? Threatening the Inquisitor? Are you completely insane? How could you do that?"

"How could you not to! How could you just stand there and do nothing while Herondale was torturing him? Knowing what he means to me?"

"What he means...? Izzy, he was your dealer." Admittedly, despite throwing such a thing to her face, he had the decency of lowering his voice.

"He's much more than that, and you know it. They gave him the Agony Rune, Alec. What were you doing then? Did you stood there doing nothing? Or did actually help her?"

"Izzy..."

"No, Alec. What if it'd been Magnus? You should have told me. Or at least told Magnus. Or you should have tried to stop her. Something."

"Maybe you're right," Alec said, not particularly contrite, "but in that moment I did what I thought was best with the information I had."

"Whatever you say."

Isabelle planted herself in front of Raphael's cell, standing straight and looking ahead. It sent the clear message that their conversation, as far as she was concerned, was over.

The minutes went by, and Isabelle was still debating over whether she should stay where she was or get inside the cell and keep watch there. Tactically, being outside made much more sense. She could control the inside and she would see any threat coming. But it was hard to think tactically when she saw Raphael in that cell— still a prisoner, ignorant of what would come to him, his lips moving in a silent prayer.

She wanted to talk with him. Yet she didn't know what she could possibly say, giving how she had behaved during their last encounter.

When the elevator's doors opened, Isabelle only relaxed when she saw Sebastian was the one breaching them.

They greeted each other with a smile, and Sebastian stood next to her, shoulder to shoulder. One could easily count the hours since the two of them had met, but she already found his presence comforting. They were, she laughed to herself, kindred souls. Should she invite him to go with her to one of those meetings Simon told her about? It'd be easier to go, with Sebastian by her side.

"Can I ask you something untoward? From addict to addict."

"Go ahead."

"Is Raphael the vampire that...?"

"I was an addict before I went to him," she said, feeling the need to clear that up, "but yes. It's bigger than that, though."

"You don't have to tell me that." He raised his hands in deference. "I wouldn't have been all in the Inquisitor's face for a simple dose."

"That's how it started, for both of us. But we connected and... we liked what we saw in the other. He's important to me."

"I get it. Things like that happen sometimes. The addiction gives it a push, but it doesn't create it out of thin air. But," he said, seeming concerned, "the fact is, you can't really separate them. So if you want to get better, it might be for the best to keep your distance."

"His life is in danger."

"Yes, that complicates it." He walked from the wall, readying to leave, and looked straight into her eyes. "What I really came here to say is that, whatever it is you decide to do with this situation, I'm here. I'll do anything you need."

"Thank you. Truly." At least she felt there was one person who could understand.

Just as he was walking back to the elevator, it opened a second time, showing Jace and Clary. The three of them crossed paths before Jace and Clary came to talk to her.

"So," Jace said, raising his eyebrows, "you and Santiago, eh? What's that about?"

"Yeah, why is that I don't know anything about it?"

Despite their light tones, she could see they were waiting for an explanation. She might have given it to Jace, but she found that she wasn't entirely comfortable with the idea of Clary knowing about the yin fen.

"It's very new." She decided to leave it at that. "I'll tell you about it when we have the time."

"Well, I hope it's worth it," Jace said, crossing his arms and leaning casually by her side, "because Herondale is pissed."

Isabelle looked at Raphael through the glass. He had stopped praying, at least visibly, laying down and merely staring at the ceiling. She thought that, even if she hadn't known the truth beforehand, she would've recognized him in Valentine's features. His countenance was too gentle, his eyes too sincere. The way he clung to Magnus; the look in his eyes when he saw her...

"I think your face answered for you," Jace teased.

"Yes, please, stop looking at my father like that."

She smiled faintly in response. At that moment her phone ringed, and she saw a text.

From Alec:

The Inquisitor wants a meeting to decide what do about this.

Jace, shamelessly reading over her shoulder, said: "Go, we'll stay here. It'll be fine."

Alec, Magnus, and the Inquisitor were reunited around the table. Isabelle took the only place left; that left her standing opposite to Magnus, who had his arms crossed as he stared intently at the table.

"I've taken into account the possibility that the… body switch may be true." Isabelle bit back a triumphant smile. "Miss Lightwood will lead a team that will take care of investigating possible vampire attacks. If Valentine is indeed in the body of one of them, it's very likely that he wasn't able to rein in their lowest instincts."

Isabelle, for some reason, doubted that. Maybe it was all those stories you heard, whispered furtively, about Valentine. There was fear and censure in them, but you could also find some amount of... not admiration, per se, but definitely begrudging respect, when people talked about his accomplishments. The courtesy owed to a worthy warrior. She couldn't reconcile that image with a novice vampire incapable of controlling himself.

And she didn't want to, either. If he had gone around the city using Raphael's body to hurt or even murder innocent people, she didn't know how he would take it.

"If Azazel is so intent on finding the Cup, he won't let something like that keep Valentine from giving it to him."

She hoped Magnus was right about that.

"You and mister Lightwood are tasked with locating the demon, by any means necessary. We must stop him before he gets his hands on the Cup. Those are the only courses of actions we can follow right now. These are your orders."

Those weren't the only ones, Isabelle thought, and they left a lot to be desired. But they were the only ones Herondale was willing to approve, and certainly the one that just occurred to her wouldn't make the cut.

So she just tried to get Magnus attention, before saying, "I'll reunite my team and we'll get to it."

To Raphael:

I know who you are. If you want your body back, you just have to name the place.

Alec, needless to say, didn't like her plan. But she guessed he wanted to make it up to her enough to help her with it; or, at least, he understood she wasn't going to be stopped, so he should stick to covering her six.

Despite that, when he saw Sebastian, he just had to say something.

"What is he doing here?"

She rolled her eyes with as much flair as she could manage. "Helping me."

The plan was quite simple. Much as Shadowhunters at large hated to give credit where it was due, Magnus was the one who took care of most of the building's security. It wasn't a difficult task for him to get around it. They only had to get Raphael out of the inferior levels and take him to Magnus.

Piece of cake.

Alec's stele could open the cell. Isabelle had proposed to "steal" it from him for plausible deniability, but Alec insisted on being a more active participant. He didn't want them to face Azazel without him.

When both of them, along with Sebastian, went down in the elevator, Jace and Clary were where she had left them. So was Duncan, who Herondale had probably sent as deterrent from exactly Isabelle and the others intended to do. Imogen Herondale, as usual, underestimated Jace: when he saw them coming, he didn't waste time before knocking Duncan out.

"Don't you get the feeling we've been through this before?" he asked, while Alec opened the cell.

Raphael surprised when they entered, but he calmed down when he laid eyes on Isabelle. She untied him, smiling, and he held her hand as he stood up.

"Come on, we don't have much time." Alec grabbed him and pushed him out of the room. The group went to the elevator, headed for the exit.

When they arrived Magnus was keeping a protective barrier around them, while two soldiers leaded by Herondale faced him.

"Get ready. When I open the Portal my defenses will drop. Jump in, I'll follow later."

"Clary, Alec, make sure Raphael gets there," Isabelle ordered. "You keep it open and we'll help you take them down. We need you there."

"Stop this immediately!"

"... one, two, three!"

She heard them leave through the Portal. The other Shadowhunters charged against them; Sebastian and Jace took care of their own, and Herondale approached her.

"Miss Lightwood, what you're doing has no..."

She never got to know how that phrase would end, since she took advantage that Herondale wasn't attacking her directly to knock her out with her staff.

"Your sister just knocked out the Inquisitor," Jace told Alec as soon as they reached the other side. With illustrative gestures and everything.

Alec let out a frustrated sigh that threatened to become never end. Raphael, next to him, snorted quietly.

"Are you alright?" She reached for his arms, looking him up and down to assess his wounds.

"I'm much better now." It probably wasn't his intent, but he sounded so corny that she couldn't stop herself from beaming at him.

"We don't have time for this." Alec grabbed Raphael again, separating them.

"It's probably for the better if you postpone the sweet nothings until the hostage exchange it's over," Magnus said, amused.

The exchange was in a small park, plagued with leafy trees and empty at that ungodly hour. Azazel and Valentine were waiting by the time Isabelle, Magnus, and Raphael arrived, both dressed with suits that almost seemed to match. If anything, she mused, Raphael's looked even more expensive. She would tease him later, about how he managed to out-dress a Prince of Hell.

And, by the Angel— if she thought it was easy to recognize Raphael in Valentine's body, the opposite was an even simpler task. The way his face rested had something unnatural to it, if you'd known Raphael long enough. There was unease and discomfort in the way Valentine carried the body. He probably could smell their blood from his position, and it had him on edge. And even if Isabelle had once considered Raphael a cold person, he clearly could never compare to Valentine.

"Do you really think they came alone?" Valentine asked Azazel, without looking away from them. Raphael's voice sounded artificial on him.

"Magnus would know how to hide it from me."

Valentine shrugged, nonchalant, and brusquely opened his shirt. Plastic bags full with transparent liquid surrounded his chest, and you didn't need to be a genius to guess what they were.

"Holy water."

Isabelle had taken into account that they might try something like that, but that didn't make it any easier. She nodded, unable to say a single word. Valentine looked at her, curious, and with an empty smile said:

"You look a lot like your mother. Remember to give Maryse my regards, if you manage to get out of this alive. You," he said to Raphael, "should probably take a look at your phone. I wonder who that sweet old lady could be."

Her heart skipped a beat. She hadn't thought that, by sending that picture, she had exposed the family Raphael had tried so hard to keep safe, presenting her to Valentine on a silver platter.

"Can we get this over with?" Magnus intervened, impatient.

"Want to do the honors?"

Magnus glared at Azazel, who seemed to find the situation extremely amusing. He raised his hands, summoning his magic. Raphael and Valentine started levitating, and just before the switch was completed, Magnus gave Isabelle the signal to activate the Agony Rune.

It had been Raphael's idea, and though she hated it with every fiber of her being, she agreed to it. You could never be too cautious with Valentine.

Back in their respective bodies, Valentine let out a piercing scream. Magnus stopped the holy water explosion, mid-air. Azazel was about to attack him, but had to stop to catch an arrow that was going straight to his head.

As she approached a still disoriented Raphael, Isabelle was instinctively attuned to the fight around her —Magnus opening a Portal that disappeared as soon as Jace got Valentine through it, Alec and the others fighting in vain against Azazel—, but she kept her focus where it mattered. She took a deep breath, calming her trembling hands, and set to remove the explosive belt. She didn't know what Magnus had done; the water was paralyzed, like someone had hit pause on a small parcel of the universe. She managed to pull it off without any explosion, and threw it away as far as she could.

She met Raphael halfway as he put his arm around her shoulders, helping him up while he searched for his phone in his pockets. Isabelle looked away, not wanting to face his reaction, and saw that Clary had stopped Azazel's attack with one of her runes. He still managed to run away before they could take him out. Magnus was coming to them, with a worried look on his face.

"You aren't hurt, right?"

"No, I'm fine," he answered, putting his phone back, "but I'd like to go back home and just rest."

"I'll make you a Portal."

"Can I come with you?" Her voice sounded pitiful and hesitant when she said it.

Raphael paused, looking into her eyes for a few seconds. "Of course."

"Izzy..."

Alec had come up to them too. He had a cut on his face that he must have gotten during the fight.

"I don't want to deal with the Inquisitor right now." She wasn't planning on arguing about it.

"We got the real Valentine back and Azazel doesn't have the Cup," Sebastian intervened. "That has to count for something."

"And if she's cross because you disobeyed her and wants to punish you for it we'll just repeat your threats." Magnus said that as he opened yet another Portal. He must have been exhausted.

Raphael approached Alec, telling him something she didn't get to hear. When he came back to her arms, her brother still looked concerned, but he nodded, understanding.

The Portal took them to the same room where not long ago she and Raphael had spent hours getting high on each other, and it felt like a punch in the stomach. She had to close her eyes and breathe deeply for a couple seconds to take that image out of her head.

Raphael sat on the sofa, texting. Probably to one of his vampires, to tell them where he was and ask them to protect Rosa.

"I'm so sorry about your sister. I had no idea that..."

He cut her off. "I don't want to talk about that right now." He put his phone aside and raised his hand towards her, interlacing their fingers. "Come here."

She let herself be guided to him, to end up sitting sideways on his lap with his arms around her. Tender, she kissed his temple, clutching her hand to his jacket, and let her head fall into his shoulder.

"I'm also sorry for everything you've had to go through today."

He pushed her gently, so that they were face to face.

"You made it bearable."

The way he looked at her —the way he always looked at her— made her heart flutter; his solid hand on her leg spread a tranquil warm through her body, making her kiss him again, on his cheek. She
stayed there, her forehead against the side of his, her eyes closed.

"I'm going to sleep," he whispered, "do you want to stay?"

She nodded, without moving an inch from him. They stayed still for a few moments longer, until she stood up and waited for him to lead her to the room.

Once there, she took off her jacket and her boots. After a second of doubt, she did the same with her pants; they were too tight to sleep on them, and she always made sure not to wear unflattering underwear, just in case. Besides, Raphael wouldn't pay much attention to that.

She got that wrong, because when he turned around Raphael gave her a warm, appreciative look, if not the type she was used to. He had undressed too, and she returned his smile. The truth is, she was too exhausted to feel any semblance desire, either.

Raphael's sheets felt as heavenly soft as they looked. The two of them met in the middle, where Raphael embraced her and she nestled into his bare chest. The silence within his rib cage should've been unnerved, a sign that she rested her head on something dead. When he kissed her hair and started rubbing circles in her back, Isabelle fell asleep with an ease that had been lost on her for months, safe.

[1] The idiom for that in Spanish is "dejarlos en la estacada", as in stake. I just needed you to know that, even thought I knew I would publish the story in English, I couldn't help myself.

[2] "It's me, I swear it's me. My mother hired you to find me, but you were too late. I had already been turned, but you still helped me, you never gave up on me. Please, don't do it now. It's me. It's me."
"It's okay, it's okay. We believe you."
"Please."

It's a rough translation; more about what sounds natural than word for word, basically.

Cassandra Cain met Duke Thomas in dance class. 

It started as one of Tim’s initiatives, the last before promptly quitting because “one more day, and next time I fall off that ugly tower, it’ll be on purpose.” A handful of buildings were remodeled in areas alternately labelled “impoverished” or “working class” by the press, offering subsidized after-school activities for children.

Tim asked her to coach a few, as a favor. It confused her; what she did, she just… did. Cass, remembering those disastrous sparring sessions with Steph, had little confidence in her ability to teach.

Bit by bit, she got the hang of it, taking a strange sort of pride in slowly building a skill. Years later, although jobs or bank accounts still felt, at their core, superfluous, the volunteer gig became a nearly regular thing, alternating between neighborhoods as it struck her fancy.

Once, Cass was told teachers shouldn’t have favorites; a nonsensical notion: everyone had favorites, and Duke was one of hers.

He often arrived early, carrying a book of puzzle games, like crosswords. Cass was ludicrously bad at them, but whenever they made each other company before the others arrived, she amused him with… creative alternatives.

Duke was quite sharp; kind, and just a bit of a troublemaker, in a way that made other kids gravitate towards him. His coordination absolutely sucked at first; he got some special prescription glasses, and steadily improved since.

He was just a normal kid who smiled brightly when his step-dad arrived to take him home at the end of each lesson.

And one day, he stopped coming.

The Bat met Robin –the Robins – in the middle of another attack.

She knew of them. They started stopping petty crimes shortly after Damian shed the colors and left for Blüdhaven. Tim wrote a report, and Helena called her once to ask “are these yours” in a deadpan, judgemental tone, after an encounter that involved a nasty encounter with the Ratcatcher. Downright sweet, next to the recorded message Jason hacked into the batcomputer (“Keep an eye on this, will you? No need to follow the old man’s steps in everything, if you know what I mean”).

Cass was not Bruce. She hadn’t agreed to watch over a bunch of untrained vigilantes bound to get themselves killed. Especially not then. For weeks, people gaining strange powers, seemingly from the same source, had started sowing chaos around the city. Cass couldn’t see the pattern. Tim would’ve; Bruce would’ve. But Gotham was hers, now. She resented the idea of asking for their expertise. 

Whatever it was, it was certainly out of those kids’ league. She might bring out the good ol’ jaw pinch to safely take them out of the way, after dealing with the attacker.

But when she took the lead Robin by the scruff, she almost dropped him out of shock.

The dollar-store mask, the hood, the red jacket with the hand-sewed “R” on it… immaterial. She recognized the slope of those shoulders, the arch of that frown, the bow-like curve of those legs. 

“Duke?!”

A bright light blinded her, and when she finally regained her senses, all the kids were gone.

Cass and Duke talked much, much later.

“It’s my father. My biological father,” he clarified. “He’s why I do… this.”

With one gesture, he submerged both of them into a sea of darkness. 

“I can stop him. I know I can! I must.”

Cass listened to the despair of his voice, observed the conviction of his gaze. She’d hear about that day in the circus. Was this how Bruce felt then?

“Okay, Robin.”

As it did every so often, Laura's mind drifted towards poor, ill-fated Bertha.

Under the harsh light of day, a crushing sun ray's glare, she thought of a lost would-be companion, a friend she almost met, a kindred soul she had longed to embrace.

In the refuge of the night, sitting restless by the window, not quite yearning for the moonlit wilderness —still reluctant to embrace the open air—, Laura's thoughts took an impermissible turn.

She thought of Bertha with Carmilla —Millarca, Mircalla, Countess; endless mingled and mangled names for a perpetual masquerade. Laura pictured them together with an imagination ever pushing against the limits of her knowledge and rapidly decaying naïveté.

Had Bertha's infatuation mirrored Laura's own innocence, a trait she shared by all accounts? Or perhaps was the General living under delusions, stubbornly clinging to a half-imagined angelic pretense?

In Laura's imaginings, Bertha looked much like herself; she was a daring, forthright, openhearted reflection of Laura's fumbling ignorance and hesitant demeanor. The Bertha she constructed in her head returned Carmilla's fanciful outbursts of improper longing and affection with declarations of her own. She met touch with touch, laugh with laugh, gaze with gaze; desperation matching wildness.

That Bertha didn't make Carmilla wait until she fell asleep: she sneaked out of her own room under the General's heedless nose and penetrated Carmilla's domains. She initiated, she brought her new friend pleasure with shameless joy and childish eagerness.

Their encounter was one of appetite meeting appetite. Carmilla didn't have to coax her prey, the most seductive tools in her arsenal rendered redundant. Theirs wasn't a game of cat and mouse —she had become a carnivorous plant, motionless and static as the fly ever so willingly plunged into her trap.

Perchance, that's why Carmilla grew bored of her with such swiftness.

It was in some of those nights, spread in between longer periods of abnegation forced by the humilliation brought by her debasement —when exhaustion wore her down just enough to stumble towards the bed, under the welcome weight of the sheets— that Laura discarded Bertha, her shield, and thought only of Carmilla.

Half-dozing, she pictured them lying together under the tree. They were protected by its shadow, the sounds of nature all around them drowning their words, Madame Perrodon and Mademoiselle De Lafontaine just far enough, but present. She remembered Carmilla's wandering hands, the careless patterns they often drew, and awarded them more direction. The layers of Laura's dress hid them from the absent-minded eyes of their chaperones; when they touched Laura's bare skin they did it with intent, with purpose. They brought her warmth —at firs tepid and sluggish, then in ardent escalation; once localized, then all over, never quite reaching satisfaction. All through it, Carmilla's head rested in Laura's shoulder, face hidden in her neck, playacting exhaustion as only lips and tongue, never teeth, touched Laura's skin.

The teeth were for their nights. The bite marks didn't remain in her breast, but travelled lower, much lower. Eventually, Carmilla would drink her in dry, hands and lips and tongue and teeth; at first Laura would press the pillow down to her face to drown the sounds escaping her mouth; then she would grow too languid, too empty, for discretion to remain a matter of concern.

Laura's skin would transform. Pale, and cold. Still, as a statue. Her corpse would be found in the morning; a disrobed, exquisite vision, hard and stiff where once it had been frail and malleable, pliant. Laura's blood would stain the sheets red, a crimson flower adorning the mount between her legs —her stolen maidenhead.

The punishment for those nights, as she woke up soaked in shame, still laid in bed, was to force herself to think of the aftermath.

Laura told —reminded— herself that she was merely one more young, foolish girl in a long line of reticent victims. She stomped the notion that their distant consanguinity might've been as important to Carmilla as she pretended, and she insisted on imagining what would occur to the next companion.

Sometimes that girl took Laura's shape, but she was quick to suffocate those daydreams. For a while, she appropriated the likeness of a girl she met in a rare outing to the market, plump, bright-eyed, on the young side.

More recently, she pictured the new kitchen aide, with her fiery red hair, her strong arms, the unrefined manners and the bold, nonchalant stare she had for Laura.

Perhaps Carmilla would've been invited to stay to mourn her friend, remaining in the house long enough to meet her, to become enamoured by the shade of her wild mane, the freckles in her sun-kissed skin. Perhaps whatever lurked between her stoic conduct would've enticed Carmilla to seek a true companion, where she had discarded Laura, but it was doubtful.

Highborn, like Laura herself, Carmilla wouldn't need bother with pretenses, with tricks, with glamour. They could order a girl such as her to come to any room at night, to disrobe; to open herself to a predator's embrace.

Unwilling as she might be, resigned, she would see no choice but to capitulate to one of her betters. And she oughtn't be unwilling for long, pleasure impelled onto her in the form of a caress, a shove, a bite.

She would succumb to it, hopeless and wretched, tears crowding the corners of her eyes —tears that Laura would kiss away.