“All vampires feed. But only the dhaoine rosín savour.

  For all the ways we are unlike mortals, in eating, we are one. A mortal can eat pig slop, wild onions, meats from which no source is named. Or they can feast on roast pheasant. Turkish Delight. Aether works the same. All humans carry it - animals, too - and our Court’s other clans, as always, have found ways to make their feeding a process. Sleeping mortals, bottles of ‘wine.’ Whatever makes it painless, effortless, and as easy as slitting a throat.

  We dhaoine rosín are of a different sort. The Predecessors that birthed us took their energy from mortals, too, but never from sheer quantity. No. Those ‘leannan sídhe,’ as once they were called, ate passion. An auteur’s magnum opus, the pride of a workshop craftsmen, the raw sounds a musician makes in the peak of their drug-addled, suicidal mind. It is from these feelings, tender and powerful, that we extract the most flavour. It is from passion that we extract life.

  When you find a good mortal to feed from, think of it not as a meal, but as a garden. You don’t leave a flower to the Earth and wipe your hands of it! You prune. You laugh when they laugh. Cheer when they succeed, and comfort when they fail. They’ll ask questions, sure - why can I only see you at night, why do you never eat my dinners? - but companionship is a beautiful thing, and oftentimes, it need be your only answer.

  Soon, they’ll stop asking. They’ll start buying you things, doing whatever you want, making their own excuses for why they sometimes wake up with their heads feeling fuzzy. They’ll love you in a way they can’t describe, and for the purpose of feeding, you’d best not describe it to them. Eventually, they’ll change their jobs to live by your hours, sell their houses to get a lease with your name. More than once, I’ve been offered rings. More than once, they were already married. And if they have children, you are most blessed indeed, because now, where once you grew one, two or three or five flowers will rush to your garden. All full of passion. All ripe for picking.

  Is the dhaoine rosín way honest? To that I reply, what is honesty? Do we do mortals a favour, when we remind them that they die? Is it kindness to tell them that they’re sacks of meat, if not for us, then for their boss, their priest, their husband? No. The right choice is always that which gives life, and nothing gives more life than a shy smile, and the whispered promise that you’ll always love them.”

  Excerpt from the essay, ‘What it Means to be Dhaoine Rosín,’ by Regina Dunstan, Magistress of the Clan of the Rose. Published July 1st, 1962.

  ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

  London

  October, 2004

  “I understand your concerns, MacNeilly, but you’re not the only one to have them," Soteris scowls. "As we speak, there are two other men on the line-”

  “An’ are they the ones buildin’ yer Firesides?!” Harriet shivers at the name. She can hear the man’s shouting from the receiver. “‘Two on the line.’ I have eighty-five Scottish workers on my arse! And when they're startin' to wonder why I'm bending over this much for a Greek fuckin' prick!"

  Harriet swallows, and lowers her head even deeper into her book. Every now and then, Soteris forgets to mask her ears during his calls. She’s more than willing to listen, but she knows the consequence of getting caught. Men like MacNeilly have a special way of rousing her Keeper’s anger.

  Soteris hisses into the air. “Have you told your workers that the rest of the world left their unions behind to the last century?"

  “These are Glasgow boys. Any man who tells ‘em that won’t long be a man.”

  “In my experience, it’s the men who can’t feed their families that won’t ‘long be men.’”

  It’s the forty-first day. ‘Two weeks at most,’ but now she’s a month in. It doesn’t hurt her like it used to, like it should. A dull throb in her chest. A slight racing of the heart. Maybe her knees are a bit sorer after sitting for hours on this stupid pillow. But mostly, she’s trying to learn everything she can. Anything Soteris doesn’t want to tell her.

  “Do you know why I chose your factory for this job?” Soteris rises from his seat, the phone creaking beneath his grip. “Yours, and not some concrete slab in Guadalajara, Hangzhou, Kuala Lumpur?"

  He made the collar extra tight today. It hurts to crane her neck, and she can almost feel them on the leather, the writhing letters of his mark. The cuffs do nothing to help. She was certain he’d never bring them to work, where she could be seen, but with each passing day, it seems Soteris only grows bolder.

  "I’m not looking for a tax break. I don’t need the PR. When I give a man a job, I expect him to do that job right. And on time. I thought the Scottish would understand that. I thought your union would ensure that. But here you both are.”

  It still roils in her stomach. A world built by builders. One would think that world includes them.

  Since that night, she’s heard nothing of Soteris' dream. Nothing of the Harcourts, Lianna Stirling, the fundraiser. The gears must be spinning, she knows. Old, bored vampires, stuck in the same social circle for centuries, devour drama like foxes devours hens. But spin as they may, they're either not coming for her, or she can't see them.

  Are they pulling him apart? Is he navigating them like water? She doesn't know, and she doubts he'll say. Maybe he sees it all like he sees these Scottish unions. Obstacles to overcome. Challenges to conquer.

  Soteris purses his lips. “If I gave your workers a 25% raise, would they find it within themselves to work a few more hours?”

  “Nae, nae, it’s not a matter a’ budget-”

  “I said your workers, not your budget. I’d contribute more directly.”

  A pause on the other line. “M… Mister Chrysanthou, I… what you’re offerin’ isn’t l-legal-"

  “These are Glasgow boys, Mister MacNeilly. I don’t think they’ll care if it’s legal. And you won't, either, if you want these unions to work with your like again.” Soteris nods to himself. "See it done."

  He hangs up before he can hear an objection.

  Soteris sighs. Walking towards the mirror he hangs on the wall, adjusting his tie while Harriet pretends that the collected works of Immanuel Kant could possibly enthrall her.

  “Bad news after bad." His eyes shift back to her face. “Just this morning, I caught a spy.”

  She freezes. Her eyes glued to the page she’s pretending to read. He says it so casually. The way one might describe a broken screen door.

  Harriet blinks, looks up. “Do we, uh… get spies often?”

  “You haven’t earned that information.” Soteris focuses on the mirror. “It was sloppy, though. Sergey. Software dev. I hired him six months ago. At his quarterly, he said he sends half his paycheck back to Latvia, but then he’s caught driving a Jaguar in my car park. A Jaguar. '04 model. 13 miles. On a twenty-two-year-old's credit! His name's not even on the papers."

  “Don'tcha think it’s a lil’ paranoid ta be checkin’ out yer employee’s cars?” Harriet asks.

  “Don’t you think, if you were a bit more paranoid, I might not have ever caught you?"

  Her gaze sharpens, and she closes her book. “Fine! He might be a spy. Oooooohh." She shakes her hands like she's telling a ghost story. "Why should I care?”

  “I want your opinion on what should be done with him.” He tilts his head. "You can be... affectionate."

  Affectionate. That’s what he calls smiling back to them in the hallway. Remembering that they’re human beings.

  “Maybe it’s not what it seems,” she says. “Ya wanna know how many farmers I knew in Iowa that bankrupted themselves on shiny tools? Or built a varmint fence that didn’t catch varmints?”

  “I don’t see how farming is relevant.”

  She gives him a look. “People can be bad with money.”

  “Why would I want to trust someone who I know can’t handle money?” The tie tightens around his neck. “A test. It must be a test, from whomever bought that car. You can't be that stupid and think it'll get past Avery. They're looking for weak points. Blood in the water.”

  “Ta be fair, ya did leave 'em quite a bit a' blood at that fundraiser-"

  “You left them.” He scowls. “I didn’t scream bloody murder in the same room as half of Parliament. I didn’t attack a bloody Magister.”

  “I didn’t even wanna be there!”

  "And does that make you any different from the others?" He exhales, and takes his phone again. “Gemma, I’m closing shop for an hour. Cancel the other calls.”

  Harriet smirks. “Not like you ta go fer a lunch.”

  “I don’t remember giving you permission to talk smart."

  She gives him a wild look, indignant, but as he approaches her, grabs her shoulder, her face quickly shifts. “H-Hey!”

  “No, no. Stop.” He squeezes her arm to the point of pain. Until she's still. “We’re going out."

  "I don't wanna go out."

  "You've told me multiple times that you did." He smiles at her glare. "I have the rest of the world to argue with. As your Keeper, I'd much prefer your company."

  ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

  Soteris never goes anywhere a normal person would go, and he never drinks anything that a normal person would drink.

  He’s sipping on what looks like lemon liqueur, his back resting against a red booth in a low-lighted pit crawling with rich folk. A pair of Germans play jazz on a stage she can’t see, and the place has a buzzing din. Business deals and decades-old jokes, all lost to the booth’s privacy.

  “Drink, Fireside.” His eyes glow. “You’re not drinking.”

  Mechanically, her lips wrap around the plastic straw. He bought her a Dr. Pepper.

  Soteris watches her across the table, her frame made small by the cuffs hunching her shoulders. Harriet watches back, unwilling to break the hostile silence. Making clear that this was not what she intended.

  “We need to do this more.” He grows a thin smile. “Astrid puts so much effort into making you gorgeous, and I feel like I barely ever stop and appreciate it.”

  Her cheeks turn red. She’s trapped in a beige skirt that doesn’t cover all her thighs, and a matching top that does little better. “Ya know, I'm not a doll for ya ta order around-"

  “Lips closed.” He takes another sip, watching her twitch and rattle. "Huh. Looks like you are a doll to order around. How quaint."

  Her cheeks glow again, and she shifts her eyes away. It makes him laugh.

  “No, no. Keep those here.” He grins when they return. “Now look to the left. The right. Hold. I’ve been wanting to tell you how much I’ve enjoyed this. The mortals I engage with, they’re always too open. Too willing. Too after my money. You…”

  She exhales. He’s standing up, reaching out. Gently rubbing the muscles in her neck.

  "... keep things interesting." He slides a thumb over her lips. "It's ironic, isn't it? How many times have you been somewhere like this, sitting across from a date like you are now? All those outings, all those men, they never scared you. You had powers. They did not. You knew better, they couldn’t guess. Sure, one or two might have put you off, or touched you too quickly, but only a stupid rabbit reaches out to the wolf that hunts them, right? Until today.”

  He tightens his grip. She’s trying to control her breaths. The race in her heart. The colour in her face.

  “Today you get to guess what I’ll do. Today you get to choose if you’ll fight, or flee, or comply. It must be refreshing, after all those decades of power. Control." He presses, forcing her head up, exposing the freckled skin of her neck as his fangs grow. “Does it excite you?"

  She keeps her eyes on him. Stiff and still.

  Suddenly, Soteris lets go. Retreats back to his side of the table, and readjusts his sleeves as he commands her again.

  “Drink again, Fireside. Enjoy this. It’s a rare chance, for people like us. When was the last time you were prey? Unless... well..." He lounges back and sits again. "... maybe you always were."

  +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

  “RRRAAAAGGGHHHHHH!”

  Randall Avery speaks into the recording device. “Two-hundred-and-one.”

  “Stop!” The shout rattles him. Fireside's breathing is deep, asymmetrical. He can see blacks and greys, seeping into the margins of his vision, even with his back turned. “F-five minutes, please! Jesus Christ! Do ya have any idea how much this- AAAAAGHHHH-”

  “Five-hundred-and-five.”

  The screams bother him. They’re loud. And piercing. And the longer they go, the shriller Fireside's cry. But Randall won’t ask her to stop. They are necessary expenses, when dealing with such immense pain.

  And the last time he tried, he was greeted to the colours of treebarks. The reds of sunrise and rage.

  He studies the extracted drop of blood, suspended in the air by his own. It’s not human. A trained eye can tell. Little pores of golden light seep between the cells, a thin, flare-like stream connecting it to the device that measures them. It's a blue of cornflowers, like her eyes, and if Randall were to place it under a microscope, he would see scenes that can’t be seen. Lost scents. Forgotten tastes. Pieces of the life this drop might once have belonged to.

  He thrusts his arm, a lever ten metres away is pulled, and he basks, briefly, in a much brighter glow of the aether.

  “A thousand-and-thirty.” An unheld pencil scrawls the number across a clipboard. “We can conclude for the day.”

  “Thank God.” As her restraints unlatch themselves, Fireside quickly pushes off the chair. “One a’ these days, I’m gonna bite my own frickin’ tongue off.”

  Randall makes no reply, keeping his focus on the screen. The data visualises itself, a graph of linear growth, rapidly faxing to the printer he keeps below. He's trying to avoid her gaze. She told him she doesn’t like being read. “One of the accountants offered a spare coffee machine. It’s on the left wall, if you think you need…”

  He stops. Catches her sitting on a plastic chair. Her face is down. She’s holding her arms. It’s a common pose when the colours are orange. He breathes in. Doesn’t need to, but he knows it can express sympathy.

  “... Did he touch you?”

  Splotches of colour, shifting and moving. Joining the tangerine, a hint of storm grey. “No.”

  “You act this way whenever you’re touched.”

  That was the wrong thing to say. Tree bark hues, a poppy-like red. Her voice is angry. “He…”

  A new colour forms. An anomalous one. Light purple. That doesn’t make sense. Violet always means merriment. Bright in moments of thrill, a dark vermillion in softer joys. The richest shades come in coitus, he’s observed. But he’s never seen the colour on her.

  “... he’s bein’ weird,” Fireside finally settles on an answer. Squeezing her knees before she stands. “Actin’ like a freak, an’ it’s got me on edge.”

  “I see.” Randall ignores the contradiction in the colours. He's found that when he points them out, people will sometimes act irrationally. "You may discuss the event freely.”

  She’s upset, but he doesn’t know why. Was it because he turned around? But she said she didn't like his readings.

  Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

  He can hear her heels clack as she lingers behind him. “So, are we done? Have I saved the Court?”

  “The Court cannot be saved until we have a working prototype.”

  “I know. I was bein’ funny.”

  She only ever says she’s feeling funny when her colours are in stark contrast. It makes his brows furrow. Reminds him too much of Traynor.

  “Don’t touch that.” He stops her from poking the floating drop of aether. She loudly rolls back her head, but he cuts her off. “I still need to perform further tests with it."

  “Oh, sure. Tests an’ experiments an’ needles an’ labs, an’ I still don’t know if we're makin' progress! Hell, I don't even know what this is for!"

  “You are not acting mature.

  "Maybe it's 'cause ya keep bringin' me down here, tellin' me I gotta save vampire-kind, before strappin' me down an' fryin' my brains out. I dunno! I jes' think..." She gestures wildly. "I think there's a couple steps missin' in that!"

  “It only hurts because we haven’t found your threshold. But we’re nearing it, I promise. And once we do-”

  “Randall.” Her voice is soft. “Ya promised ta help.”

  He turns. She's surrounded by colours of aquamarine.

  He stares at her for a moment before shifting his computer monitor her way. “I’ll explain quickly."

  The screen briefly goes black, before filling with another graph. A dotted line. Markers and averages.

  “You might recall. When I send vibrations through your blood, I read out a number-”

  “Recall?” She puts a hand on her heart. “Oh, not at all! Maybe ya should say ‘em louder.”

  She’s trying to be funny again. Randall ignores it. “It represents the average reactivity of each aether cell to the stimulus. This reactivity grows as more force is placed upon it, which is why heat is generated by our powers, and when we use aether, our skin glows.” He points to the screen. “This is how we measure it. The highest point over the lowest is what we call aether concentration. The pattern-”

  "Four-point-eight,” she reads. “Nine-point-two. Twenty, fifty, a hundred-t-…” Fireside stops. Squints. “Where are my numbers? These aren’t the ones ya called out. They’re too small.”

  “Yours are non-standard. These were taken yesterday.”

  “I wasn’t here yester-” There’s a pause. “... Randall. Yer not... p-puttin' yerself in that chair, t-to..."

  “Paradox was a late addition to our theories.” He hasn’t looked away from the screen. “Tests were made on many Veneficii before."

  He can see colours in the margins of his vision. Sunlight on silver. Salmon pinks. Youthful blues.

  “It’s nothing,” he adds. “We all know it's something we need to do."

  “... yeah.” She exhales, but her colours don’t change. “Y-yeah. Yeah, so, ya’ve got my concentration, a-an' that concentration goes inta Fireside."

  “Any high concentration go into Fireside. Not just yours."

  “Darn.” Fireside smirks. “An' here, I thought it really liked me."

  “It is not yet an optimal device. Performing even basic functions requires more aether than most Nocturni will ever contain. Now, yours is nigh-unprecedented, but even in the ideal conditions I’ve tried to create, you are reaching only a fraction of what we need."

  She frowns. “If Fireside uses that much aether, it sounds like a hardware issue.”

  “I wouldn't disagree-"

  “So why aren’t we goin’ ta Soteris?”

  “There are easier ways to get the blood.” He looks into her eyes. “Augmentation. All Nocturni clot their aether, temporarily, when mimicking mortal faculties. This is a magical function, not a material one. Augmentation is the next step: clotting to raise one’s own reactivity.”

  “What, like roidin’ yer own powers?”

  Randall not quite sure what ‘roiding’ means, so he doesn't answer. Instead, his eyes glow, and the keyboard springs to life. Buttons pressing, the mouse moving, until a new chart fills the screen.

  “This is an average Nocturni’s concentrate over time. Note that as the blood turns thicker, moves slower, reactivity grows, which we interpret as heightened power.” He taps the screen at two data points. “Augmentation induces a clotting similar to an increase in age, so that-"

  “x=2 ...” She finishes for him. “... becomes x=3”

  Randall nods. “Precisely.”

  Her nose curls. “Would that be enough?”

  “Not for an average Nocturni…” The computer glows again. A new chart. “... but that’s not what we are.”

  The new graph is strange. Logarithmic, at first, forming a plateau at x=20 that lasts long, long after. Until x=215. Then, the growth is exponential. Rapidly escaping the screen.

  Fireside eyes grow wide. “Wh-... when does it…?”

  “Never.” Randall stands tall. “Aether will continue to concentrate for as long as its host can contain it. Though, far as I know, only one body ever has.”

  “An’ the others?”

  Silence is his answer.

  Fireside purses her lip, and then taps the screen. “So, it’s not ‘bout two ta three. It’s ‘bout… hittin’ that curve. Enough ta get me that power-"

  “Without getting you killed,” he adds.

  “Yeah, I figured.”

  Randall studies her. The aura's green, ocean-like and inquisitive. Sweet blues in the margins, the sapphire shades of-

  “Randall…" She breaks his thought. "How would you have done this if I wasn’t here?”

  “Soteris refused to consider-”

  “I don’t care ‘bout Soteris.” Fireside glares. “I had a gun in my hands, when we fought. Addana coulda moved too slow."

  Randall stands still through a long silence. Not even blinking. “If Paradox could not be found, we would move to the next best source, and augment accordingly.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that the Court would live. The humans would be safe. The war would not be fought. Even if it cost my life..."

  His glowing blue eyes linger on the screen.

  “... even if it cost the veneficii.”

  ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

  Shhrrrk. He misses the envelope after he opens it. Instead of falling into the bin, it hits the top of Harriet’s head.

  She sulks, the chains restrictive enough that she doesn’t even bother to pick it up for him. She’s clutching her book close, hoping it can hide the most conspicuous elements of her outfit's designs, while Soteris reads the mail from his desk chair. Or, at least, he pretends to.

  There must be dozens of letters in the bin, and maybe five have actually been opened.

  Her mind can't leave her clothes. It would be less obnoxious if he stopped bringing in visitors. After weeks of hanging around its conference rooms like a shadow, Polyphron - or, at least, its executives - had adjusted to Harriet’s presence. They leaned in for fewer whispers and offered fewer stares. Until, of course, the cuffs came back on. She almost thinks he does it on purpose. Just to challenge his underlings. See their reactions.

  The women still seem concerned. They offer pitiful glares. Sympathetic smiles. But never, a question, a hint of disapproval. No matter how gross they might see it, no one here-

  Klnk! Another letter slips into the bin right by Harriet’s hands. Her nose curls. The optics of this are rather frustrating.

  Soteris exhales, and starts to get up, only to be frozen by a ringing phone. A frown. A begrudging click. He brings the receiver to his ear, listens for thirteen seconds, and then puts his hand over the speaker. “Fireside, shred those. I need to take this.”

  She gives him a look. “Ya already have a secretary," she hisses back.

  “I have two. Or, a secretary and a maid. A secretary and a housewife. A secretary and whatever I want of the other one. Or do I have a secretary and someone who’s going to be punished?”

  She frowns. Stands up and snatches the bin as best she can. “Would be easier without the cuffs!” She calls from the door.

  He brings the phone back to his ear. “I’m sure it would.”

  Asshole.

  It takes her a few tries to reach the supply room. She only knows of it in a theoretical sense. Like all of her captivity, large swathes of the building are still a mystery. When she gets there, she slams the bin down, barely glancing at each letter before she presses them into the blades. Always Nocturni names, not human ones. Perhaps that's why he didn't delegate to his secretary.

  Yuri Anastasov. Benjamin Sharpe. Letitia Parr. She knows them as targets for next year, mentions on Janet’s list. They spark little emotion, and the longer she’s here, she expects that they’ll only spark less. Except for the third-last.

  Harriet notices the moment she grabs it. A floral scent in her nostrils. A strange sensation on her thumb. She flips the envelope, and feels her breath stolen. The text is changing. Rote letters shift and bend, their ink sizzling as they slice through the paper. By the end, the words are all gone, replaced by a moving emblem of an open rose. The dhaoine rosín.

  Harriet's fingers curl over it. It's moving at her touch, just like the Veneficii's letter. Maybe it's for-

  “Jessica?”

  “AH!” She moves fast. Hiding the letter deep in the only part of her clothes that can hide things. “Y-Yeah?”

  It’s Gemma. Soteris’ secretary. The short, dark-haired girl that pushed her headfirst into that crowd at Ensei. “Are you alright?”

  “Huh?” Harriet looks down. Her hands are over her heart, still chained. Then, a shaky laugh, and she forces them down. “Um, yeah. Yeah! Hahaha! Of course I’m alright! Why wouldn’t I be!?

  “Uh, for one, you sound like you’re performing at a Garth Brooks concert.”

  Harriet pales.

  Gemma giggles at that, shaking her head and rubbing Harriet’s arm. “Oh, gosh, I've got you scared. It’s fine! Me mum’s Welsh. Whatever you need to get the job, right? We all fake our accents from time to time.”

  "S-sure."

  "And are things going well there?" Gemma asks. "Seems like everything's America, America. What with the election. The war."

  "I w-wouldn't really know." Another awkward laugh. "I haven't been there since-"

  She stopes. Gemma’s eyes are glued to the cuffs, and Harriet's face turns red. The secretary starts to reach out.

  "U-UH! Excuse-"

  "Bronze." She grabs them. Tests them. Tugging loosely at the girl's wrists. “Did he get you these recently, or are they..." The secretary scoffs. "... leftovers?"

  Harriet swallows. Gemma's not speaking like normal. There's something in her tone. “Umm..."

  “Oh, right.” Gemma’s eyes spark. “I suppose he hasn't told you about those girls. He used to have dozens, all at once. But they always seemed to think that it was just him and her."

  “Listen, M-Ms. Gemma," Harriet's breathing picks up. "I-I don’t thinkSoteris would wanna-”

  “Well, no, but he’s not here, is he? Did he say he would follow you?”

  “No! But…"

  "Do you know the stories they used to say about those girls?" Gemma's voice is harsh. "The things he made them do? The way he made them feel?"

  "Please." Her eyes fling to the door. "I don't have any-"

  "Shhhhh. It’s okay.” Gemma rubs her arm again, then walks to the door. “Here. Let’s have a little privacy.”

  Harriet nods to herself when the door closes.

  But freezes when it locks.

  The secretary doesn’t turn around. Staring beyond. Scanning the hallway through the blinds.

  “Jessica..." Her voice is low. "... does he hurt you?"

  Harriet has been crushed and shot and broken and stabbed. She’s been thrown from windows. Burned by bombs. Once, she was nearly buried alive. Through all of them, she kept her wits.

  But she's nearly undone by those five words.

  "No." She blinks a few times, remembering Randall's threats. Soteris' warning. They're already looking for spies. "Wh-what? Why would-"

  Gemma turns, her face serious, and Harriet’s thoughts start swirling. She’s an Unbound agent, here to free her. She’s a New Sun Oathsworn, come to kill her at last. By the time Gemma’s reached her, she’s paralyzed. Half-drowning in windchimes in white clouds.

  “It’s okay. I’m not loyal to him. You can tell me.”

  Gemma digs something from her pocket and shoves it into Harriet’s hand. The vampire can barely read the words.

  Anti-Slavery International, est. 1828.

  “You’re not alone.”

  Gemma’s rubbing her arm again.

  “I can help you.”

  She reacts quickly. Throwing Gemma’s arm off and retreating to the office room’s counter. Harriet's hands touch the cold plastic. It’s a struggle to not hyperventilate. Fuck. Fuck. Soteris, you fool. Of course this was going to happen. She needs something. Needs to think of something. She-she-she…

  Harriet laughs. A giggle, as hollow as it is false. Jessica’s ‘accent’ slides back on like a smokescreen. “G-Gemma… what the hell are you on about?”

  Briefly, the secretary hesitates. Harriet can tell. But only until what training they gave her switches back on. "I know this is difficult. You don’t need to agree with me. You don’t need to explain! I just want to leave you with some cards, that’s all. Cards with numbers on them. Places where he can’t-”

  “I don’t need any cards!” Harriet snaps.

  “Maybe not! But you could. Later. He won’t find them, I can promise you that. You’re smart. You don’t have to worry about what he-”

  “He’s not like that!"

  Gemma pauses, then points at her hands. “Do you think it’s normal to be forced to wear that at work?”

  Harriet’s face hangs open. Gemma doesn't know. Gemma's a mortal. “It... It’s a sex thing!”

  “No.” Gemma shakes her head. “Jessica, I’m sorry, and I’m sure you believe that, but it’s not a sex thing to never leave work. It’s not a sex thing to not have any documents-”

  “What?!” Harriet’s voice turns to steel.

  “I looked through your records. You say you’re from Surrey, but you went to King’s College. And that’s it. That’s all that we have. No ID, no NHS, not even an Oyster card!”

  “Why are you doing this.” The words spilling from Harriet’s lips. “I didn’t do anything wrong he's been good to you we've never talked before why are you doing this??"

  “Because I don’t want you hurt.”

  “He doesn’t hurt me!”

  “Tell that to the other girls!"

  Harriet's breath is growing. Her mind is shrinking. She’s a mortal, and she knows. She’s a mortal. And she knows.

  "... Yeah." Gemma exhales through her nose. "I know it's easy to blame yourself, Jess, when he does those things. But I-rhhhkkk!”

  Blurs in the air. Gemma’s head is slammed on the counter. Teeth rattled by the blow. Her eyes are wild, hands desperate to pry Harriet’s fingers off her throat.

  “Jess...” The woman’s face turns white. Harriet’s squeezing. "Jessic-ckkkhhh-khh!"

  “Be quiet!"

  Her mind is still frayed. She's going too far. Or not far enough? She doesn't know, she doesn't handle these things. It was always Janet. It was always Janet. It's broad FUCKING daylight.

  “Gemma…” No fake accent. Harriet can think of a dozen ways to approach this, and none of them are good. “... Don’t ask. Stop askin’. Everythin’ I say, yer jes’ gonna nod yer head an’ then do it. Understand?”

  She loosens her grip. Enough for the woman to breath. To her shock, the woman looks in her eyes. “J-Jessica… you… don’t have to defend him."

  “Ya'll die!" Harriet shouts. "Do ya understand!? Not 'cause he's angry. Not 'cause he's a wifebeater! He won't care at all! He's gotta dozen people who will do it! If you keep talkin', you will freaking die."

  At least, the woman is quiet. At last, the woman is pale. Harriet sighs in relief. Whispering a little prayer.

  "Okay. Good." She opens her eyes. "How old are ya?”

  Gemma stumbles. “Th-thirty-two?"

  “Got parents?” Harriet can see the distrust. That all too familiar fear. "What, ya think I'm on their side!? Do ya have parents? Yes or no!"

  “Yes. My d-da’s in Shef-”

  “Go." She prods. "Put that card in yer pocket. Unlock the door. An’ tomorrow, ya tell Soteris that Pa got sick, that ya gotta take care of him, that yer gonna leave as quickly as ya bloody can!”

  “My job!? I-I can’t just-”

  “You don’t know what he is!”

  It’s loud enough that Gemma recoils. Loud enough that Harriet regrets it. She looks at the door. There are others outside. Others who could hear. Others who could tell him. Harriet leans closer. Close enough for her breath to cool Gemma’s face.

  “... ya don’t know what I am.” Harriet meets her eyes. “An’ if ya wanna live ta be thirty-three, ya really, really don’t want to.”

  Gemma’s quiet. Both of their bodies are trembling when she speaks with a soft voice. “What is he doing to you?”

  “I ain't sayin' that." Harriet shakes her head, and lets her go. Standing back, and letting the woman climb back to her feet. “Already breakin' too many rules, and when ya talk tomorrow, he's gonna know if yer hidin' somethin'."

  “... Okay.” Gemma stares at the wall. Slowly breathes. "I... we won't talk again. I'll stop bringing cards. I-I-.... I'll think..."

  She starts moving to the door. A hand still rubbing her throat.

  “But you're not telling him, right?" Gemma turns. "I... I love London. I don't-"

  “Gemma, this is a bad idea."

  “Alright."

  The secretary grips the handle. Grips, but doesn’t pull. For a long, long time.

  “I... I want to tell you… something.”

  But then she walks through the door, and out of Harriet's life.

  The something never comes.

  Harriet waits thirty seconds before closing the door again. Reaches deep into her bra and unfolds the letter. Whatever humiliation that once might have sparked, it’s replaced by the adrenaline pummeling through her. Harriet tears through the envelope with her finger and devours the words.

  To the girl with flaming hair,

  My thralls sing songs to me. They sing of a rage barely hidden, a taciturn captain, a very young groom and his very prized bride. I know your name, but unlike my more savage peers on the Council, it evokes neither disgust nor indignity. We, the dhaoine rosín, value art, in all its forms. Death is your brush, as life is mine.

  I invite you to the Orphean. My refuge. My haven. My Elysia on Earth. It is a place of ambrosia and honey, of the deepest tastes, the sweetest wines. All beauty is admired within my hall, and I so dearly wish to admire yours.

  Likely, you have little faith in me - the brutes in both our sects so horribly mutilate my words - but if you come, you will have truth. The truth of my light, and the truth of the monster beside you.

  I pay well for the beauty I see. And if such beauty needs an escape… I have been known to make generous offers.

  With love from afar,

  Regina Dunstan, Magistress of the Clan of the Rose

  At the bottom of the page, a final passage:

  He will not let you come

  Use Traynor.

  Harriet lowers it, her mind spinning as she stares blankly at the lifeless wall. Orphean. Astrid mentioned it before. Something about an Italian artist and a forty-year age gap. She spoke highly of it. A palace of art unlike any the world has seen.

  And Harriet already knows Regina.

  She hasn’t seen the woman in centuries, but hers was an entrance she could never forget. Through all the fog of that time, through all the words they spoke on that dock that she's forgotten, Harriet can still picture the woman’s face. Feel her touch. Hear her laugh. Taste the scent of her skin, like, like...

  ... Honey and ambrosia.

  Harriet walks back towards the bin and throws everything in the shredder.

  A trap. It must be. If Regina alone has heard this ‘song,’ then it was sung to her by fascist lips. This is Lianna’s work. Lianna’s game. And if that woman learned what Soteris was building… if that woman got access to Randall's data…

  The truth of my light.

  Yet Regina’s words still cling to her.

  The truth of the monster beside you.

  “Fireside?”

  “Huh!?” Harriet springs up, blinking quickly. She’s back in Soteris’ office. She doesn’t remember going in.

  He’s scowling. “I said, where were you?”

  “Sh..." Her lips curl. "... Shreddin’ papers.”

  He's unimpressed. “That shouldn’t take fifteen minutes.”

  “Yeah, uh… it broke.”

  He raises a brow. His face illuminated by the Windows XP home screen. “The shredder broke?”

  “Yeah. I had ta get help.”

  Soteris looks like he's talking to a child. “So why not come back here?"

  “Uh…” She lifts her hand to her ear, mimicking a phone. “Ya were callin’.”

  Soteris sighs, but he believes it. His eyes are back on the screen, and she wasn't given a lecture.

  Harriet plods back to her pillow. Kneels down. Grabs her book, tries her absolute best to look like furniture, and prays that if she just stays out of his way for fifteen minutes, he won't think about it too hard.

  He grabs her hair after five.

  “Ah-h!”

  “Shhhh.” He presses her face to his thigh, and she feels fingers swirl through the red locks. “It’s nothing.”

  She breathes. Eventually, it becomes light scratches. Petting. Harriet stiffens, lifts to move off him, but she’s pushed back down with even more weight.

  For a while, it continues like that. Soteris casually strokes, and she can only see the inside of his desk. It’s wood. Her cheek is on soft fabric. His leg is warm.

  “Who helped you?”

  Her heart picks up. The petting continues. “Sorry?”

  “You said you got help. Who helped you?” Soteris’ voice sours. “You’re not supposed to talk to employees. Remember?"

  “I-I was jes’ tryna follow the order.”

  “I know. But you’re not following this one. Who helped you?”

  She can’t say Gemma. She cannot say Gemma. “Soteris, I-” She gives a laugh. “There are more people in this buildin’ than in my hometown. I-I can’t keep track a’-”

  She freezes. The petting has stopped.

  Slowly, she feels two fingers glide down. Soteris’ index and middle, scratching along her skull, until the nails dig in at her neck.

  “Harriet…” He uses her name. “I can order the truth from you.”

  Windchimes. White clouds. She needs to think of something, but she can’t think of anything. The nails dig in. She doesn’t know anyone's names. She doesn’t know WHO THEY ARE! Gemma’s gonna die Gemma’s gonna die she’s gonna FUCKING DIE if she can’t-

  “Sergey!” Harriet blinks. It's the first person she could think of. “Sergey.”

  Soteris shifts. She no longer feels his nails. “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. Yeah." Harriet nods into his leg. "I-It was the Sergey, th-the-”

  It hits her. No. God, no, God, God, GOD!

  “- Lat...vian."

  She feels like ice. Soteris moves his hand back. The petting resumes. “That's quite strange. He doesn't work on the thirtieth floor."

  Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck FOSDAMMIT!

  “I’m sorry, I-I didn’t know-”

  “No. You didn’t.” He tugs playfully at her ear. “Did he say anything... suspicious to you?"

  Her stomach twists. She tries to leave his leg again, but he keeps pinning her down. “S-Soteris, I wouldn’t know-”

  “It would be quite obvious,” he interrupts. “He’d try to play it as office talk. How are you doing? How long have you been here? You spend a lot of time with the boss, right? Is anything big going to happen?”

  “He… Soteris, I d-dunno. I tr-tried not ta-”

  “Oh, so you sat there while he repaired the shredder in silence?”

  “No! But-”

  “But what!?”

  “I DON’T KNOW!” There’s panic in her voice. “Christ, yeah, okay, he asked questions! They were normal questions. He jes’ wanted ta know about my f-f-fuh-f-fr-frickin’ day! I didn’t-”

  She pauses. His hand is over her face. Three fingers on her cheek. His thumb on her chin, closing her mouth.

  “Alright. Okay." He says it quietly. Soothingly. “I know what to do about him. I’ve made up my mind.”

  It feels like ice. Harriet leans deeper into the leg, weighing each response, every word. “What… what are ya… g-gonna…”

  "Shhhhhh." He goes back to his pets. “That’s privileged information.”

  She sits there. Her hair flattened beneath his hand. Her eyes deadened and dull, staring at the scratched wood. She sees him. This boy with a face she’s never seen.

  This boy with a life she knows she's doomed.

  love the intensity he brings into things, and how it keeps Harriet on her toes in a way a physical fight never could.

  perfect.

  you have done, in Harriet's shoes? Would you have tried to keep the woman close, or safe? There's one character at Polyphron that you might have noticed wasn't here, but don't worry (or worry, I suppose, depending on your opinion), in Part II, we'll be getting much more of her.

  Wanna get access to the next chapter of Fireside early? I release all of my posts the moment I write them, as well as EXCLUSIVE CONTENT, over on my Patreon, Project Fireside! Check out the link in my bio for more!