Chapter Text
Laszlo lounged on the fainting couch in a deep burgundy robe that had certainly seen better centuries, one leg thrown dramatically over the other. Beside him, Nadja sipped lazily from a glass of “red wine” that had never seen a vineyard. The camera lingered on them, patiently waiting for context. Or at least coherence.
“We had to get a new familiar,” Nadja announced, waving a hand as if swatting away the memory. “The last one—oh my darling, what was his name? Kevin? Kyle?”
“Keith,” Laszlo supplied confidently, then paused. “Or was it Greg? Doesn’t matter. He’s dead now.”
“Yes! Set himself on fire, the poor idiot,” Nadja said brightly, as if announcing a raffle winner. “Accidentally, of course. One minute he was dusting the sconce, the next— poof! —flames everywhere. It was very dramatic. Almost festive.”
Laszlo nodded solemnly. “Man burned like an old whore’s love letters. Quite beautiful, really.”
Nadja took another sip from her glass. “Anyway, we’ve replaced him with a new one. A girl this time. Young. Sweet face. Lots of… feelings. She smiles a lot. I think her name is... Stephanie?”
“Could be Kimberly,” Laszlo mused. “Or Gabriella.”
“Meh,” Nadja shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. She does what she’s told and hasn’t burst into flames yet, so she’s already an upgrade.”
Neither of them seemed particularly interested in remembering the girl’s actual name. In the background, a small crash echoed from the hallway, followed by a cheery voice calling, “I’m okay!”
Laszlo didn’t flinch. “She’s very clumsy. But that little mortal cleans up after herself, unlike Gizmo.”
“Adorable,” Nadja said, though the fondness in her tone was questionable at best. “She even asked if we had a dental plan. Isn’t that sweet?”
And with that, the two vampires turned back to their drinks, clearly pleased with themselves. Somewhere in the house, you, the new familiar—whose name was absolutely not Stephanie—was probably picking glass shards out of your palm and humming a modern song to yourself.
* * * *
The camera shifted to a dimly lit corner of the house, where you stood in front of an ancient-looking tapestry depicting some sort of blood-soaked orgy. You didn’t seem to notice. Your hands were clasped nervously in front of you, and you gave the camera a small, uncertain smile.
“Hi,” you said softly. “Um, I’m the new familiar. I just started last week. Nadja and Laszlo hired me after the last one… had a bit of an accident.”
You gave a tight-lipped, awkward little laugh.
“I’ve always loved the supernatural, so when I saw the job listing on Craigslist I thought, ‘Why not?’... I mean, I didn’t think it was real , obviously. I just thought it was, like, immersive theatre? But then Nadja turned into a bat in front of me during the interview and, um... yeah. I figured it out pretty quick.”
You looked down at your shoes and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
“They’ve been... interesting bosses so far. They yell a lot. And sometimes they float. And I think Laszlo tried to seduce me? But honestly, I just want to be helpful. I like keeping things organized. I brought my own label maker.”
You smiled brightly, proud of that detail. The crew waited expectantly as you cleared your throat, ready to finally introduce yourself properly.
“My name is—”
A loud crash erupted behind you, followed by what sounded suspiciously like someone screaming in Romanian and then a bat hitting a mirror with a wet thwump .
Your eyes widened. You glanced to your right, wincing.
“Oh no. I think Nandor flew into the mirror again.”
Off-screen, Guillermo sighed, “I told him that wasn't a window.”
You turned back to the camera, visibly torn between your desire to help and your moment of screen time. “I—I’ll be right back!”
And you rushed off, already pulling a first aid kit from under your cardigan.
* * * *
You crashed down on the velvet couch, exhausted from your day and maybe even your week. The manor was quiet for once—eerily so—but in the comforting way that only came when all the vampires were deep in their daytime slumber. No screaming, no ancient cursing, no erotic lute solos. Just blessed silence.
You exhaled, slumping into the cushions with a dramatic sigh. Your legs ached from running errands at vampire speed (which, ironically, meant doing everything extra slowly so it didn’t seem like you were enjoying yourself), and there was still faint dried blood under your fingernails from whatever “snack” Nadja had left in the guest bathroom.
At the sound of soft footsteps, you tilted your head to see Guillermo entering the room, two mugs in hand.
“Thought you could use this,” he said, offering you one.
You blinked at him. “Is this… coffee?”
He gave you a conspiratorial smile. “It is. And not the blood kind.”
You nearly cried. “You’re a saint.”
He sat down beside you with a quiet grunt, sipping his own drink. For a moment, the two of you just sat there, the stillness oddly precious. You hadn’t realized how much chaos filled this house until it was gone. The silence felt like a hug.
Guillermo glanced sideways at you. “So… you still regretting the job? Or just moderately traumatized now?”
You gave a tired little laugh. “Somewhere between the two. But Nadja smiled at me today. I mean… I think she did. It might’ve been a threat. But I’ll take it.”
“She smiled at me once,” Guillermo said thoughtfully. “Then immediately told me I had ‘a very punchable aura.’”
You snorted, and he grinned.
“I like you,” you said. “It’s nice not being the only one with a pulse.”
“Trust me,” he replied. “You’re doing great. If you’re not crying in the bathroom by week two, you’re already ahead of the curve.”
You raised your mug in a mock toast. “To surviving the undead.”
He clinked his mug against yours. “And to keeping them from killing each other.”
You took a slow sip of your coffee, savoring the warmth, then turned slightly to face Guillermo. “Can I ask you something?”
He looked over at you, curious. “Of course.”
“How did you… start all this?” You gestured around the gothic manor. “With Nandor, I mean. You’ve been here forever, right?”
Guillermo gave a sheepish laugh, nodding. “Yeah. It’s been… a while.”
You waited, intrigued.
“I answered an ad in the newspaper,” he said. “It said something like, ‘Seeking loyal familiar. Must love darkness, be comfortable with blood, and have a strong stomach.’ I didn’t even hesitate.”
You blinked. “Why would anyone apply for that job on purpose?”
He smiled, looking slightly embarrassed. “I’ve always wanted to be a vampire. Ever since I was a kid. I used to watch all the old movies—Interview with a Vampire, Dracula, Blade… I thought it was the coolest thing ever. The powers, the mystery, the eternal life…” He trailed off with a wistful sigh.
You smiled softly. “So when you saw the ad…”
“I thought it was fate,” he said with a chuckle. “And then Nandor opened the door in a giant cape, holding a goblet, and said, ‘Welcome to your destiny, Guillermo.’ I nearly passed out.”
You laughed. “Sounds on-brand.”
“Oh, it was,” he said fondly. “I’ve been with him ever since. He’s… not what I expected. But I guess neither is being a familiar. I thought I’d be sipping blood in a velvet cloak by now, not bleaching Nandor’s tunics and getting cursed by cursed objects.”
“Do you still want to be a vampire?” you asked gently.
He paused. “I don’t know. Maybe. It’s complicated now. I’ve seen the good, the bad, and the deeply disturbing. But… I still care about him. That’s the weird part.”
You nodded slowly. “I think I get it.”
He gave you a half-smile. “You will. Trust me—working here has a way of growing on you. Like mold. Or emotional damage.”
You burst out laughing just as a distant voice from upstairs groaned,
“Guillermo… It's too hot in this coffin… Guillermo!”
You exchanged a look.
Guillermo sighed, standing. “My master calls.”
You grinned up at him. “Thanks for the coffee.”
He gave you a wink. “Welcome to the family.”
You watched Guillermo disappear down the hall, then hesitated before calling after him.
“Wait—Guillermo?”
He paused mid-step and turned back. “Yeah?”
You bit your lip, setting your coffee down carefully on the dusty side table. “Can I ask you one more thing?”
His brow furrowed. “Of course.”
You straightened slowly, suddenly feeling a bit ridiculous but unable to shake the question from your mind. “Does… does Nandor hate me?”
Guillermo blinked. “What?”
You fidgeted with the sleeve of your sweater. “I just mean—he’s been really cold with me since I got here. He barely speaks to me unless it’s to tell me I’ve ‘folded the dresses like a stupid human peasant’ or mock my accent, or… you know. Look through me like I’m a particularly disappointing ghost.”
Guillermo walked back toward you, his expression softening. You gave him a weak smile.
“I don’t know. Even Colin Robinson has been nicer. Just today, he asked me how my day was. And I’m pretty sure he meant it before draining me of the will to finish laundry.”
Guillermo chuckled, then sat down beside you again, this time with a little more urgency in his kindness. “Okay, first of all—Nandor doesn’t hate you.”
You gave him a doubtful look.
“I’m serious,” Guillermo said. “He just… doesn’t know what to do with you.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“You’re kind. And thoughtful. And not scared of him, which he interprets as either disrespect or witchcraft. It’s confusing for him.” Guillermo smiled knowingly. “You smile at him like he’s just some guy, not a 700-year-old conqueror. He doesn’t get that a lot.”
You blinked. “So he’s just… awkward?”
“Painfully. Emotionally constipated, even,” Guillermo said, nodding. “But I’ve seen this before. The teasing, the cold shoulder—it’s like vampire flirting. He’s trying to keep distance because he doesn’t know how to handle new people. Especially ones he notices.”
Your cheeks warmed. “He notices me?”
Guillermo raised an eyebrow. “He doesn't refer to you as Human #2 like he did with the familiar before you. That’s a good start—at least for him.”
You both laughed again, and the knot in your stomach loosened just a little.
“Give him time,” Guillermo said. “He’ll come around. Probably in the weirdest, most dramatic way possible, but… that’s kind of his thing.”
You nodded slowly, smiling. “Thanks, Guillermo. Really.”
He bumped your shoulder gently. “Anytime.”
* * * *
You padded quietly through the hallways, hugging a dusty ledger to your chest. You’d been sent by the guide to find Nadja and Laszlo so they could sign off on an inventory list—or as Nadja called it, “the scroll of pathetic human accounting.” You checked the music room (empty), the bedroom (locked), and the crypt (you tried, but your flashlight died two steps in and you heard something whisper your name).
Finally, you peeked into the grand living room, where the heavy drapes were drawn tight, casting the space in a perpetual dusk. The massive fireplace glowed with lazy embers, and on a high-backed chair sat Nandor the Relentless, dressed in his usual ancient tunic, flipping through a book that looked older than Canada.
His eyes flicked up the moment you stepped inside, and his brows immediately pulled together in a scowl of regal displeasure.
You froze like a startled woodland creature. “Sorry!” you blurted. “Didn’t mean to—um—interrupt your… whatever that is.” You motioned vaguely to the book. “Studying?”
“It is Plato, ” he replied stiffly, voice tinged with the tired elegance of someone who wanted you gone immediately. “You have disturbed me.”
You gave a tiny, apologetic smile. “Sorry again. I was just looking for Master Laszlo and Mistress Nadja. They were supposed to review inventory. For… their new dungeon-themed nightclub? With the fire poles?”
Nandor didn’t even blink. “They are out.”
“Oh.” You nodded, hugging the ledger tighter. “Right. I’ll just—leave this for them, then.”
You turned to go, but paused, biting your lip. “Do you, uh… know where Guillermo is?”
Nandor sighed, closing his book with a heavy thump. “He is in the backyard.”
“Oh, great! I’ll—”
“Burying bodies.”
You stopped. “Oh.”
Nandor waved a hand vaguely. “They were trespassers. Or Jehovah’s Witnesses. I forget.”
You swallowed and gave a small, nervous chuckle. “Guess that’s one way to deal with unwanted door-knockers.”
Nandor eyed you, head tilted slightly. “You do not seem surprised.”
You offered a shrug. “I mean, I’ve already seen Nadja rip a man’s throat out because he insulted her boots. Everything since then has felt kind of… normal?”
His brow quirked, clearly taken aback.
You smiled—genuinely this time. “I guess I’m just trying to do my job.”
For a moment, he didn’t answer. He just stared at you, eyes narrowing thoughtfully, like you were a particularly curious piece of artwork he didn’t know how to interpret. Then he made a dismissive little “hmph” sound and reopened his book.
“I would recommend staying out of the backyard,” he said flatly, without looking up. “Unless you enjoy the scent of shallow graves.”
“Noted,” you said quickly, already backing away. “Thanks.”
As you slipped out of the room, you couldn’t help but glance back. Nandor was reading again, but his gaze wasn’t on the page.
It was following you.
* * * *
The camera finds you standing near the narrow kitchen, idly stirring a mug of instant coffee with a bent spoon. You glance up, startled by the sudden presence of the film crew, then give a sheepish smile.
“Oh. Hey,” you murmur, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Sorry, I’m—just taking a second.”
You lean against the counter, eyes flicking off-camera for a moment like you’re still processing something. Then you glance back, hesitant.
“I just… ran into Nandor,” you say, voice low like you’re afraid he might still hear you through the walls. “He was in the living room reading Plato , because of course he was, and he looked like I’d personally offended his entire bloodline just by walking into the room.”
You huff out a little laugh, but it’s not very confident.
“I asked where Laszlo and Nadja were—he said they were ‘out.’ Then I asked where Guillermo was, and he said he was burying bodies in the backyard. Like it was just… Monday.”
Your eyes widen a bit as you gesture with your mug, spilling a little on your sleeve. You don’t even notice.
“I know this place is... weird. Okay, super weird. But—I don’t know.” You glance down, then back up. “He just looks at me like I’m a cockroach in his crypt. Not even worth a real insult. I mean, even Colin Robinson told me I had a ‘pleasant, energy-efficient presence.’ Which I’m pretty sure was a compliment?”
You exhale and give a tiny, helpless shrug. “I don’t know what I did wrong. Maybe he just hates me. Or maybe I’m too new. Or too human. Or too alive.”
You give a small, nervous laugh and sip your coffee. Then, quieter:
“I just wish I knew why it bothers me so much.”
Your eyes flick away from the camera again, distant for a second, like the thought just surprised you. Then you blink and give an awkward smile.
“Anyway. Time to go see if Guillermo needs help with the… corpse stuff. You know. Dream job.”
You walk off down the hallway, coffee in hand, mumbling something about needing gloves.
The camera lingers for a beat on the empty kitchen before panning to the hallway.
As your voice fades into the distance, the door creaks open slightly—just enough to reveal Nandor standing there, arms folded, brows furrowed in an expression that’s somehow both annoyed and... conflicted.
He steps forward slowly, then turns to the camera crew, clearly aware they’ve been filming. His voice is low, haughty, but there’s an odd edge to it—like he’s trying to convince himself of something.
“Okay, yes. I may have been listening. Accidentally. Because I was… roaming. Like a predator. Which I am.”
He clears his throat. “She said I hate her.” He scoffs. “That is ridiculous. I do not hate her.”
He pauses.
“I barely know her.”
A longer pause.
“…Though she is very small. And she says ‘here you go’ every time she hands me something. Even when I do not acknowledge her. Which is… unnecessary. But also strangely… endearing? In a pathetic mortal way.”
He frowns, clearly disturbed by this realization.
“She smells like vanilla and despair. Which is a confusing combination. And she made a sandwich for Guillermo yesterday and then said, ‘I made extra if anyone’s hungry,’ which is clearly a trap, because I do not eat sandwiches. ”
He stares at the camera crew for a beat, deeply troubled.
“I do not hate her,” he says finally. “I am… evaluating her. For weaknesses. That is all.”
The camera zooms in slightly on his face.
“…And maybe because when she looks at me, I feel like I am being set on fire, but not in a lethal way.”
He clears his throat loudly, suddenly angry at his own mouth.
“Stop filming me. I am going to do... vampire things.”
With that, he whirls around, his cape dramatically sweeping the corner of the frame as he disappears down the hall with an indignant huff.
* * * *
The camera crew scrambled to keep up as Nandor marched down the hallway, his booming voice echoing through the Staten Island mansion.
“Guillermo!” he shouted, sweeping open door after door with increasing drama. “Guillerrrrrmooo!”
He opened a linen closet. “Are you in the towel chamber? No. Useless.”
He stormed down another hall. “Guillermo! I need you to fix the—uh—thing with the... coffin squeak! It is making a noise that sounds like a sad accordion! Guillermo!”
In the living room, Laszlo lounged at the piano in a velvet robe, lazily plunking out what sounded like a baroque version of “Oops!… I Did It Again.” Nadja was brushing her haunted dolly’s hair, humming ominously. Colin Robinson sat in an armchair, completely deadpan, reading The Staten Island Chronicle.
You were on a stool, dusting a high shelf and muttering to yourself about cobwebs that probably have sentience.
Nandor bursted into the room, hands on his hips like a very dramatic, very ancient landlord. “Have any of you seen Guillermo? I have been summoning him for ten whole minutes!”
No one answered. Nadja hummed louder. Laszlo switched to “Funky Town” with an aggressively inappropriate harpsichord flair.
Nandor huffed. “I know you all heard me!”
Without looking up from his newspaper, Colin said, “He went out for errands. Said he’d be back by sunrise. Don’t worry, champ.”
You hopped down from the stool and dusted your hands off. “Yeah, I saw him leave earlier. I think he was getting dry cleaning and some garlic-free hummus.”
Nandor blinked at you. “Why would he get hummus? He knows I don’t eat human food!”
You offered a small shrug. “It was for me.”
He stared at you. There was a beat of silence.
You shifted awkwardly. “Do you—um—need help with anything? I can try to help. If it’s something Guillermo normally does, I can learn. I mean, unless it’s burying things. I’m still working on that.”
Nadja leaned over to Laszlo and loudly whispered, “Ohhh she fancies him.”
Laszlo grinned. “How delightfully tragic.”
You blushed, ducking your head quickly.
Nandor, oblivious as ever, scoffed. “No. I do not need help. I am a strong and powerful vampire warlord! I do not require mortal assistance for anything.”
Then he frowned at the camera.
“…Except maybe dusting the armor display. It has developed rust and smells like haunted farts.”
He looked back at you.
“…But if you wish to help, you may. As a gesture of… servitude.”
There was a pause.
Laszlo hit a sour note on the piano, grinning. “Oh, this is going to be brilliant. ”
You glanced at Nandor, surprised, then gave a shy smile. “Sure. I’ll help.”
He nodded. “Good. Follow me.”
You trailed after him, and as you left the room, Colin Robinson leaned toward the camera and whispered, “I give it three days before he tries to write her a love letter.”
You followed Nandor down a long, shadowy hallway filled with more candle wax and ominous creaks than a horror escape room. He moved with dramatic purpose, robes swishing behind him like a cape caught in a mild breeze.
He stopped in front of his coffin chamber and pointed to the dark, ornate box in the center of the room.
“It squeaks,” he said with gravity, “like an old woman being frightened by a squirrel. It is unacceptable for a warrior of my caliber.”
You nodded, setting down your little toolkit. “I’ll take a look. Might just be a loose hinge.”
Nandor watched as you knelt beside the coffin, tools in hand. For a moment, there was silence—until he cleared his throat and tried to casually lean against the wall… and missed slightly, thudding his shoulder.
“So… Samantha,” he began awkwardly.
You paused mid-hinge inspection and looked up. “That’s… not my name.”
“Ah yes. Of course not. You are… of course… Gretel?”
You blinked. “Still not my name.”
He frowned, thinking deeply, then tried again. “Gertrude?”
You opened your mouth to correct him again, then stopped, catching the very faint furrow of embarrassment in his brows. You offered a small smile instead. “Sure. Close enough.”
He seemed oddly pleased by that, puffing up slightly like he’s just passed a diplomacy check. “Very well, Gertrude. You are doing a good job. You are not as useless as I once assumed.”
“Thanks,” you replied, not quite sure if it was a compliment.
He stood there for a beat too long, then blurted, “Guillermo told me you like… sandwiches.”
You squinted up at him. “Um. I mean, yeah? I eat them sometimes.”
“Ah.” He nodded seriously. “So do many mortals. Bread... is comforting.”
There was an awkward silence. He adjusted his belt for no reason at all.
You went back to tinkering with the coffin hinge while he stood stiffly nearby, clearly trying to find more conversation material but struggling like a vampire who hasn't had to try in 700 years.
Finally, you broke the silence. “You can call me by my real name, you know.”
He frowned. “But what if I forget it again and you become angry? That would be… awkward.”
You glanced up at him, a warm little laugh slipping out before you could stop it. “I think I’ll survive.”
Nandor stared at you. Something in his expression softened—just slightly. Like a confused cat catching a glimpse of affection but not knowing what to do with it.
“I shall try… Ger—um… whatever your name is,” he said solemnly.
You smiled again, shaking your head, and went back to your work.
Behind you, he silently mouthed your real name once. Then again.
And again.
He would get it. Eventually.
Maybe.
* * * *
Days turned into weeks, and slowly, the chaos began to feel… familiar (pun intended). What might terrify the average person—a severed hand in the sink, ancient chanting from the basement, the occasional bat in the pantry—became just another Monday in the mansion. You found your rhythm, and with it, a strange sort of peace.
Guillermo became your anchor. He was like the big brother you never had—steady, patient, and always there when things got too weird or too overwhelming. He taught you the ropes, talked you through your first panic attacks, and never once made you feel silly for being scared. In a house full of monsters, he made you feel human.
As for Nandor, he had become… marginally less distant.
One evening, you passed him in the hallway, arms full with a precarious stack of freshly laundered suits. You offered him a polite smile and a soft, “Evening!”
He froze like he’d been hit with a spotlight. “Yes. Evening. The… time of descending.” He nodded—once, sharply—then turned to continue walking and promptly collided with a full suit of armor. The resulting crash echoed behind you as you tried (and failed) not to laugh.
A couple of days later, you were in the kitchen sorting through ancient, potentially cursed mugs when Nandor suddenly materialized beside you, holding something in both hands with great reverence: a very rotten pomegranate.
He placed it carefully on the counter like it was a crown jewel. “This is for you. It symbolizes passion… and blood. Possibly also fertility rituals. I cannot remember exactly.”
You blinked at the moldy fruit. “Thanks…?”
He nodded solemnly and disappeared in a dramatic swirl of cloak, leaving behind only the faint scent of aged citrus and confusion.
Later, Colin Robinson wandered in, glanced at the pomegranate, and muttered, “That’s been on the floor since 2012. But hey—it’s the gesture that counts, right?”
A few hours after that, while sweeping the front steps, you happened to glance up and caught Nandor watching you from a second-story window. The instant your eyes met, he flinched and dropped out of sight with a muffled “ow” followed by an impressive crash.
You rushed inside to check on him, only to find him tangled behind a heavy curtain.
“I was… inspecting the floorboards,” he announced, clearly hoping you hadn’t seen anything.
You smiled, one brow raised. “Of course, I can see that.”
You walked away, your laughter echoing faintly down the hall.
* * * *
You sat on the bottom step of the grand staircase, legs tucked to one side, a duster still in your hand. The camera crew had found you in a rare moment of peace, and you offered a small, sheepish smile as they adjusted their equipment.
“Um… yeah, Nandor’s been…” You paused, eyes drifting toward the chandelier as if the right words were hiding among the cobwebs. “He’s been talking to me more lately. Asking if I’ve eaten. Calling me—well, trying to call me by my actual name.” You let out a quiet laugh. “Last week he got it almost right. Which is… progress.”
You twirled the duster between your fingers, your voice dropping slightly, like you were letting them in on a secret.
“He gave me a book the other night. Just… walked up, handed it to me, and said it had a ‘tender mortal vibe’ I might enjoy. It was Twilight ,” you added with a soft laugh. “I don’t even know if he realizes the irony.”
There was a pause, your cheeks starting to tint pink. You glanced down, smiling into your lap, then quickly shook your head.
“No, no—it’s not like that,” you said, waving a hand quickly at the camera. “I mean, come on. He’s… he’s Nandor. A centuries-old vampire warlord who can barely remember my name. I just think it’s… sweet, that’s all. Friendly.”
You glanced up again, trying to stifle a smile that still tugged at your lips despite your best efforts.
“…And maybe a little cute. But, you know. Not like that .”
The sound guy coughed knowingly behind the camera.
Your face turned fully red. “Okay, stop. I’m not blushing . It’s just warm in here.”
You stood quickly, brushing off your skirt and trying not to grin. “Anyway. I have shelves to dust and a rotten pomegranate to pretend to treasure.”
You hurried off down the hallway, cursing under your breath.
* * * *
The sun had barely finished setting when Guillermo pulled you aside in the hallway, just outside the parlor. His voice was hushed, urgent.
“Okay, listen. We’re having a… guest tonight. Do not be alone with him.”
You blinked. “Why? Is he, like… extra bitey?”
Guillermo gave you a look that said yes, obviously . “He tried to eat me once. Like, full-on lunging for my neck. Nandor had to pull him off. Just—keep your distance.”
You tried to play it cool, smiling softly. “I’ll be fine. I’ve got Laszlo and Nadja, remember? My very undead masters?”
He didn’t look convinced. “Just… be careful, okay?”
You nodded, heart fluttering just a little as you followed him into the living room.
The vampire guest—Baron Heknor von Devren-Sludge or something equally dramatic—was already lounging in one of the oversized armchairs like he owned the place. His eyes were a vivid, unnatural shade of red, and his teeth were sharp even when his mouth was closed.
“Ah, so this is the new familiar,” he purred as you entered the room. His gaze dragged over you like a cold wind. “Delicate. Soft. Young.”
You suddenly felt very aware of your pulse.
You gave him a polite nod, keeping your voice steady. “Nice to meet you, sir.”
He licked his lips, slow and deliberate. “Delightful manners. May I borrow her for a little chat?”
Before you could respond, Nandor’s voice cut through the room.
“No. She is busy. She is dusting… things.”
You turned to see him standing in the doorway, arms crossed, expression unreadable. The Baron raised a brow.
“Surely you don’t mind—”
“I mind,” Nandor said flatly, moving to stand beside you. “She is… my second familiar.”
You blinked at him. That was new.
The Baron chuckled, holding up his hands. “Of course, of course. So territorial, Nandor.”
You tried to look anywhere but at the vampire eyeing you like an hors d'oeuvre, slowly inching closer to Nandor.
You whispered, “Thought I belonged to Laszlo and Nadja…”
“You do,” Nandor muttered back. “But he does not know that.”
The Baron’s stare lingered on you as he sipped something suspiciously thick from a goblet.
You swallowed hard.
Maybe Guillermo was right. Maybe being careful wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
The rest of the evening passed in a fog of candlelight, cryptic toasts, and at least three references to past blood feuds. But through it all, Nandor barely left your side.
You sat on the far end of the velvet couch, trying to mind your own business and blend in with the décor. Nandor, however, chose the seat directly beside you—even though Nadja had already offered him a plush armchair and Laszlo was practically sprawled across a chaise like a renaissance painting.
“No, I am fine here ,” Nandor said pointedly, settling in with all the grace of a man about to stand guard.
At one point, the Baron tried to refill your glass, but Nandor’s hand shot out faster than expected. “She does not drink… red.”
You gave him a sideways glance. “Actually I—”
He cut in smoothly, “She has iron deficiency. It is doctor’s orders.”
Across the room, Guillermo watched with barely concealed amusement, sipping his soda with a knowing grin.
A little later, as the Baron regaled everyone with a tale of seducing a noblewoman and then draining her dry at a masquerade, you felt Nandor’s cape subtly stretch behind you—wrapping lightly around your shoulders like a blanket.
You blinked at him. He was staring ahead, stoic as a statue.
“…Are you… cloaking me?”
He didn’t look at you. “You looked cold.”
“I’m wearing three layers.”
“You looked spiritually cold.”
You smiled—just a little.
By the end of the night, the Baron stood to leave, swirling his cloak dramatically. But instead of heading for the door, he paused in front of you.
"You know," he said with a slow, oily smile, "you’d make a wonderful midnight snack. I simply cannot stop imagining how sweet you'd taste."
You laughed nervously, assuming—hoping—it was a joke. “Haha… that’s funny.”
He didn’t laugh. He moved closer.
“I’ll just take a little taste, I swear…”
In a blur, he lunged.
You barely had time to scream before something massive and fast collided with him mid-air. The two vampires crashed into the marble fireplace with a thunderous boom, bricks tumbling, flames leaping. You scrambled back on the rug, heart in your throat.
It was Nandor.
He had tackled the Baron and now stood between you and him, fangs bared, eyes glowing with rage.
“She is not yours! ”
The Baron snarled. “What’s the meaning of this, Nandor? She’s just a familiar!”
“She is property of the household,” Nandor hissed, advancing slowly. “And you do not touch what is mine.”
The Baron held up his hands and backed away, bruised and more than a little shocked. “Fine, fine. Clearly you’ve become very possessive. Call me when you get bored of her.”
Nandor didn’t even blink. “Out.”
The Baron vanished in a streak of smoke and bruised ego.
You sat frozen on the floor, still trying to catch your breath. When you looked up, Nandor was beside you, suddenly quiet again, brushing dust from your shoulder.
“Are you hurt?” His voice was surprisingly soft now. Gentle.
You shook your head. “I’m okay. Just… holy crap, you tackled a centuries-old vampire for me.”
“Yes. It was… spontaneous heroism.” He paused. “Or instinct. Like when a dog sees a stick.”
Despite yourself, you laughed—a breathless, giddy sound. “Well… thank you. For saving me.”
He gave you a small, almost shy smile. “You are welcome. I could not let him harm you. That would have made me…” He paused, searching. “What is the word Guillermo uses? A dick.”
You blinked, then laughed softly. “Yeah. That’s the word.”
From behind a nearby column, Colin Robinson muttered, “That was the most exciting thing that’s happened here since Nadja tried to seduce that priest.”
Nandor stood, then offered his hand to help you up. You let him pull you to your feet, your hand lingering in his.
“Thank you again,” you said, more seriously now. “For protecting me. I mean it.”
He opened his mouth to respond, but before he could say anything, you leaned forward on impulse and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.
He went rigid.
“I just…” you stepped back quickly, flustered but smiling, “thought that was easier than buying you a thank-you card.”
His eyes blinked rapidly. He touched the spot on his cheek like it had been burned—or blessed.
You gave him a small, nervous wave. “I’ll, uh… go clean up the ancient blood puddle in the hallway now.”
And just like that, you turned and hurried off.
Behind you, Nandor was still frozen in place, one hand over his cheek, eyes wide.
Guillermo walked past slowly, holding a broom. “Smooth.”
“I do not need your sarcasm right now, Guillermo,” Nandor muttered, dazed. “I think I am feeling… dizzy. What is this… sensation taking over me?”
Guillermo grinned knowingly towards the camera.
* * * *
The camera flickered on to Nandor sitting stiffly in a velvet armchair. He looked frazzled. His long hair was pulled back crookedly, his tunic slightly wrinkled. A raven pecked at the window behind him, ignored.
“I have not slumbered properly in three days,” he said gravely, staring just left of the camera. “Every time I close my eyes, I see her face. Her smile. The way she said ‘thank you’ after I saved her life. The way her lips touched my cheek…” He touched the spot again, dreamily, then quickly scowled and cleared his throat. “Anyway, it is very inconvenient. Very disruptive to my ancient nightly schedule.”
He leaned in slightly. “And now… now I cannot speak to her without sounding like a peasant. Yesterday I tried to say ‘hello’ and accidentally said ‘goodbye.’”
He sighed, then glanced away and muttered, “Also. When that delivery man brought that strange box from the Amazons and said something making her laugh... I felt something in my chest. Like an angry bat flapping inside me. I almost challenged him to a duel.”
Guillermo sat nearby, sipping coffee from a novelty “#1 Familiar” mug.
“Yeah,” Guillermo said, raising an eyebrow. “That’s called jealousy. ”
Nandor scoffed. “Do not be ridiculous, Guillermo. Vampires do not get ‘jealous.’ We eliminate rivals. ”
Guillermo just gave him a look. “Nandor, you’re in love.”
There was a pause.
Nandor bursted into laughter. Loud, booming, slightly forced. “That is ridiculous, Guillermo! I have had thirty-seven wives. I know love!”
Guillermo sipped again. “Did you love any of them?”
Nandor opened his mouth… closed it… and frowned. “I… respected five. Feared two. One tried to poison me for twelve years and honestly I admired her persistence.”
He slowly looked off into the distance, visibly processing.
“…I have never written a poem for any of them. Or considered setting the moon on fire to keep them warm.” He blinked. “But I considered it for her yesterday when she said her fingers were cold.”
Guillermo nodded. “Yup. That’s love, buddy.”
Nandor slouched further in his chair, defeated and a little breathless. “This is most unpleasant.”
He sighed softly, muttering to himself. “I wonder if she likes horses…”
* * * *
You were humming softly as you dusted the bookshelves, trying not to sneeze from the centuries-old grime. The house was unusually quiet for once—no screeching, no organ music, no Nadja yelling at her doll.
Just as you reached for a particularly cobwebbed volume titled “Curses You Probably Deserved,” you heard someone clear their throat behind you.
You turned and nearly jumped when you saw Nandor standing awkwardly in the doorway.
He was holding something behind his back.
“Oh! Hi, Nandor,” you smiled.
He stared for a long moment, eyes wide, like he hadn’t expected you to speak.
“…Yes. Hello. The… time of mid-evening,” he said stiffly.
“…Right,” you said, biting back a smile.
There was an awkward silence. Then he took a step forward and blurted, “You have a face.”
You blinked. “…Thank you?”
“No! I mean, yes, obviously. But—your face. I… notice it. Often.” He frowned and tried again. “I am saying, you are… visible. In a way that other people are not. Like a torch. That blinds me.”
You tilted your head. “That’s… poetic?”
He visibly panicked. “It is not because your face is overly bright! That would be a medical condition, and I would pity you! I mean—I admire your… symmetry.”
He finally brought his hands forward, revealing what he’d been hiding: a gift.
It was a framed portrait. Of you. Sort of. It looked like he’d drawn it himself. In crayon. With bat wings for hair and… possibly fangs?
You took it slowly, heart warm even as your eyebrows lifted. “You… drew this?”
“I stayed up all day,” he said proudly. “It is based on memory. And feelings. And also I lost my reference image because Guillermo spilled goat’s blood on it.”
You tried not to laugh. “It’s… really sweet.”
“It is a declaration,” he said suddenly, eyes wide again. “Of interest. Deep interest. Maybe even affectional tendencies. I don’t know. I am confused.”
Your heart fluttered.
“…Are you saying you like me?”
Nandor paused.
“…What I am saying,” he finally said, “is that if you were hypothetically turned into a bat and accidentally flew into a ceiling fan, I would avenge you.”
Your lips curled into a grin.
“That’s… the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
Nandor lit up with visible pride, like he’d just won a duel.
You patted his arm gently. “Thank you for the drawing. I’ll treasure it.”
You left him there, dazed and smiling faintly, as he whispered to himself:
“She did not run away. That’s progress.”
The camera crew sat quietly in the corner, lights dimmed to a soft glow. You were perched on the edge of your bed, holding the framed crayon portrait of yourself that Nandor had given you earlier.
You turned it slowly in your hands, eyes flicking from the vampire-fanged version of yourself to the sparkly purple hearts he’d drawn in the corners. One of the hearts had tiny fangs. Another was on fire. It was somehow endearing.
You looked at the camera, trying to keep a straight face.
“So… that happened.”
You bit your lip, glancing down at the drawing again.
“I mean, he tried to compliment my face and called it ‘blinding.’ And he said he’d avenge me if I flew into a ceiling fan. That’s… something, right?”
A blush crept up your neck despite your best efforts. You laughed, burying your face in your hands for a second before looking back up again.
“I don’t know. I think—I think he’s trying. I’ve worked here long enough to know that Nandor doesn’t do subtle. Or… normal human interaction.”
You hesitated, fingers lightly tracing one of the sparkly bat wings he drew on your hair.
“He’s weird. But like… in a charming, possibly-deadly way.”
There was a long pause, your smile softening.
“And when he looks at me lately, it feels different. Like… like he sees me. Not just as the new familiar, not just some mortal woman who dusts tombs and washes bloodstains off capes.”
You blinked a few times. Your voice dropped to almost a whisper.
“I think I might like him. Just a little.”
Then you immediately straightened and pointed a finger at the camera.
“But if you tell anyone I said that, I will deny it and throw this bat-drawing into the fireplace.”
* * * *
The chandeliers flickered above, casting dramatic shadows on the dark wood panels. Nadja was curled up on her fainting couch, feeding her doll tiny drops of blood. Laszlo plunked out dissonant chords on the piano, naked from the waist down as usual. Colin Robinson sat in an armchair flipping through Tax Code Monthly, radiating dullness like a slow-acting poison.
Nandor stood in the center of the room, hands clasped behind his back, looking almost regal, but twitchy.
“I have gathered you here to ask a question,” he began, voice serious.
Laszlo sighed, not looking up from the keys. “Is it about the Wi-Fi again?”
“No. It is about…” He hesitated. “Love.”
Three pairs of eyes (well, two and a doll’s) snapped toward him.
“Love?” Nadja snorted. “You?”
Laszlo stopped playing. “You haven’t been in love since you accidentally proposed to that Bulgarian warlock during the Siege of Thessaloniki.”
“I was drunk!” Nandor said defensively.
“Drunk on what, powdered goat blood and poor decisions?” Nadja muttered.
Colin Robinson perked up slightly, sensing emotional chaos. “This is interesting. Please continue.”
Nandor took a breath, as if physically bracing himself.
“It’s… the new familiar,” he said. “I think—I may have feelings. Real feelings.”
Laszlo blinked. “She’s a human, Nandor.”
“I know. ”
Nadja sat up, eyes wide. “Oh Nandor, you’re not going to do something foolish, like fall in love with her and not turn her into a vampire, are you? That’s how ghost infestations happen!”
“She doesn’t even like bats that much,” Laszlo added. “I saw her shoo one with a broom.”
“And statistically speaking,” Colin chimed in, “vampire-human relationships are a logistical nightmare. One of you ages and dies. The other one broods about it for four hundred years and starts a poetry blog.”
Nandor looked crushed, shoulders slumping. “So you are saying that… this isn’t a good idea?”
Nadja exchanged a look with Laszlo. “We’re saying love makes you stupid. And we already have one Gizmo in the house.”
“Two, if you count the doll,” Laszlo muttered.
Colin smiled. “And it’s kind of cute that you think you're emotionally mature enough for a functional relationship.”
The room fell quiet.
Nandor slowly sat down on the edge of a velvet armchair, visibly deflating. His fangs peeked out slightly as he pouted.
“I have had 37 wives,” he muttered.
“And how many of them are still talking to you?” Nadja asked sweetly.
“…They’re dead.”
“Exactly.”
He sighed, staring off into space.
The camera crew zoomed in on his forlorn expression as he murmured:
“Perhaps I am doomed to be a lonely immortal.”
Cut to: Colin Robinson, practically glowing.
“This is delicious. He’s so emotionally confused. I might not need to feed for days.”
* * * *
The change was subtle at first. Nandor stopped hovering.
You hadn’t realized how often you’d caught him loitering nearby until he wasn’t anymore. No more silent entrances into rooms you were cleaning. No more pomegranate offerings (fresh or otherwise). No more strange, awkward attempts at conversation or those fleeting, confused glances he thought you didn’t notice.
He was distant again.
At first, you told yourself he was just busy. Vampires had mysterious schedules, right? Maybe he was on one of his brooding sabbaticals, or buried in his coffin “inspecting floorboards” again.
But then a few days passed.
You tried greeting him in the hall with your usual, “Evening, Master Nandor!”—only for him to brush past with a distracted grunt. He didn’t even look at you.
You offered to help him oil his coffin hinges again, only for him to say, “I do not require the assistance of fragile mortals today.”
He didn’t even get your name wrong. That, somehow, hurt most of all.
Now you sat alone on the edge of the front staircase, clutching a half-dusted candlestick like it might offer answers. The camera crew had been trailing you again, but for once, you didn’t have the energy to wave them away.
You glanced up at them, trying to smile. It didn’t quite reach your eyes.
“I think… maybe I imagined it,” you said quietly. “The way he started warming up to me. The small things. I thought he was starting to see me.”
You looked down, fidgeting with the fraying hem of your shirt.
“But I guess I was wrong. I mean—he’s a centuries-old vampire. I’m just a familiar. I’m not even good at it. Guillermo is the one who actually knows what he’s doing.”
You paused, then gave a small, sad laugh.
“He probably realized getting close was a bad idea. I mean… who would want to risk caring about someone who’ll just grow old and die?”
There was a silence, then the camera caught the softest tremble in your voice.
“I just wish he’d gone back to ignoring me without being so cold. ”
From somewhere deep in the house, a door creaked open.
Unseen by you, Nandor stood in the hallway shadows. He’d heard every word.
And his expression—normally so unreadable—cracked just slightly. Something like guilt. Something like longing. Something like a centuries-old vampire realizing he might’ve just hurt the only person who made his undead heart feel alive again.
You stopped trying.
The next evening, when you passed Nandor in the corridor, you didn’t greet him. You kept your eyes on the floor, your hands full of folded dresses, and walked by like he was just another ancient portrait on the wall.
He paused as you passed, something unreadable flashing in his eyes, but said nothing. Neither did you.
It became a pattern. You smiled less, laughed even less than that. You still did your chores—dusting crypts, bleaching suspicious stains, trimming the Venus flytraps in Laszlo’s greenhouse of horrors—but with a quiet efficiency now. You kept your head down. Kept your distance.
Even Guillermo noticed.
“You okay?” he asked one night as you were scrubbing ancient blood off a chandelier. “You’ve been… different.”
You shrugged, not looking at him. “Just tired.”
But tired wasn’t the word for it. You were protecting yourself. From hope. From confusion. From whatever it was you thought had sparked between you and Nandor.
Because the truth was—when he’d started showing interest, when he’d given you that dusty pomegranate, when he’d stared at you like you were the first sunrise he’d seen in centuries—you’d let yourself believe it meant something.
And maybe it had. For a moment.
But now? Now he barely acknowledged your existence.
So you shut it down. You stopped lingering. You stopped laughing at his awkward jokes. You stopped offering to help. You stopped waiting for him to show up in a swirl of cloak with some strange excuse just to be near you.
And for the first time since your arrival the house felt a little colder.
A little emptier.
Especially when you caught Nandor watching you from the shadows—expression tight, like he didn’t know how to fix what he’d broken.
You were organizing a cursed record collection in the music room when Nadja strolled in, sipping from a goblet that definitely didn’t contain wine.
“Ugh,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “You’re doing that mopey thing again.”
You blinked up at her from your crouched position. “Mopey?”
“Yes, mopey. All…” She made vague clawing motions at her face. “Sad-eyed and broody like one of those pathetic Victorian governesses wandering the cliffs after being jilted by a duke.”
“I liked it better when you were all smiles and sunshine and slightly traumatized , darling,” Laszlo added, appearing behind her and adjusting his cravat. “You were chirping around like a little bird, bringing in laundry, humming like a fool. It was nice. Less dreary.”
You gave a small, polite smile and turned back to the records. “Sorry. I’ll try to be more cheerful.”
“Oh, don’t try , love,” Nadja said, plopping herself dramatically onto a velvet chaise. “Just tell us what’s bothering you so we can get bored and stop listening.”
Laszlo nodded seriously. “Exactly.”
You paused, fingers tightening slightly on an album sleeve marked Don’t Play This If You Value Your Organs . Then: “It’s nothing, really.”
Nadja narrowed her eyes. “Is it about the Baron trying to devour you? You’re not still upset about that, are you?”
“Because that’s just how he says ‘hello,’” Laszlo added.
You let out a short laugh despite yourself. “No, it’s not that. I’m fine. Really.”
They exchanged a look.
“You’re not going to cry, are you?” Nadja asked, sounding vaguely alarmed.
“No,” you said quickly, standing up and brushing off your skirt. “I think I just… need to focus on my work. That’s all.”
But as you turned to leave the room, Laszlo called after you.
“For what it’s worth, we preferred you happy,” he said. “The house feels weird without your strange little giggles.”
Nadja sipped her drink and muttered, “Even Colin said your emotional withdrawal was less nourishing . Which was almost touching, in his creepy little way.”
You paused at the door. And though you didn’t turn back, your voice was quiet.
“I liked being happy here, too.”
Then you walked away, leaving two ancient vampires blinking in mild discomfort at the unfamiliar sensation of giving a shit.
* * * *
Guillermo was halfway through ironing one of Nandor’s capes when he felt two cold presences suddenly loom behind him.
He sighed. “Do I have to turn around or can we just do this like ghosts?”
Nadja snorted. “Very funny, Guillermo. We need information.”
“Vital, emotional information,” Laszlo added, gesturing with a cigar he hadn’t lit in three decades.
Guillermo finally turned, eyebrows raised. “Okay. About what?”
“Our familiar,” Nadja said, flopping dramatically onto a fainting couch that hadn't been used in at least 70 years. “She’s all gloomy now. Like a little tragic Dickensian orphan. It’s messing with the house vibes .” She paused. “She barely even flinches when my creepy doll speaks anymore,” Nadja continued. “It’s unsettling.”
Laszlo nodded gravely. “And she no longer hums when she dusts. I liked the humming. It reminded me of a milkmaid I once seduced during a plague outbreak.”
Guillermo blinked. “You’re… concerned about her?”
They both looked mildly offended.
“Well, we’re not monsters, ” Nadja huffed. “Well. Technically yes, but emotionally speaking, we’ve evolved. Somewhat.”
“So?” Laszlo prompted. “Why the long face on our chipper little servant?”
Guillermo sighed, folding the cape. “Honestly? I think it has something to do with Nandor.”
Nadja groaned. “Of course it does.”
Laszlo tilted his head. “That old hemoglobin hound again. What did he do?”
“It’s not so much what he did,” Guillermo said carefully. “It’s what he didn’t do. He started to show some interest in her—awkwardly, sure—but… I think she liked him. And then he just stopped. Cold.”
The couple exchanged a look.
Guillermo squinted. “What?”
Nadja’s mouth twitched. “Nothing. Just… we may have told him that dating a human was idiotic.”
“Foolhardy,” Laszlo added helpfully. “Like tongue-kissing a basilisk.”
“ And we may have implied she’d break his shriveled little heart,” Nadja continued.
“Or get herself eaten,” Laszlo offered. “Which, in fairness, is always on the table.”
There was a beat of silence.
Nadja sighed, dramatically massaging her temples. “Shit. We made him pull away, didn’t we?”
Laszlo blinked. “Bugger. We did. ”
Guillermo crossed his arms, unimpressed. “Yeah, I’m sure convincing a 760-year-old vampire he’s unlovable definitely helped.”
“We were trying to protect him!” Nadja protested.
“From what?” Guillermo snapped. “A woman who accepts his rotten pomegranates and blushes when he walks into furniture?”
Laszlo groaned. “We are the worst cupids since that time I gave an incubus dating advice.”
Nadja stood up abruptly. “Right. We’re fixing this.”
“Are we?” Laszlo asked, clearly intrigued.
“Yes. We’re going to put them back on their deranged little path toward romance. Even if we have to trap them in the oubliette with only a candle and a bottle of champagne.”
Guillermo muttered, “Just don’t make it worse.”
“No promises!” Nadja called as she swept out of the room.
Laszlo chuckled. “Oh, I do love meddling in young love. Especially when there’s a high chance of fire.”
* * * *
You hadn’t meant to end up in the drawing room.
You were just trying to collect a broken teacup Nadja had requested (the one she'd flung at Colin Robinson yesterday for saying her accent was “historically inaccurate”). But as soon as you stepped through the arched doorway, the heavy doors slammed shut behind you with a thunderous CLANG .
You jumped and spun around just as someone else startled in the room.
Nandor.
He blinked. You blinked. A beat passed. Then another.
“What are—?”
“Why are—?”
You both spoke at the same time, then fell into an awkward silence.
On the other side of the door, Nadja’s shrill voice rang out gleefully, “WONDERFUL! YOU’RE BOTH TRAPPED!”
“What?” you cried, immediately reaching for the handle. It didn’t budge.
Nandor stepped forward, scowling at the door. “Nadja. Open this. I swear on John’s name, I will unleash terrible things—”
“Shut up, Nandor,” she cut him off. “You two will stay in there until you kiss !”
“Kiss?!” you squeaked, heat rushing to your cheeks.
“Not just any kiss!” Laszlo’s voice added cheerfully. “A full, romantic, possibly-with-tongue kind of kiss. None of this cheek-peck nonsense!”
You smacked your forehead against the door in disbelief. “Are you serious ?!”
Nadja giggled like a banshee. “Deadly serious! You’ve both been moping like cursed lovers in a cheap Victorian novella. It’s tragic. Frankly, I’m embarrassed for both of you.”
“You’re insane,” Nandor muttered.
“You’re welcome, ” Nadja sang.
“WE ARE NOT DOING THIS!” Nandor shouted. “LET US OUT!”
There was a pause. Then Colin Robinson’s bored voice floated through the door: “Yeah, that’s not going to work. Nadja dead-bolted it and shoved a bookshelf in front.”
“And I’m sitting on the bookshelf!” Nadja called proudly. “I brought snacks!”
Inside the room, silence stretched. You turned slowly to Nandor, who was now pacing like a very tall, very irritated bat in man form.
“I can’t believe this,” you murmured. “I was just trying to fetch a damn teacup.”
Nandor stopped pacing. His eyes flicked toward you, then quickly away.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “That you got trapped in this stupid… love ambush.”
You chuckled softly, despite everything. “It’s not your fault.”
Another pause.
He looked back at you, face softening slightly. “They think I am in love with you.”
Your breath caught.
You tried to keep your voice casual. “...Are you?”
He didn’t answer. Just stared ahead, still as a statue.
Your heart fluttered painfully in your chest.
Nandor finally moved, sinking into a nearby sofa with a loud sigh.
After a moment, you crossed the room and hesitated, then carefully sat beside him. Not close. But not far either.
Neither of you said anything. The silence stretched until it started to ache.
Finally, you cleared your throat. “Okay. Fine. I have stuff to do. Laundry. Bat droppings. Whatever. So let’s just get it over with.”
His eyes flicked to you, confused.
You rolled yours. “Let’s kiss. Then they’ll let us out. That’s the deal, right?”
He looked unsure. “You are certain?”
“No,” you muttered. “But Nadja’s not going to let us out until we do. So. Yeah.”
You turned toward him slowly, heart pounding in your ears. His eyes never left your face.
You hesitated. Then leaned in. Gently.
You closed your eyes and pressed your lips to his.
He stiffened—like someone struck by lightning mid-thought. It wasn’t a bad kiss, just... motionless. Tense. Like kissing a very handsome, very confused statue.
You pulled back after a second or two, trying to ignore the heat crawling up your neck.
“There,” you said, backing away. “It’s done,” you yelled towards the door. “You can let us out now.”
Before you could get up, his hand caught yours.
You froze.
With one hand, he cupped your cheek and drew you toward him—firmly, urgently.
And then he kissed you again.
Not the stiff, awkward kind. This one was warm. Intense. Unapologetic. The kind that makes your breath catch and your knees wobble.
His other hand cupped your other cheek like he couldn’t bear to let you go. You barely had time to gasp before you melted into it, heart hammering, mind spinning.
When he finally pulled back, he was breathless, lips slightly parted, eyes fixed on yours like you were something sacred.
“I did not like that first kiss,” he murmured. “It was very… procedural. I wished to replace it.”
Your mouth opened. No words came out.
On the other side of the door, Nadja let out a muffled squeal. “FINALLY.”
Still cupping your face, Nandor leaned in once more, forehead resting gently against yours. “They may have locked us in, but I’m not ready to be let out just yet.”
The silence after was thick and soft, like snowfall in the middle of the night. Outside the door, the others had gone suspiciously quiet, but neither of you moved to test if they’d truly left.
You were still close—his hands cupping your face, your hands resting gently against the front of his tunic. You could feel the steady strength of him beneath the fabric, and hear the barely-there hitch in his breath.
Your eyes met. His were darker than usual, thoughtful, and almost... scared?
“You okay?” you asked softly.
Nandor blinked, like your voice had reached a part of him no one else had in centuries. “Yes,” he said. Then, quieter, “No. I do not know.”
You tilted your head slightly. “What do you mean?”
He let go of you slowly—reluctantly—and sat back down on the couch, his hands clasped between his knees. You followed, settling beside him with a little space between you this time, not wanting to push.
“I have lived a long, long time,” he said. “Hundreds of years. I have had wives. Lovers. Concubines. People who flung themselves at my feet in terror and devotion.” He paused. “But this... this thing with you... it is...”
He made a gesture with both hands, like pulling something from his chest that he didn’t know how to name. “It is new. And I do not know what to do with it.”
You felt your heartbeat flutter again—light, nervous, warm.
“Nandor…” you began.
“I mocked you,” he continued, staring at the fireplace. “I ignored you. Called you wrong names. Made you feel unworthy.”
You hesitated, then said, “Yeah. You did.”
He winced slightly.
“But,” you added, softer now, “you also tried. In your own... very weird way. You gave me a moldy fruit, watched me sweep for two hours, and slammed into a suit of armor trying to avoid my smile.”
He made a face. “That was a stealth maneuver.”
You smiled faintly. “Uh-huh.”
There was a pause.
“I’m not asking you to know exactly what to do,” you said, voice quieter. “I don’t even really know what this is yet. But… if you want to figure it out together—” your hand inched across the couch, gently brushing his “—I’m not going anywhere.”
Nandor’s eyes dropped to your fingers. He slowly turned his palm up to meet yours.
Your fingers laced together.
He looked at your joined hands like he couldn’t believe the sight was real. Then he looked at you again, eyes wide with something startlingly honest.
“I have conquered kingdoms,” he whispered. “But this? Holding your hand? It feels more terrifying than any battle I have fought.”
You squeezed his fingers lightly. “Well... good news. You don’t have to fight this one alone.”
His breath hitched.
He leaned in, just a little—not enough to kiss you again, but enough to rest his forehead against yours, his voice nothing but a hushed promise.
“I will try to be worthy of you.”
Nandor hadn’t moved. His forehead still rested against yours, your hands still clasped gently between you. The warmth of the moment lingered like a whisper on your skin.
Your eyes fluttered shut again as his nose brushed yours. His breath was slow—controlled, as if he were afraid of shattering whatever delicate thing had bloomed between you.
Then, finally, he kissed you.
This time, there was no surprise. No confusion. Just the soft, deliberate press of his mouth to yours, reverent and slow, like he was memorizing the way you tasted.
Your hand slid up to rest against his chest, where his heart didn’t beat, and yet somehow you could feel it racing. He deepened the kiss just slightly, one hand rising to your cheek, thumb stroking softly along your jaw. The other trailed to your waist, then lower, fingertips skimming the curve of your hip, your thigh…
You melted into it—into him —every slow touch sending ripples through you, the kiss unraveling your thoughts like thread. When his hand dipped under your skirt, skimming the bare skin of your thigh, your breath hitched sharply against his mouth.
Your mind went blank. Then a flicker of panic set in.
What am I doing? What is he doing? Oh God—
You pulled back.
“Wait—” you said, gently but firmly, placing your hand over his. “I—I should get back to work. The... the house doesn’t dust itself, right?” You let out a short, nervous laugh, heart pounding in your ears.
Nandor blinked, dazed. “Oh. Yes. Of course.” He withdrew his hand instantly, sitting back like he’d just been startled out of a trance. “I—I did not mean to—”
“No, no, it’s okay,” you cut in quickly, your voice breathless but kind. “Really. It’s just—this is all a little new to me. And maybe also a little overwhelming.”
He nodded solemnly, eyes searching yours for any trace of resentment. But you smiled, leaning in to press one last, tender kiss to the corner of his mouth.
“I’ll see you later,” you whispered.
And then you slipped out the door, your heart rattling like a bird trapped in your chest, your mind an absolute wreck .
Behind you, Nandor stayed seated in silence. He touched his lips, blinking slowly.
Then sighed. “I am so doomed.”