Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

High atop a craggy hill, the ancient Lecter castle loomed against the backdrop of a stormy sky, the dark stone walls weathered by centuries of wind and rain. Towering spires pierced the clouds, their pointed tips silhouetted like the fangs of a beast ready to strike. Ivy clung tenaciously to the castle’s façade, wrapping around the stones in a lover’s embrace, while gargoyles perched on the ledges, their expressions frozen in eternal vigilance. The air was thick with an unsettling stillness, broken only by the distant rumble of thunder, which seemed to echo the castle's long-forgotten secrets.

Inside, the grand hall stretched wide, its high ceilings adorned with intricate woodwork and faded tapestries depicting long-lost battles. A massive chandelier, encrusted with dust and cobwebs, hung precariously above a long banquet table, where chairs sat in somber silence, waiting for the laughter of a bygone era. Shadows danced along the stone walls, flickering in the dim light of a few stubborn candles, casting eerie shapes that seemed to whisper the tales of those who had once roamed its halls. Every corner of the castle exuded an air of melancholy, as if it mourned the passage of time and the loss of its former glory.

The lower levels of the castle held a more sinister air, with winding staircases that led down into darkness. Here, the damp smell of earth mingled with the faint metallic scent of rusting iron. Cells lined the stone corridors, their heavy doors long since abandoned but still echoing the cries of the prisoners who had once been confined within. At the very heart of this labyrinthine structure lay a hidden chamber, its secrets buried beneath layers of dust and cobwebs, where legends whispered of ancient rituals and the dark legacy of its master—a vampire whose thirst for power had sealed the castle's fate in shadows.

In the heart of the ancient walls, the grand library stood as a bastion of knowledge, its towering shelves stretching endlessly toward a vaulted ceiling adorned with intricate frescoes. Each shelf brimmed with books of all sizes and colors, their spines worn and faded, whispering stories of ages past. The air inside was thick with the scent of aged paper and ink, a comforting aroma that enveloped visitors like a warm embrace. Sunlight streamed through stained glass windows, casting vibrant patterns on the polished wooden floor, illuminating the dust motes that danced in the air like tiny spirits of wisdom.

Rows of leather-bound tomes lay open on heavy oak tables, their pages yellowed with time, inviting the curious to explore the depths of their contents. Scholars and wanderers alike drifted through the aisles, their footsteps muffled by thick carpets that seemed to absorb sound. The library felt alive, each corner echoing with the soft rustle of turning pages and the hushed murmurs of those engaged in fervent discussion. The musty scent of old books mingled with the faint trace of burning candles, creating an atmosphere that was both tranquil and electric, as if the very air thrummed with the weight of untold knowledge.

At the far end of the library, a spiral staircase spiraled upward into darkness, leading to a hidden gallery rumored to contain volumes of forgotten lore and mystical secrets. The deeper one ventured, the more potent the scent of leather and parchment became, intertwining with a hint of something sweet and intoxicating. Here, amidst the dim light and shadow, time seemed to stand still, inviting seekers to lose themselves in the labyrinth of thought. This was a place where the past and future converged, where every whispered word and every penned thought contributed to an eternal tapestry of understanding, a sanctuary for those daring enough to seek its treasures.

Count Hannibal Lecter sat hunched over the massive map that spanned half the breadth of his stone-carved table, the parchment faded and inked with centuries of careful hands. His long, silken hair fell like a curtain over his pale face, catching the flicker of candlelight with an otherworldly sheen. The map detailed every mile of his ancestral lands, from the dense, pine-choked forests to the worn cobblestone paths of the local village nestled against the hills. His fingers, long and cold, traced the borders of fields that had yielded golden wheat for generations, a harvest that never seemed to fail, even when the world beyond his domain rotted under pestilence and blight.

The villagers, numbering scarcely more than a thousand, rarely caught sight of the Count. Some believed they had glimpsed him at twilight, walking the parapets of Lecter Castle with the solemn grace of a ghost, others doubted he existed at all, a legend in velvet and shadow. Yet none could deny the uncanny fortune that blessed their village. While neighboring townships fell to famine and plagued births, the village beneath the Lecter crest thrived—its children born strong, its wells clean, its livestock fat. In the bitter winters, when snow devoured the roads and the sun abandoned the sky, carts laden with salted meat and dry grain appeared at the village square, unmarked, the drivers silent and hooded.

However; not all was peace. Each year, as predictably as the thaw of spring, a single young man of twenty summers vanished without a trace. There was no struggle, no sign of violence, no cry in the night. The chosen simply disappeared, and after the first few days of whispers, the village returned to life as if they had never existed. It was said that the Count required servants, knights, scribes to tend his vast estate. It was said these men found a life of honor within the stone walls, trading their freedom for legacy. In time, even the mothers of the lost stopped asking questions, numbed by the strange rhythm of a tradition too old to challenge.

The truth, however, was darker than any would dare to imagine. Count Lecter was no noble recluse but a vampire of ancient and terrible power, his bloodline untouched by age, his hunger veiled by generations of practiced benevolence. The chosen were not servants but sustenance, selected for strength, for purity, for the very essence that made them human. Within the cold grandeur of Lecter Castle, behind its iron-banded doors and velvet-draped halls, the Count fed—not with malice, but with the cold necessity of a predator that had learned to wear mercy like a cloak. This was the order he kept, the pact unspoken, and in return, his village would never know true suffering.

Lecter preferred the young men over young women, unlike most of his kind. The men were less likely to believe it as some kind of romantic gesture, he was also protected from being considered a man with a sexual appetite - which pleased his bride, Bedelia. She was prone to jealous fits of rage, not ever trusting that Hannibal wouldn’t betray her in such a way. As the decades dragged on her anxiety never diminished, fearing that he would become bored of her, and replace her.

The candlelight trembled as the great hall’s doors creaked open, and Chiyoh drifted inside like a wraith cloaked in silk and shadow. Her eyes, dark and shining, narrowed on Hannibal’s hunched form over the map. She said nothing at first, only watched him with that cold patience she had cultivated over centuries. Then, with a voice like velvet laced with broken glass, she broke the silence.

“Your last meal ran dry,” she said, feigning boredom. “Quite a mess, really. You should consider rationing better. At this rate, you’ll be nothing but dust in three days.” She leaned against a column, inspecting her nails. “I’m hungry, Hannibal. Tired of sipping from your scraps. When do I get my own pet? Or is that privilege still reserved for royalty like you?”

Hannibal’s hand stilled over the parchment. He did not look at her immediately, but when he did, his eyes gleamed crimson in the flickering candlelight. Rising slowly, he loomed over the table, his height commanding, his presence even more so. “Ungrateful child,” he said softly, dangerously. “You forget too easily. I plucked you from a puddle of blood and disgrace. You would have died on the floor of an emperor’s bedroom, nameless and broken. I made you eternal.”

Chiyoh’s chin lifted, defiant. “I was turned at eighteen, Hannibal. I’ve lived through empires and extinctions. I am no child. And you are not my father.”
In a blink, he was before her, hand on her throat—not to crush, but to still. He pressed her against the cold stone wall, his breath a whisper against her ear, ancient and ice-cold. “You test me,” he murmured. “But I hold the knowledge, the rites, the bloodlines. I could unmake you with a thought, leave you scattered like ash across the floor of this castle. Do not mistake indulgence for weakness.”

She did not speak. Her body was still, but her eyes blazed, lips parted slightly with breath she did not need. A long moment stretched between them, full of centuries of power, resentment, and something unspoken.

“You will feed,” he said coldly. “But when I allow it. Until then, be patient. Or be nothing. You can always run back to Murasaki.” Then, slowly, Hannibal released her and stepped back, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve as though nothing had happened, he turned back to the map “He lasted almost a year, that is impressive, I have been working on formulas to increase blood production.”

“And it worked.” Chiyoh remarked “Until it didn’t. You’ll have to choose your next victim, and soon, or we will all starve.”

Chapter Text

The scent of roses, iron, and lavender clung to the thick air of the marble bath chamber. Steam drifted lazily toward the vaulted ceiling as Bedelia Du Maurier reclined in the great clawfoot tub, the water tinted a deep, languid red. The surface shimmered faintly in the candlelight, crimson swirling around the curve of her collarbone like diluted wine. Her eyes were half-lidded in blissful stillness, head resting against a velvet pillow, the gold of her hair piled messily atop her crown.

Hannibal entered without knocking, the soft click of his shoes echoing against the tiles. He said nothing at first—merely picked up the silver-handled brush from the vanity and stepped behind her. With measured strokes, he began brushing her hair, letting it tumble smooth and gleaming down her back. After a few moments, his voice broke the silence—calm, with that quiet edge of reprimand.

“You used the last of the blood,” he said, not unkindly. “I was saving it.”

Bedelia opened one eye and smiled languidly. “It makes my skin feel more youthful. Radiant.” She let out a sigh of mock indulgence. “You wouldn’t understand, dear—you haven’t worried about skin in centuries.”

Hannibal chuckled softly, the sound rich and amused. “You haven’t aged a day since I turned you. You're practically etched in marble.” He paused, setting the brush down, his fingertips trailing lightly down the nape of her neck.

“We never have any fun anymore,” Bedelia murmured, her voice wistful. “Do you remember the old nights? When we’d dance barefoot in the streets, dripping in lace and blood, choosing who we wanted and taking them without thought?” She turned slightly in the tub, watching him over her shoulder. “Before you got all responsible on me. Before you took your uncle’s title after the villagers tore his head off and burned the rest.”

“That was necessary,” Hannibal said coolly, walking to the window and drawing back the heavy drapes an inch to glance at the dusky horizon. “His recklessness endangered all of us. We survived because I learned discretion.”

“Yes, yes. And now we sit in this mausoleum of a castle, sipping rationed blood like monks in a cloister.” She leaned back again, eyes closing in frustration. “I want a ball. A party. Something decadent. I want to hear music in the ballroom again, see gowns swirl and veins pulse. I want to feel something.”

Hannibal tutted, returning to her side. “A party would mean letting humans in and out of the castle, and you know that’s—”

“I didn’t say humans,” she interrupted, arching a perfect brow. “We could still have some sense of fun. But fine—invite our own. The Blooms. The Vergers. Even that insufferable Chilton. I’ll take the scraps of society, if I must.”

Hannibal knelt beside the tub, brushing a strand of damp hair from her cheek. “You long to remember what it felt like to be alive,” he said softly.

“It’s been hundreds of years, Hannibal,” Bedelia whispered. “I don’t remember what it feels like to breathe. I go through the motions, pretending it matters, but the reality is, it is a mockery of life.”

He kissed her then—cold lips against colder skin—delicate, mournful. “It isn’t possible, my love. Not anymore. We are of the dead, and only the dead can keep our company.” He pressed his forehead to hers. “But I’ll give you your ball.”

Bedelia’s smile returned, faint and sad. “Then dress me in gold and pour the wine. I’ll pretend it’s enough.”

“Don’t be like that.” Hannibal cupped her face “It pains me to see you so anguished, my love. Such a shame you are the last Du Mauier or I would invite your family.”

“They all died of plague, there was no use trying to turn them, I am the one and only.” Bedelia sat up, her wet, blonde hair tinged red as it dripped over her breasts.

“We cannot dwell on the dead. We at least have each other.” He offered her a hand and helped her from the bath, reaching for a velvet cloth to wrap around her “And when would you like this ball, this party?”

“When is the next full moon? If we cannot enjoy daylight, we should at least be able to enjoy the brightest night… we will need sufficient feeds available too, Hannibal.” Bedelia looked up at him, menace behind her pale eyes.

“Chiyoh and I will have to hunt a few towns over, we don’t want to raise suspicion.” Hannibal sighed.

“I am sure the Blooms and Vergers are at least capable of bringing a gift, a heartbeat as an entry card?” Bedelia suggested, beckoning him to the bedroom.

“That could be extremely risky.” He followed eagerly.

“What’s undead life without a little risk?”

~

Will Graham moved like a shadow through the crooked alleys and sun-bleached barns of the village, his mutt Winston trotting loyally at his heels. The dog was a mangy, wiry-haired creature with a bite that snapped like a trap and eyes nearly as sharp as his master’s. Together, they made short work of the rat infestations that plagued the thatched cottages and granaries. Will had trained Winston with quiet precision—one bark to alert, one low growl to stalk, and then the swift, practiced lunge that ended with the crunch of tiny bones. The villagers paid well enough for the service, muttering blessings and slipping coins into Will’s gloved hand, grateful to sleep without the sound of scratching beneath their floorboards.

Jack Crawford, head of the local constabulary, stood outside the squat brick police station watching Will work one morning, arms crossed, boots scuffed from patrol. “Will,” he called out, waving a thick hand. “Let me buy the damn dog.”

Will didn’t look up from where he was crouched, brushing a bloodied rat from Winston’s jaws. “Not for sale,” he said flatly. “He’s for hire.”

“Come on,” Jack groaned. “The cells are crawling with the damn things. Filthy bastards. They’re chewing through the cots, getting into the food stores. I can’t keep ‘em out.”

“Maybe if you didn’t shove half the great unwashed into those cells every week, you wouldn’t have a rat problem,” Will said, finally glancing up. His expression was unreadable, somewhere between amusement and disdain.

Jack scoffed, throwing up his hands. “And what, bathe every drunk and thief before I arrest ‘em? Be serious.”

Will shrugged, noncommittal. He wiped his hands on a rag and stepped into the station, Winston following close. His eyes were drawn to the cluttered desk at the back of the room, where a series of charcoal portraits sat pinned in a loose collage—young men, all around the same age, clean-faced, strong-jawed. Will nodded toward them.

“Aren’t those the annual takings? By the Count?”

Jack followed his gaze. “Yeah,” he said, scratching his chin. “Funny thing is, they’re never seen again. My guess? Count trains them up, sells them off to other wealthy families. Something like indentured service. Makes a tidy sum, probably.”

Will gave him a look. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Jack bristled. “Oh, really?”

Will nodded. “My family’s lived on the edge of town for three generations. That castle? I’ve never seen a single carriage come or go in daylight. Not once. Except...” He paused, brow furrowing. “Except the occasional visitor. Very ornate, horse-drawn. Always in the dead of night. Leaves the same way—after sundown. Never during the day.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “Doesn’t that prove my point?”

“No weight change to the carriage,” Will said simply. “Same number of bodies going out as came in. No room for extra passengers.”

Jack blinked. “How the hell would you even know that?”

“I’m observant,” Will said, brushing lint from his coat sleeve. “I don’t sleep very well, and the path crosses right by my bedroom window.” He turned toward the portraits again, expression shadowed. “They’re dead, Jack. All of them. And you’re never gonna find their bodies. There’s something strange up there in that castle. Creepy. Maybe even... supernatural.”

Jack snorted, half to cover a shiver. “You’re not serious.”

Will didn’t answer. He just looked out the cracked window, up toward the distant silhouette of Lecter Castle looming against the horizon, its spires sharp as teeth in the dying light.

“No bodies mean no murders, no deaths Will, it’s extremely likely there’s a back entry, some other way in and own that the count does business by. You can’t assume just because you haven’t seen it, doesn’t mean that it isn’t happening.” Jack crossed his arm.

“Have you ever been inside?” Will looked at him curiously.

“Inside Lecter Castle? No.”

“Have you ever seen the count on the outside?”

Jack opened his mouth and then closed it again “All I know is that every year, someone in the village gets a letter, and that someone is invited to the castle and is never seen again.”

“And you don’t think that’s… weird, and/or incredibly suspicious?”

“Look around Will… we are free of disease, of famine, apart from the damn rats this place is practically paradise, I have cousins who work in other police houses, just a few miles over, they’re really struggling.”

“So, you think that for some reason the men going missing and us having the right amount of food are linked, but you don’t think there’s anything supernatural going on, so what is it then, you think Count Lecter is in good stead with God? You know that this village killed the one before him for supposed witchcraft, maybe they were right, or at least had some foundation of truth?” Will chuckled.

“You’re telling me you believe in supernatural forces, but not God. That’s appalling, Will.”

Will could feel a lecture coming on, but it was interrupted by the crunch of Winston’s successful sweep on the police house. Will smiled and outstretched his hand to Jack coyly.

"You're about the right age to get a letter, Will, maybe you'll be the one to find out." Jack begrudgingly paid him "And if you do find out, tell the Count we need to do something about these filthy rats."

Chapter Text

The carriage creaked to a stop in front of the old stone cottage that had long sat vacant across the road from Will Graham’s house. Its shutters hung crooked, and the roof needed patching, but it was sturdy and dry—perfect for someone like Beverly Katz. She stepped down, adjusting the strap of her medical satchel over one shoulder, and immediately took stock of her surroundings with sharp, practiced eyes. Her boots crunched over the gravel as she approached the door, just as Jack Crawford came trudging up the path behind her.

“Dr. Katz?” he asked, blinking in confusion.

Beverly turned, offering a hand and an arched brow. “That’s right. Beverly Katz. You were expecting someone taller?”

Jack chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Honestly, I thought Katz was a man.”

Beverly smirked. “I get that a lot. You’ll live.” She let the moment hang, then gave him a crooked grin, and they both laughed.

Once inside, she set her satchel on the table and walked to the window. Across the road, a man in a wool coat knelt beside a scrappy dog, holding up what looked like a rat by the tail before tossing it into a sack. The dog—alert, lean—sat watching him with adoration.

“And who’s that?” she asked, nodding through the window.

Jack joined her. “Will Graham. Village odd-job man. Pest control, mostly. Vermin remover. Lives alone, keeps to himself. Handy enough if you don’t mind the quiet types.”

Beverly watched the man a moment longer. “I’ve been in a lot of villages dealing with ‘pests’ lately,” she said casually. “Though the ones I deal with have fangs, claws, or fur under the right moon.”

Jack scoffed. “You’re one of those, huh? You’ll get along with Will then. He’s got a whole notebook full of conspiracy theories. Thinks the Count’s some kind of cryptid.”

“Not just him,” Beverly said, turning away from the window. “I’ve heard the same stories. A castle—long, dark history. An absent Count or Countess. And a disturbing pattern of disappearances. Usually young women, between eighteen and twenty-one. But this place…” She pointed toward the desk Jack had dropped his coat on, where a few files sat open. “This village is different.”

Jack frowned. “What do you mean?”

“No girls,” she said. “Every single person who’s vanished here has been a young man. Always the same age range. Always announced like it’s some honor. And then—nothing. No bodies, no graves, no sightings. It’s like they never existed. And the village just… goes on. Content. Peaceful.”

Jack rubbed his beard thoughtfully. “I guess I never really looked at it like that.”

“You should,” Beverly said, her tone sharpening. “Because the places that refuse? The villages that try to resist these feudal traditions? Within five to ten years, they’re wiped out. Plagues. Stillbirths. Strange illnesses. It doesn’t matter if they’re a mile or ten from a thriving village—it’s like someone curses them.”

Jack leaned against the table, arms folded. “You think it’s connected?”

“I know it is,” she said. “Look at the villages run by the Blooms, the Vergers—though that place flips between terrifying and tolerable—and even the Chiltons. They’re thriving. Economically. Medically. And all they have to do is look away when a girl—or boy—goes missing.”

He whistled low. “That’s dark.”

Beverly smiled thinly. “Dark is my specialty.” Then she tapped one of the files. “But this village… this one’s unique. It takes men. That’s an anomaly. And anomalies are worth my time. At least… around practice hours.”

Jack gave a short laugh, half impressed, half concerned. “You sure you’re not just looking for trouble?”

Beverly turned back to the window, her eyes locking once more on Will and Winston as they made their way home. “Trouble has a way of finding me anyway,” she murmured. “Might as well invite it in for tea.”

Jack leaned against the doorframe with a familiar grunt, eyes drifting toward the open window and the fading light outside. “I should warn you,” he said, glancing back at Beverly, “some of the villagers might be a little... hesitant. About a woman doctor.”

Beverly didn’t miss the subtle limp as he shifted his weight from one leg to the other, the stiffness in his knee giving him away. She narrowed her eyes and folded her arms, cocking her head with a smirk. “They’ll get used to it,” she replied, then asked, “Who runs the apothecary here anyway?”

“Zeller and Price,” Jack answered, moving to lean against the table again. “They double as the village morticians. Handle the supplies, herbal remedies, and the funeral rites. Odd pair, but good at what they do.”

Beverly nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll need to establish a relationship with them. Start the usual exchange of knowledge.”

Jack chuckled, the warmth returning to his voice. “You know what? I think they’ll like you. They’ve got sharp minds, and their words carry weight around here. If they approve of you, the rest will follow.”

That drew a bright grin from Beverly. “Well, then I look forward to winning them over. My door is always open.” She paused, then added, “And currently is. So why don’t you stop hobbling and let me see that leg of yours?”

Jack waved her off with a gruff scoff. “It’s nothing. I’ve had worse.”

Beverly walked over, not giving him the option to refuse, her tone shifting to something firm. “You’re in pain, Jack. Sit down before I sedate you myself.”

Grumbling under his breath, Jack dropped onto a worn armchair. Beverly knelt beside him, rolling up his trouser leg to reveal a jagged, inflamed wound just below the knee. Her expression tightened.

“What caused this?” she asked, already reaching for her case.

“Human,” Jack said with a grimace. “One of the prisoners. Bit me during an arrest last week.”

Beverly’s eyes narrowed. “That’s worse than a dog bite. You know how much filth is in a human mouth? You’re lucky it hasn’t turned septic already.”

She stood and crossed the room to her case, retrieving a small glass vial filled with a dark amber liquid. “Here,” she said, handing it to him. “Twice a day. Just a mouthful. And sit still—I’m cleaning and wrapping this properly.”

As she moved to a cupboard to gather supplies, she tugged open the wooden door—only for it to creak once and fall completely off the hinges, crashing to the floor.

Jack stared at the broken cupboard, then looked back at her.

“Send Will Graham over on your way out, will you?” Beverly said without missing a beat, picking up gauze and antiseptic from the mess with practiced ease.

Jack laughed, shaking his head as he took the tonic. “Welcome to the village, Dr. Katz.”

Chapter Text

The knock on the door was light, almost polite, followed by the scuffle of nails on the threshold. Beverly opened it to find Will Graham standing there with a worn leather toolbox in one hand, Winston, his ever-loyal mutt, at his side. The dog’s ears perked up, tail wagging slowly as he looked up at her.

“You called?” Will asked, his voice low and even, eyes already drifting past her shoulder to the dislodged cupboard door resting against the wall.

"Come in, handyman," Bev said with a crooked smile, stepping aside. She leaned down and gave Winston an affectionate pat between the ears. “You’re a cute dog. A little scruffy, but I like that.”

“He’s good at what he does,” Will replied, brushing a bit of sawdust from his coat as he stepped inside.

“I might have ongoing work for you,” Bev said, gesturing around the modest interior. “The roof’s patchy, that cupboard’s suicidal, and I’m sure the floorboards are plotting against me.”

Will nodded once. “I’m pretty cheap.”

“Good. Tea?”

He gave her a shrug that read as agreement, setting down his toolbox beside the broken cabinet. Bev busied herself at the stove, filling the silence with the low clinking of porcelain and the scent of steeping herbs.

“So,” she began casually as she handed him a fancy tea-cup, “what’s the deal with the Lecters?”

Will paused mid-sip and smirked faintly. “Testing the waters? Or testing my sanity?”

Bev chuckled. “Neither. I already know you’re sane, and the waters have been tested enough. I told Jack something I’ll tell you: I’ve seen villages like this. Peaceful on the surface, but strange. Always one thing in common—a ruling family. They stay hidden. Reclusive. And then someone disappears.”

Will’s expression changed—less guarded, more intrigued. “You think it’s more than tradition, then?”

“I think it’s organized. Maybe even blessed, in a twisted sort of way.”

He looked delighted, his eyes lighting with something not quite joy but definitely recognition. “Finally, someone gets it.”

Bev raised her brow. “Gets what?”

“That there’s a pattern,” he said. “People think I’m paranoid. But I’ve seen it—no carriages in or out of that castle, not unless it’s something fancy, and always after dark. I watched that place for two winters straight once. It’s quiet. Too quiet.”

“And what do you think happens to the men?” she asked.

“They’re dead,” Will said plainly. “I don’t know how exactly, or why. But they’re not knights, or servants. Nobody ever sees them again.”

Bev leaned back against the table, arms crossed. “What would you say if I told you I wasn’t just a medical doctor?”

“I’d say I figured that out already. You have an unusual intelligence”

“My talents were noticed by a higher order,” she said.

Will raised an eyebrow. “Higher order, like God himself?”

Bev laughed, a short burst of amusement. “Something like that. Try the Vatican.”

Will’s amusement faded quickly, replaced by suspicion. “So you’re what? A nun? A medical nun?”

“I’m a monster hunter,” she said. “Officially sanctioned. Discreet. Sent into places like this to observe, to treat, to eliminate... when necessary.”

Will frowned, processing the information. “Judging by everything I’ve heard... these monsters you hunt—they’re wanted. Needed, even. The villages that keep their heads down and follow the old rules thrive. The ones that don’t? They rot.”

“I know,” Bev said softly. “It’s complicated. There’s some kind of underlying agreement between the ruling houses and the Church. A balance. Certain families—the Blooms, the Vergers, even the Chiltons—they play by the rules. They give and they take, and they keep the ecosystem running. But the Lecters?”

Will’s gaze sharpened. “They’re not part of the agreement?”

“They follow the same patterns, yes. But they’re not bound by the pact. They weren’t chosen. They’re rogue.”

“That worries your bosses?”

“It terrifies them,” Bev said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Because if someone like Hannibal Lecter decides he doesn’t want to keep the peace anymore, there’s no leash. No boundary. He could wipe out an entire region in a decade. Starvation. Disease. Bloodletting. Armageddon, if you believe the old books.”

Will sipped his tea, the room silent except for Winston’s quiet snuffling at the rug.

“So what are you going to do about it?” he asked finally.

Bev looked out the window, her expression unreadable. “I’m still deciding.”

Will stood and moved to the cupboard, inspecting the hinges with careful fingers. “Let me know when you do.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Because I want to help.”

Bev met his gaze. “Even if it kills you?”

He gave a dry smile. “Especially then.”

“Suicidal idelation is a form of mental illness.” Bev watched him carefully “Or are you more the nillalist type?”

“Que Será, Será” Will shrugged, swinging the door from side-to-side “There, the door is no longer hanging itself.”

“How much?” Bev titled her head.

“On the house, in exchange, I’d like to learn from you.” Will smiled but didn’t meet her eyes.

“An apprentice? It has been a while since I have had one, but, I’ll humour you, say… Thursday and Friday nights, come over after sundown and you will learn. I will contact my bosses and clear it all so it is above board.”

“Will Graham, monster hunter.” Will chuckled, packing up his tools “I’ll come over in daylight to do the roof.”

“I would be grateful for that, and now you can add another pest to your pest-management service.”

~

The forest was quiet, save for the rustle of leaves and the occasional snap of a branch. Beverly moved with practiced ease, her basket tucked against her hip, carefully picking through the undergrowth for mushrooms. She knelt, plucking a pair of small, spotted caps and slipping them into the woven basket, when a soft, metallic clatter nearby caught her attention.

She rose slowly, eyes narrowing, and stepped quietly through the trees until she spotted movement ahead.

A young figure crouched low to the ground, deftly setting an animal trap with a surety far beyond their years. They were dressed plainly, almost like a boy—loose trousers, heavy boots, a woolen shirt too large for a girl’s frame. But up close, Beverly could see her face.

“Hello there,” Bev called gently, careful not to startle her.

The girl froze, eyes snapping up to meet hers. A nasty bruise marred her pale neck, another darkening the skin around one eye. Bev’s stomach turned.

“I’m a doctor,” Bev said calmly. “May I take a look at those bruises? I won’t touch you, I promise. Just want to make sure you’re alright.”

The girl didn’t move, her whole posture tight and wary.

“What’s your name?” Bev asked.

“Abigail,” she replied cautiously. “Abigail Hobbs. My father is Garret Jacob Hobbs. He’s the village grave digger. And he hunts game. I help.”

Bev nodded slowly. “That explains the traps. You’re good with your hands.”

Abigail said nothing.

Bev glanced at the bruises again. “How did you get those?”

Abigail stared down at her boots. “Doesn’t matter.”

There was a beat of silence before Abigail looked up again, her gaze sharp. “Are you really a doctor? Or are you a witch? That’s what some of the village says.”

Bev let out a low chuckle. “A woman can be anything she wants. Doctor, healer, witch. All the same to me.”

Behind them, a low crunch of leaves turned both their heads.

A man stepped out of the brush—broad, weathered, with a shotgun cradled loosely in his arms. His presence was like a shadow stretching long across the forest floor. Garret Jacob Hobbs.

“Abigail,” he barked. “Come stand by me.”

The girl obeyed immediately, darting to his side.

Garret didn’t take his eyes off Beverly. “Witch,” he spat at her feet.

Bev’s expression didn’t change, but her eyes cooled. “Your daughter needs medical attention. Badly.”

“She’s fine,” he growled. “Keep your hands off her.”

They turned to leave, Abigail’s shoulders hunched, face unreadable.

Bev raised her voice. “Abigail! My door is always open. Come see me at the cottage—any time. No cost.”

Abigail paused for a heartbeat, then disappeared into the woods beside her father.

Bev watched them go, her jaw tight.

Something was very wrong in that house.
~
Beverly returned to her cottage just as the sun began to dip low beyond the treetops, painting the village rooftops in gold. To her surprise, Will Graham was already on hers, crouched in the thatch with his sleeves rolled up, tools in hand, Winston sitting patiently below, tail wagging lazily.

"How long have you been up there?" Bev called up, setting down her basket of gathered mushrooms. "I’ve been in the woods for hours."

"Just a few," Will replied, barely glancing down from his work.

"Come down and take a break," she said, unlocking her door. "I’ll make you some tea."

Inside, the kettle hissed as Bev set it on the stove, her fingers deftly sorting through her basket. Will sat at the table, Winston curled at his feet.

"What do you know about the Hobbs family?" Bev asked, setting a cup in front of him.

Will sighed, taking the tea. "They’re quiet. Keep to themselves mostly. Garret’s the local grave digger. Also hunts game. His daughter helps. They sell what they can at the market."

Bev’s brows furrowed. "The daughter—Abigail—has bruises. Fresh ones. Neck and eye. They’re consistent with abuse."

Will nodded solemnly. "Yeah. He’s the kind of man who rules with an iron fist. Always has been."

"And Jack? He knows?" Bev’s voice lifted with frustration.

Will sipped his tea. "Jack knows. He just... chooses not to see it. You’ll learn that there are a lot of things that go unnoticed around here. Unchecked. Jack believes the head of the house is the father. And what a man does under his roof is between him, his family, and God."

Bev scoffed, crossing her arms. "God wouldn’t condone that."

Will looked up at her, something unreadable in his expression. "Do you believe in God?"

Bev shook her head slowly. "Not in the way others do. The idea of God serves a purpose, sure, but I’m unsubscribed to the belief that one benevolent being is in charge of everything and all."

Will gave a faint nod of understanding and turned his gaze toward the fading light outside the window. "Then you might just make it here, Doctor Katz."

Bev smiled, small but resolute, and poured herself a cup of tea. "We’ll see."

Chapter Text

In Lecter Castle, a soft flutter of wings echoed through the stone corridors as another owl swooped in through the high, arched window of the main study, a black ribbon-tied envelope clutched in its talons. Bedelia was already at the writing desk, her pale fingers elegant against the wax seal as she collected the letter from the bird.

"The Chiltons, Vergers, and Blooms have all RSVP’d for the gathering at the full moon," she announced with a glimmer of delight.

From the settee, Chiyoh barely looked up from her book. "Thrilling," she said dryly.

"Must you always be so unimpressed, Chiyoh?" Hannibal entered the room with his usual quiet grace, pouring himself a glass of wine. "It’s a celebration, not a council of war. We are entitled to a bit of fun."

Chiyoh shut her book, her voice cold and clipped. "You call this fun? Dancing and smiling while leashed by rules and ridiculous etiquette? We’re vampires. Apex predators. Yet you tie us down with customs and courtesies."

Hannibal raised an eyebrow. "No death on the property is hardly an outrageous condition. I have made certain that any... sustenance brought to the castle remains untouched. What our guests do outside these walls is their own business. Inside, we show restraint."

"Restraint," Chiyoh echoed bitterly. "You impose rules and pretend it’s diplomacy. But we could be rulers of the known world."

"And what would that bring us? Pitchforks? Fire? The same fate as my uncle?" Hannibal stepped closer, his voice smooth but commanding. "This is not weakness, Chiyoh. It is survival."

Bedelia watched the exchange from her chair, her lips quirking into a faint smile. "Let the girl sulk. She’ll enjoy herself once she’s had a dance or two."

"I do not sulk," Chiyoh muttered, standing.

"Then perhaps wear something that doesn’t scream disdain," Bedelia offered sweetly. "The Blooms always dress beautifully."

Chiyoh rolled her eyes and swept out of the room. Hannibal, now beside Bedelia, kissed her hand. "Let her brood. It’s the privilege of the young."

"She’s older than the castle walls," Bedelia said, leaning into him with a smirk. "But somehow, still a child."

Hannibal looked after Chiyoh’s retreating form. "We are all something’s child, my dear. Even monsters."

Bedelia remained lounging in her chair, fingers toying with the corner of the RSVP envelope. The flickering firelight cast warm hues across her pale skin as she regarded Hannibal thoughtfully.

"You know," she began, "Chiyoh does have a point."

Hannibal arched a brow as he poured himself another glass of wine. "Does she?"

Bedelia tilted her head. "Unlike the Blooms, or the Chiltons, or even the erratic Vergers… we never signed anything. No blood pact with the Church, no agreement to be kept, contained, and tolerated in exchange for playing nice. We are not bound."

"By choice," Hannibal reminded her.

"Yes," she said, voice sharp now. "But by your choice. We could bite, change, recruit. Build an army. Unshackle the others from their paltry vows. Remind the world what it means to be hunted from above instead of from the shadows." Her eyes glinted. "We could be a force that makes the Church weep."

Hannibal took a slow sip of wine, savoring the taste before answering. "And yet, we don't. Because restraint is not submission. It is a long game. A sharper blade."
"Still, you play by rules meant to contain us—when we never agreed to the game at all," she said with a scoff. "We are neither leashed nor free. We hover in between, and you enjoy that limbo."

Hannibal stepped toward her, voice low but certain. "If we behave and don’t sign, we remain outside their control. Unclaimed. That makes us the most dangerous of all. We are wildcards, and that, Bedelia, gives us the freedom to choose when the reckoning begins."

Her smile returned, slow and languid. "So there will be a reckoning."

"When we are ready," Hannibal said, raising his glass in a toast. "Not before."

She clinked hers against his. "Well then, I do hope I’m wearing something red when it begins." She paused “Chiyoh is hungry, if she doesn’t feed soon, she’ll break rules and go out to feed without us.”

Hannibal sighed “I will handle it, I will go, I will find food, I will handle it.”
~
That night, Hannibal hunted.

The woods were thick and quiet, the moonlight casting long silver shadows through the skeletal trees. He moved like a whisper between trunks and branches, senses sharpened to every heartbeat, every footfall.

Ahead, he saw Garrett Jacob Hobbs loading rusted iron traps into a creaking wagon. Abigail was there too, bundled in rough wool, her face bruised, her movements stiff.

"Get moving," Hobbs snarled, raising a hand and striking her across the cheek. Abigail flinched but didn’t cry out.

Hannibal’s patience fractured. In a blink, he stepped from shadow to light—no longer man, but something half-spectral, half-ethereal. His form shimmered with predatory menace.

"You disappoint me, Mr. Hobbs," he said.

Garrett turned, eyes wide, hands fumbling for his rifle—but it was too late. Hannibal moved faster than fear, his foot slamming into Hobbs’s chest and sending him sprawling.

Abigail let out a cry and rushed forward, but Hannibal turned on her with a glare. "Stay back."

She didn’t listen, and so he threw her aside. She hit a tree hard and crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

"Foolish," Hannibal muttered. Then he turned to Hobbs, who was scrambling, bloodied. With one swift motion, Hannibal bent low and snapped his neck like dry twine.

The forest returned to silence.

He looked at Abigail, crumpled and breathing, and considered leaving her. But a howl broke through the trees—low and far, but getting closer.

"Wolves," he muttered, annoyed.

He sighed and lifted them both—Hobbs like a sack of meat, Abigail like a fallen doll—and carried them back toward the castle, silent and swift.

When he arrived, he strode into the grand hall and flung Hobbs's body down before Bedelia and Chiyoh.

"Dinner is served," he said dryly.

Chiyoh wrinkled her nose. "Disgusting creature."

Bedelia’s gaze had shifted already—to the girl, laid on a chaise lounge, unconscious but peaceful. Her chest rose and fell with the soft rhythm of life.

"Why is she here?" Bedelia asked sharply, her voice edged with something jagged. Jealousy.

"There are wolves in the woods," Hannibal said. "She would not have lasted the night."

Bedelia looked away, fingers curling over her knee.

"Always the protector," she murmured, not quite pleased.

Chiyoh scoffed and turned toward the fireplace. "She better not be joining the party."

Hannibal said nothing. He simply watched the girl sleep, shadows curling at the edges of his vision like whispers waiting to take shape.

Chiyoh approached and leaned over Abigail, studying her face with a predator's curiosity. "Like a bruised apple," she said quietly. "Damaged, soft. May I eat this one instead?"

"No," Hannibal said, sharply, protectively.

Chiyoh raised her brows but stepped back without argument.

"Bedelia, dismantle Mr. Hobbs," Hannibal said with a nod. "Chiyoh, assist her."

Without another word, he turned and lifted Abigail into his arms again, carrying her up the sweeping staircase.

In an unused bedroom, he laid her gently upon the bed, the fire already crackling in the hearth. From a drawer, he produced a small tin of ointment and, with careful fingers, rubbed it along her bruised cheek and neck.

The shadows danced across the walls as he worked, his touch uncharacteristically tender. Abigail’s breath remained slow and steady, her sleep deep.

Hannibal watched her for a long moment before extinguishing the candlelight and closing the door behind him.

Chiyoh stood in the castle kitchen, methodically wrapping thick, marbled slabs of meat in brown paper and tying them with string. Bedelia hovered near a blackened cauldron over a flickering enchanted flame, pouring bottled blood into its depths. The surface shimmered, steam rising—warm, fresh, uncoagulated.

"A preservation charm," she said, more to herself than to Chiyoh. "Keeps the blood at body temperature. Nothing goes bad."

Hannibal entered, shaking off his coat, eyes drifting toward the preparations.

"Efficient, as always," he remarked.

Bedelia didn’t look up. "How long is our little guest staying?"

Hannibal moved to the counter and poured himself a glass of wine. "She’ll wake soon. I’ll return her to the village after."

Bedelia turned, her eyes sharp. "You’ll return her before she wakes. And the rest of the meat goes to the butcher. It’s the easiest way to dispose of it. Let the villagers eat it."

Chiyoh chuckled darkly. "They’re too stupid to know."

Bedelia didn’t laugh. She only stirred the cauldron slowly.

Chiyoh looked toward Hannibal. "I’ll take the carriage. Drop the girl and the meat."

Hannibal hesitated but gave a slow nod. "Fine."

Moments later, Chiyoh loaded Garrett Jacob Hobbs’s wrapped remains into the back of the carriage. Abigail, unconscious but breathing steadily, was carefully lifted and nestled in warm blankets beside them. Chiyoh climbed into the driver’s seat, flicked the reins, and the carriage trundled off into the foggy dark.

But Abigail wasn’t unconscious.

Her eyes, half-lidded, barely open, tracked the passing trees. She didn’t move, didn’t stir, but she was awake—watching.

The carriage rumbled down the village path, wheels crunching over gravel and pine needles. It pulled to a stop outside Beverly Katz’s cottage. Across the road, Will Graham watched from behind the curtain, only his eyes visible in the dim light.

Chiyoh stepped down from the carriage, lifted Abigail gently, and laid her on Bev’s doorstep. She hesitated just a moment, brushing a strand of hair from the girl’s face, then turned and climbed back onto the carriage.

Will’s eyes narrowed. He saw her return to the seat but not what she did next. He couldn’t see what she unloaded or where—but he waited, hidden, until the carriage wheels disappeared into the fog and the road back toward the castle.

Then he moved.

He bolted across the road and dropped to his knees beside Abigail, pressing two fingers to her neck.

"She’s breathing," he whispered.

He banged on Beverly’s door with his free hand. "Dr. Katz, Bev! Bev, open up!"

Inside, a light flickered. Beverly appeared moments later in a nightgown, hair slightly mussed, alarm written across her face.

"What is it? Will?"

"It’s Abigail Hobbs. She’s hurt. Someone left her here."

Bev’s face changed instantly. She stepped aside. "Bring her in. Quickly."

Together, they carried Abigail into the warmth of the cottage, closing the door behind them against the night.

“It was the Lecters.” Abigail said weakly “I’m not really hurt, he just knocked me out, but I think… I think he killed my Dad”

Chapter Text

Will Graham moved quietly around Beverly Katz’s kitchen, the soft clink of a kettle on the stove the only sound beside the ticking wall clock. The lights were low, casting gentle gold across the counters, and the faint hum of the refrigerator was a strange comfort. He moved like he didn’t quite belong there, like he might disappear if the moment demanded it.

In the other room, Beverly knelt beside her couch, her hands gently checking the bandage on Abigail Hobbs’ head. The girl was pale, bruised around the edges, her eyes fluttering from concussion or exhaustion—it was hard to tell. Bev smoothed a hand over Abigail’s arm.

“She’ll be alright,” Bev said, stepping into the kitchen and closing the door behind her. “Mild concussion. Some bruising. But nothing broken.” She leaned against the counter with a quiet sigh. “She says she saw Count Lecter kill her father.”

Will turned from the stove, brows pulled low. “Before she blacked out?”

“Yeah. Says she saw it clear. Then—” Bev frowned, rubbing her temple. “She remembers a woman. Young. Asian, but older than she looked. Said she took her in a carriage and carried her to the door here.”

“I saw the carriage,” Will murmured. “Big thing, dark, old-fashioned. I don’t know where it went after it dropped her off. Drove down the street. Came back ten minutes later, then vanished.”

“Maybe they just needed somewhere to turn around,” Bev said. “Not like this road was made for horses and wheels. But…” she glanced toward the spare room. “Abigail’s lucky. Largely unharmed. And with a concussion like that—she’s not the most reliable witness.”

Will paced a step. Then another. He was still holding the spoon from the tea canister. “What about the woman?”

Bev shrugged. “We’re all over the place. Lots of women trained as doctors, nurses, midwives. Could be one of theirs. Maybe she’s the in-castle physician.”

“No.” Will shook his head. “Something about that doesn’t sit right.”

“Yeah, well,” Bev said, folding her arms, “not much does anymore.”

Will let the silence settle between them for a beat. Then he set the spoon down, straightened his coat, and said, “I’m gonna go wake Jack up.”
~
The street outside was chilled with early fog, cobblestones slick and gleaming under the low glow of gas lamps. Will moved quickly, collar up against the cold. The police house loomed ahead, squat and steady, windows glowing faintly.

He didn’t have to knock.

Jack Crawford was already outside, leaning against the front steps, a pipe smoldering between his teeth. He looked up as Will approached, one brow raised.

“You’re up late,” Will said.

Jack blew a stream of smoke into the night. “Got a drunk in the holding cell. Singing hymns like he’s in a goddamn cathedral. I stepped out before I throttled him.”

Will stopped at the base of the steps, hands in his coat pockets. “I think we’ve got something.”

Jack studied him for a moment, then tapped the ashes from his pipe. “Go on.”

Will reached into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled out his pipe, the motion deliberate, like it gave him something to anchor to. He lit it with a match struck against the sole of his boot, the tiny flame flaring up before dying as he took a slow draw. The smoke curled upward as he stepped up beside Jack.

“It’s about the Lecters,” he said quietly.

Jack groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “God, Will. Let it go. Don’t go disrupting the natural order of things. You start stirring that pot, and things get worse for everyone.”

Will didn’t look at him. “Hannibal Lecter may have killed Garret Jacob Hobbs. Abigail witnessed it. She’s concussed, yeah, but she remembers—an Asian woman taking her to Katz’s door. She’s got holes in the memory, but it’s there.”

Jack blew out a long breath, the pipe smoke hanging between them. “So her father goes missing while the two of them are probably out hunting, and now there’s some mystery woman in the mix? Will, the girl’s memory’s scrambled. She’s not exactly a clear witness.”

“She says her father is dead.”

“Right,” Jack said sharply. “The same father who beat her. Maybe he hit her one too many times, she finally snapped. He swings, she falls, gets the concussion. She wakes up, he’s gone. No body. Doesn’t mean Lecter had anything to do with it.”

Will turned to face him, the smoke from his pipe trailing behind him. “You think Abigail killed him.”

“I think,” Jack said carefully, “that we don’t know. But it’s not impossible. Hell, it’s more likely than your Count Lecter theory. We need a body, Will. Without it, we’ve got nothing. Just fairy stories.”

Will exhaled, long and slow, the breath catching cold in the air. “If it was the Lecters, Jack... there won’t be a body. There’ll be nothing at all.”

Jack turned to look at him then, eyes narrowed. “Why would they break the pattern? Huh? The first frost hasn’t even fallen yet. That’s when the letters come. That’s when the hunts begin. And Garret? He’s older. Way outside the usual pickings.”

Will shook his head. “The seasons have been warmer. The frost is late this year. Maybe... maybe beggars can’t be choosers. Or maybe the Count was on his way to deliver the letter when he stumbled on Garret. Thought he was easier prey.”

Jack was quiet for a long beat. Then he muttered, “We need proof.”

Will nodded slowly, staring out into the fog-draped street. “Then let’s go looking.”

The forest was quiet—unnaturally so. The usual rustling of birds or small game was absent, replaced only by the crunch of leaves beneath boots and the occasional snap of twigs. Jack held a lantern high, the flickering light casting long shadows through the trees. Will walked slightly ahead, Winston trotting beside him, ears perked and nose low to the ground.

They were deep into the woods when Winston let out a sharp bark and veered off the path.

“Easy,” Will called. “Winston, heel.”

The dog hesitated but obeyed, tail stiff, hackles slightly raised.

Just beyond the brush, they came upon a small clearing. The battered cart sat crooked, its left wheel sunk halfway into the soft earth. Two wooden cages were still strapped to the side, hares inside, twitching and thumping anxiously against the bars.

“They’re still alive,” Will muttered, crouching beside the cart. He unlatched the cages one by one, letting the panicked animals scramble into the underbrush. “Winston, stay. Don’t chase.”

Winston sat, whining slightly, but didn’t move.

Jack swept the lantern in an arc, eyes scanning. “There’s no blood here. Nothing. Like they were just... interrupted mid-hunt.”

Will moved slowly around the cart, eyes trained on the ground. “Abigail said she was hit in the head. If she was attacked here...” He stopped at the base of a tree, fingers brushing against a dark stain on the bark. He rubbed it between thumb and forefinger, sniffed. “Blood. Not much. Enough for a head wound. Probably hers.”

He turned back toward the cart. “But nothing from Garret.”

Jack nodded grimly. “Which means either he walked away... or he didn’t bleed.”

The shotgun lay half-buried in the leaves, its metal dulled by mist and dirt. Will picked it up, opened the chamber.

“All shells accounted for,” he said. “No shots fired. He had it, but he didn’t use it.”

Jack looked over his shoulder, frowning. “So where the hell did he go?”

Will dropped into a crouch, scanning the muddy patches of ground. “Prints,” he said. “Garret’s boots here—deep, wide. He was moving around the cart. These are Abigail’s—smaller, closer to the bloodstain.” He paused, eyes narrowing. “And this.”

He pointed to a partial impression, only half a sole, the heel sharp and cleanly defined in the mud. The shape was unfamiliar—sleek, narrow, expensive.

“That’s not from either of them,” Will said. “That’s someone else. Third person.”

Jack leaned in. “You think that’s the Count’s?”

“It lines up with what Abigail said. She wasn’t alone when she came back. Someone else was with them.”

Jack exhaled through his nose. “If it’s the Count, there’s nothing we can do. No proof. Just shadows.”

Will straightened, brushing his hands clean. “Then we go talk to them. The Lecters. Maybe that mysterious woman will be there.”

Jack shook his head. “It’s probably nothing. A good Samaritan found the girl wandering, concussed, and brought her to Katz. Happens more than you’d think.”

Will’s jaw tensed. “Then why wouldn’t they knock? Alert the doctor? Drop a note? You don’t carry a half-conscious girl to someone’s doorstep and leave her there like a bloody basket of eggs.”

Jack looked at him, silent for a long beat.

The wind stirred the branches overhead, a quiet sigh in the cold air. Somewhere deeper in the woods, an owl hooted.

Will looked back down at the partial boot print. “I want to know who walked away from this with clean hands.”

Chapter Text

The great hall of Verger Castle was awash in candlelight and decadence, all carved mahogany and velvet drapery, the ceilings stretched so high the firelight didn’t quite reach them. Mason Verger lounged like a spoiled cat across a divan upholstered in deep green, swirling a goblet of thick, dark liquid that wasn’t wine.

Margot stood by the tall windows, staring out at the night. She wore a sharp, tailored suit—black silk, angular in all the right places, the lapels like blades. The candlelight caught on the subtle emerald lining that flared when she moved.

Mason watched her, a lazy grin spreading across his face. “My dear sister,” he drawled. “You are absolutely smoldering tonight. Who are you wearing it for, hmm? Not Count Lecter, I hope—he’s far too busy polishing his silver and seducing everything with a pulse.”

Margot didn’t turn. “Not him.”

“Ahhh,” Mason grinned wider. “Then it must be that lovely Countess Alana Bloom. I see you. Such taste, Mar. Divine.”

Margot rolled her eyes. “You’re drunk on pig again, aren’t you?”

“Just a sip,” he said, raising his goblet in mock toast. “But come on. Indulge your dear brother. Describe what you’re wearing. In detail. I need inspiration for your next commission. Shall I call the Milanese tailor? The one who uses thread spun with silver? What Margot wants, Margot gets, isn’t that the rule?”

She finally turned to look at him, expression unreadable. “I’ll think about it.”

“Oh, come now,” Mason said, throwing an arm over the back of the divan. “We have to look our best for Lecter’s little party. You know how Bedelia gets when people aren’t properly dressed. She’ll dissect us in the corner with those eyes of hers.”

Margot snorted. “She’ll do it anyway. Just because her father invented psychology or whatever mythology she’s crafted this century doesn’t mean she gets to be the queen of minds. She’s been studying the human psyche for what, four hundred years? That doesn’t make her omniscient. It makes her exhausting.”

“You wound me,” Mason said with mock offense. “I, for one, think she’s a delight.”

“You think everyone’s a delight until they outwit you,” Margot said dryly.

Mason chuckled, then leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “You know who is a delight? That young Chiyoh. Lecter’s pet project. Smart. Beautiful. And she looks so young.”

Margot burst out laughing, loud and sharp. “She would never be interested in you.”

Mason blinked. “And why not?”

“Because she has taste. And probably a soul. Even if she is half-feral and the kind that keeps knives in her sleeves.”

Mason grinned again, unabashed. “No one said I was aiming for success. Sometimes the thrill is in the attempt.”

Margot turned back to the window, voice cool. “You attempt anything with her and I’ll feed you to your pigs. Again.”

Mason sipped his drink, unconcerned. “Noted. Notice the weirdness of their invite, no death on the premises, if you want to BYO live prey they must die away from the castle. How very unsportsmanlike.”

“Unlike the deal our father struck with the church, they are not bound by the laws that state that anyone we eat, we must dispose of on non-concentrated land, they can dispose of people any way they like, and they’re flaunting it.”

“Our father was an idiot.” Mason said bitterly.

“And he died trying to rebel, so we eat, and we feed the rest to the pigs, that is the way things are.” Margot sipped from a glass.

“So are you going to wear a dress, like the other heiresses, or are you going to mock the men by wearing what we do better?” Mason tilted his head.

“I’m not an heiress, you and father made sure of it.”
~
The dining room was a long hall of dim candlelight and polished obsidian, the walls hung with oil portraits whose eyes seemed to follow every move. At the head of the table sat Countess Alana Bloom, poised and immaculate in crimson silk, the color just a shade deeper than the contents of her crystal goblet. Across from her lounged Count Frederick Chilton, legs crossed, robe trailing elegantly across the floor, his smile as sharp as the glint of his fangs.

Between them, a chessboard gleamed under the candlelight, its pieces carved from ivory and jet, frozen mid-battle.

“Your knight is exposed,” Alana said, sipping delicately from her glass, her eyes not leaving the board.

“I’m counting on it,” Chilton replied, swirling his own goblet theatrically. “A little vulnerability is seductive.”

Alana raised a brow. “Only when it isn’t foolish.”

Chilton made a face and moved his bishop instead, letting out a sigh. “So. The Lecters are throwing a party. Just like that. No warning. No provocation.”

Alana slid her queen forward two spaces, her gaze sharpening. “It is sudden.”

“It reeks of restlessness,” Chilton said, leaning back. “And we both know Bedelia doesn’t tolerate boredom well. I imagine Hannibal’s just trying to keep her entertained. Or contained.”

Alana smirked behind her glass. “Contained? She'd psychoanalyze a tombstone if left unattended.”

“Precisely my point,” Chilton said, chuckling. “And you know how she gets with guests. If she corners me again about my compensatory cruelty, I may actually bite her.”

“She’d thank you for the analysis,” Alana said coolly, then flicked her eyes back to the chessboard. “But I’m more interested in why they’re stirring the pot now. They’ve been quiet for decades. Centuries, even.”

“Perhaps they’re finally bored with their little castle,” Chilton said. “Or perhaps they’re feeling smug. Untouchable.”

A beat passed before he added, more seriously, “You ever wonder how they slipped the church?”

Alana set her goblet down slowly. “Often.”

“They bled us dry,” Chilton went on. “Bound us in silence and penance and little side-deals with bishops and blood-money. But the Lecters? Nothing. No chains. No obligations.”

Alana tilted her head. “Because Hannibal Lecter is probably older than the church itself. Or close enough to it. An original—or, at least, one step down from one.”

Chilton scoffed, though it lacked any real heat. “You think he predates Christendom?”

“I think,” she said slowly, eyes gleaming, “that if you dug deep enough in Vatican archives, you’d find his name etched into the margins. Not as a penitent. As a partner.”

Chilton made a small sound, part laugh, part discomfort. “That’s almost enough to make me pray.”

“You?” Alana smiled. “You’d burst into flame.”

“Only if the altar boy was too chatty.”

Alana laughed softly and moved her rook. “Check.”

Chilton narrowed his eyes at the board, muttering, “You’re insufferable.”

“Yes,” she said, sipping again. “But at least I’m not losing.”

The fire crackled low in the hearth as the shadows grew deeper, coiling around the towering curtains and gilded cornices of the dining hall. The chessboard sat between the two vampires like a battlefield nearly won, the last few pieces in play—Alana’s queen gleaming triumphantly at the heart of Chilton’s territory.

Chilton swirled his goblet and glanced sideways at her, the flickering candlelight glinting off the polished rim of his spectacles. “You ever get the feeling,” he said, voice languid, “that this little soiree might be something else entirely? A party, sure, but… perhaps a pretense?”

Alana moved her final piece without looking away from him. Her rook took his king in a clean, effortless motion. “Checkmate.”

Chilton looked down at the board and sighed—more theatrical than disappointed. “Cruel,” he muttered, then gave a soft chuckle. “But not unexpected.”

She leaned back in her chair, folding her hands gracefully in her lap. “It does feel like a false ruse. A gathering, yes. But perhaps not just for drink and dancing. Perhaps a war council. A call to arms.”

“An uprising?” Chilton raised an eyebrow, tone still playful but with an undercurrent of curiosity. “You think Hannibal is stirring the ancient pot?”

“I think,” Alana said, “he only calls the old families together when something bigger brews beneath the surface. Something... seismic.”

Chilton tapped a finger against his goblet, thinking. “You spoke of the Vatican archives earlier. I’ve spent centuries trying to get even a sliver of truth from them. How do you know what’s buried in those vaults?”

Alana smiled, the kind of slow, secret smile that hinted at far deeper waters. “I have an inside source.”

“Oh?”

“I can’t step foot in a place so... consecrated,” she said with a faint grimace, “but I have eyes and ears within the walls. Monks, scribes, archivists. Bloodlines long corrupted. The Lecter name comes up, but not always as ‘Lecter.’ Sometimes as ‘the Surgeon.’ Sometimes as ‘the Crimson Saint.’ Sometimes just... H.”

Chilton blinked, quiet for a moment. “He’s written into the fabric.”

“Woven through it,” Alana corrected softly.

Chilton leaned back and stared at the high ceiling, the flicker of firelight dancing in his thoughtful gaze. “You know… there’s a theory among the oldest of us. That the Church was formed not to worship God, but to contain the Devil. Do you think Hannibal Lecter is—” he hesitated, then smiled crookedly, “—akin to Lucifer himself?”

Alana considered this with no mockery, no sarcasm—just cool precision. “It makes sense, doesn’t it?”

Chilton’s expression sobered.

“The church contains everything else,” she continued. “Us. Witches. Familiars. Shape-changers. But they’ve never been able to contain him.”

Chilton took a slow sip from his goblet, as if trying to settle something that had just stirred inside him. “I suddenly feel rather small.”

Alana’s eyes sparkled, though her tone remained calm. “Good. That means you’re paying attention.”

Chapter Text

The light in Beverley Katz’s kitchen was a soft amber glow, filtered through gauzy curtains and catching the dust motes as they danced lazily in the early morning stillness. The sound of nails tapping into wood echoed gently, rhythmic and careful. Will Graham knelt on the floor, patching a splintered board just in front of the sink, toolbox open beside him.

Behind him, there was the rustle of a blanket, a soft intake of breath, and a quiet voice.

“Will?”

He looked over his shoulder, eyes crinkling with a half-smile. “Hey. You’re up. You feeling okay?”

Abigail Hobbs sat curled on the couch under a patchwork throw, her hair mussed, her face pale. She blinked at him like she still wasn’t sure where she was.

“Bev just popped out to get some food,” he continued, brushing sawdust from his hands. “I can make you some tea, if you want?”

Abigail sat up slowly, blinking harder now. “I… I thought it was a dream,” she said quietly. “All of it. Until I woke up here. And then I realized—” her voice cracked a little, “—it was real.”

Will stood, wiping his hands on a rag, and crouched beside the couch, reaching into his toolbox for a folded scrap of paper and a pencil. “Can you tell me what you remember? Every detail.”

Abigail nodded, swallowing hard. “There was a man. Tall. Long curly hair. He had these… nice boots. Really nice. I remember the shine on them. He told my dad to stop hitting me.”

Will’s jaw tightened, but he just nodded for her to continue.

“But Dad didn’t stop,” she whispered. “So the man—he grabbed him. I tried to pull him off, but he… he threw me. I hit my head on a tree. That’s when everything went… black.”

She touched the bandage at her temple absently. “But I think… I think he snapped my dad’s neck. It sounded like that.”

Will’s pencil stopped for a beat, then resumed.

“I don’t remember anything after that until I was in a carriage,” she said. “It was moving. I was lying down, and there was this woman driving. Young. Asian, I think. She looked around my age, but she carried me like I weighed nothing. Next thing I know, I’m at Bev’s door. Then you were there.”

Will nodded slowly, the paper now full of looping notes. “Jack and I found a third set of footprints in the woods. Big, expensive boots. Just one print, deep in the mud. Matches what you said.”

“Do you think… I was taken somewhere?” Abigail asked hesitantly. “I mean, before Bev’s?”

Will looked at her. “Do you remember anything else?”

She shook her head. “No. Just… woods, the carriage, then here.”

The door creaked open, and Beverley breezed in, arms full of paper-wrapped market parcels. “Morning, sleeping beauty,” she said with a quick smile to Abigail. “I got eggs, bacon, and something suspiciously labeled ‘farmer’s sausage.’ We’ll roll the dice.”

She bustled to the stove and started up the frying pan. The sizzle of butter hitting cast iron filled the room.

Will stood and stepped over to the counter. His nose wrinkled. “That meat smells… weird.”

“It’s fresh,” Bev said dismissively. “That’s just market funk. You’re sensitive, that’s all.”

Abigail sniffed the air, shrugged. “Smells fine to me.”

Will frowned, slicing off a bit of bacon and dropping it into Winston’s waiting mouth. The hound sniffed it, then backed away without chewing.

Will’s stomach turned uneasily, something crawling just under his skin. A knowing-but-not-knowing feeling, like a shadow passing behind his thoughts.

Beverley stirred the eggs, flipping the bacon with practiced ease. “You know,” she said casually, “the Lecters put in a big order at the local bakery yesterday. Custom things. Cakes, preserves, flour by the sack. For a party, probably.”

Will looked up sharply. “They’ve never done that. Not in my time.”

Bev shrugged. “The baker said they used to, years ago. Around first frost.”

Will exhaled slowly, eyes distant. “Fits the timeline. First frost’s near. That’s when it usually happens.”

“What usually happens?” Abigail asked, glancing between them.

Will’s voice dropped, a grim whisper. “That’s when someone gets the scarlet letter. A red envelope, sealed with black wax. An invitation to something no one ever comes back from.”

The kitchen fell quiet for a beat, save the hiss of the frying pan and the distant cry of a crow outside.

Abigail drew the blanket tighter around her shoulders. “And you think it’s starting again.”

Will didn’t answer. But his silence said enough.

~
The sunlight slanted through the high, stained-glass windows of Lecter Castle’s conservatory, casting jeweled patterns across the marble floor through the cracks in their heavy curtains, although unadvisable, sunlight merely weakened their kind, burned their skin, but unless they spent many consecutive minutes, mostly harmless and recoverable from.

Bedelia Du Maurier sat at the long mahogany table, receipts from the village’s bakers and butchers fanned neatly before her like a hand of cards. Her fingers moved with clinical precision, eyes narrowed as she perused the lists of flour weights and cured meats with detached interest.

"Why do you humour the humans so?" she asked without looking up. "It isn’t as though we actually need to eat."

Hannibal Lecter, lounging beside a bowl of blood-dark cherries, reached for one with languid grace. “It doesn’t matter,” he said smoothly. “We can still enjoy food. The preparation, the art of it. I happen to like cooking.”

Bedelia arched an eyebrow, dryly. “Yes, you do tend to be very... particular with your ingredients.”

Across the room, Chiyoh stood at the tall window, arms crossed, her expression troubled as she watched the shifting clouds with squinted eyes. “The frost is late this year,” she said abruptly. “The seasons feel wrong. Something’s off... ever since that new doctor arrived in town.”

Hannibal’s gaze shifted to her. He plucked a cherry by the stem and rolled it thoughtfully between his fingers. “I expect a Vatican spy.”

Chiyoh turned sharply. “Another one?”

He chuckled, low and rumbling, as if amused by a private joke. “They like to keep an eye on us. It’s their nature. Paranoia masquerading as faith.”

“What kind of spy?” she asked, a little too eagerly.

He gave her a look—placid, unreadable. “Enough questions.”

Bedelia glanced up from the receipts with a sly smile. “Maybe when you’re older, darling.”

“I am several hundred years old,” Chiyoh snapped, her tone petulant but proud. “I’ve forgotten more about war and death than any of you have read in books.”

Hannibal’s eyes darkened, the mirth draining from them like light from the sky. He stood slowly, shoulders rising with the full breadth of his ancient presence. “And I,” he said with a growl that echoed off the high ceilings, “am thousands. Do not presume to match me in age or wisdom, Chiyoh. I will treat you both like children if your behavior demands it.”

Bedelia barely flinched, sipping from her glass of blood like it was a fine cabernet. “My father once theorised,” she mused, “that the brain doesn’t finish developing until the age of twenty-five. Neurologically speaking, Chiyoh will always be quite young of mind.”

Chiyoh’s hand trembled—whether from rage or shame, even she didn’t know. In one smooth motion, she hurled her wineglass across the table. The blood-red liquid exploded across Bedelia’s pale face and silk blouse, a vivid stain against porcelain skin.

A moment of silence followed—so still that even the crows outside paused in their cawing.

Bedelia sat unmoved, wine dripping from her lashes and the tip of her chin. Her lips curled ever so slightly, like a porcelain doll whose smile had cracked just a little too wide.

“Proving my point,” she said, voice sweet as arsenic.

Chapter Text

The master bedroom of Lecter Castle was a sanctum of old-world elegance—thick velvet drapes drawn against the night, the scent of myrrh and smoked sandalwood heavy in the air. Moonlight filtered through carved wooden shutters, casting slender bars across the expanse of the bed like the shadow of a forgotten prison. The sheets were silk, deep garnet, whispering beneath Hannibal’s weight as he reclined against the mound of plush pillows.

The fire in the hearth crackled low, casting flickering amber light over the carved archways and high coffered ceiling, but there was no comfort in it for Hannibal tonight. Beneath the warmth of his surroundings, an old unrest stirred—something unquiet in his ancient blood, like the faint howl of wolves beyond memory.

He lay still, clothed only in the soft linen of his sleepwear, eyes on the ceiling, one hand resting absently on his chest.

The door eased open with the faintest creak. Bedelia entered, her golden hair damp from washing, loose around her shoulders. Her silk nightgown shimmered like water under the firelight, a ghostly contrast to her still-bloodied eyes—eyes that had stared into Chiyoh’s rage and not blinked.

She climbed gracefully onto the bed, curling into his side with the practiced intimacy of centuries. Her head rested on his shoulder, one hand splayed against his chest. His arm moved almost by instinct, wrapping around her.

“You’re unsettled,” she murmured, voice as soft as the sheets, “and not just by wine in my face.”

Hannibal gave a slow exhale through his nose. “There is a ripple in the balance of things.”

Bedelia tilted her head upward, eyes narrowing. “You’re not seriously concerned about one little monster hunter, are you?” She sounded almost offended. “It’s not as though the three of us couldn’t tear her limb from limb.”

“A brute solution,” he mused. “Messy. And unimaginative.”

Her hand traced a lazy circle over his heart. “So what then?”

“A novel approach,” Hannibal said, his voice curling like smoke. “An open house. We invite the villagers. Let them drink our wine, sample our fare, see the art, feel the warmth of the hearth. Especially her—our little hunter. Let her see we mean no harm. Let her report back to her masters that we are nothing to fear. That we are... charming.”

Bedelia scoffed gently. “They won’t believe her. Especially not after what we did.”

“We acted early, yes,” he allowed, “and outside our usual parameters. But I felt... compelled. I was protecting one of my flock.”

“You mean Abigail.”

“I do.”

Bedelia shifted, her expression tightening. “You liked her. More than you usually like them.”

“She was something fragile. Broken. In need of guidance.”

“In need of you?” Bedelia’s voice was sharp, clipped.

Hannibal turned to face her then, his eyes like deep wells carved from ancient stone. “If you were not so prone to jealousy and insecurity,” he said evenly, “perhaps she might have stayed. She and Chiyoh might have been companions. Kindred spirits. It might have helped ease the girl’s edge.”

“I wasn’t jealous,” Bedelia said, though even she sounded unconvinced.

“You feared I would bed her,” he replied bluntly. “You always do.”

Bedelia looked away, lips pursed, fingers tightening against his chest.

“In over a thousand years,” Hannibal said, his voice quiet now, almost pained, “have I ever? Not once. Despite temptations, despite... offers.” He sighed. “I have been faithful. To you. To us.”

Silence settled between them like dust. Bedelia swallowed. “It doesn’t mean I don’t feel it. The threat of being replaced.”

“No one could replace you,” he murmured, fingers brushing her hair back from her temple. “You are... singular.”

She closed her eyes at the contact, torn between comfort and guilt.

The fire popped in the hearth, and outside, the wind began to rise, whistling through the forest like a warning.

“You think the party will work?” she asked softly.

“I think it will draw the flies to the honey,” Hannibal replied. “And I intend to be a gracious host. We host it, the night before we entertain our own kind. There are three of us, we are no threat, no one but the monster hunter will even suspect us of being abnormal.”
“And Chiyoh, what shall we have her do?” Bedelia pressed.

“Security.”

They lay together in the silence that followed, not lovers tonight, nor predators, nor gods. Just old things, waiting for the frost.
~

The old shed behind Beverley Katz’s cottage had become their makeshift classroom—half storage space, half lab, and entirely cluttered with jars, dried herbs, weathered books, and tools no longer in use. The air smelled faintly of metal, damp wood, and cloves. A single oil lantern swung slightly overhead, casting soft shadows across the faces of Will Graham and Abigail Hobbs, both seated on overturned crates, notebooks open in their laps.

Beverley stood before them, a chalkboard balanced on two sawhorses, already marked with a rudimentary drawing of the human circulatory system and a much darker outline showing the grotesque branching extensions that occurred when a vampire’s feeding gland latched to flesh.

“Vampires don’t kill the way they used to,” Beverley began, pushing her sleeves up and tapping a line of chalk against the drawing. “Used to be one bite, one body. Quick, clean. But over the last few centuries, they’ve developed... restraint. Evolution, maybe. Or preference.”

Will frowned, scribbling something. “You mean they feed... slowly?”

“Exactly.” Beverley gave him a small, approving nod. “Now, they can extend and replenish the blood within a human host. Think of it like... a controlled bleed. They take a little, the body recovers. They take a little more. A cycle. It limits the need to kill.”

Abigail wrinkled her nose. “That sounds worse somehow. Like... keeping people as livestock.”

Beverley didn’t sugarcoat it. “They call them pets. Or companions, if they’re being polite. Some last days. Others, years. It depends on the vampire’s temperament... and the human’s usefulness.”

She moved to a thick book on the nearby table—its spine cracked, pages water-warped and stained. She flipped it open to a bookmarked page, tapping it for emphasis.

“There’s no reliable record of the first vampire. Stupid stories say Dracula, but that’s just myth layered over myth. Some scholars think it goes back much further—back to ancient Sumer or even pre-flood civilizations.”

Will leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “So, no origin. Just... whispers.”

Beverley grinned. “Isn’t that how all good nightmares start?”

She turned back to the board. “Even the Bible has lines that hint at it. There’s a verse in Proverbs—‘The leech has two daughters. Give, give, they cry. Three things are never satisfied, four never say “Enough.”’”

Will repeated it under his breath. Abigail stared at Beverley, wide-eyed. “You think that’s about vampires?”

“I think it’s about hunger,” Beverley replied. “Insatiable things that walk like us, talk like us, but are driven by something else entirely. And that’s not the only one. There’s Ezekiel—‘Their meat is the flesh of my people, and their abominations are full of the blood of the slain.’ Sounds pretty damn vampiric to me.”

Will looked uneasy. “Why doesn’t anyone do anything about it? The Church, the crown, anyone?”

Beverley shrugged, moving back to her notes. “Because most people don’t know. And those who do? They’re either working with them... or buried.”

A silence settled as that truth hung in the air.

Abigail glanced toward the door. “How do you stop something that can live forever?”

Beverley didn’t look up. “You find out what it’s afraid of.”

The crackling of the lantern was the only sound for a long moment, the weight of the conversation hanging in the air. Will scribbled in his notebook, clearly processing Beverley's theories, while Abigail seemed lost in thought, the weight of the world and the horrors of her experiences pressing down on her shoulders.

Beverley broke the silence, tapping the chalk lightly against the board before turning to face them both. “I’ve read every scrap of literature on vampires I could get my hands on. Most of it’s folklore, sure, but there’s enough overlap to give us clues.” She crossed her arms, pacing slowly in front of the chalkboard. “Crucifixes, silver, garlic—standard stuff, right?”

Will looked up, his brow furrowed. “So, they’re afraid of those things? Like... physical weaknesses?”

“Maybe,” Beverley said, though her tone was skeptical. “But I think it’s more complicated than that. Those things could have some effect on them, sure. But there’s something deeper. Something… less tangible.”

Abigail tilted her head, her eyes narrowing. “What do you mean?”

Beverley stopped pacing, and for the first time, her voice softened as she spoke, as if revealing something that had long been buried in her thoughts. “I think they’re afraid of an emptiness. A kind of hollow that gets wider the longer they live.”

Will blinked at her, unsure whether he was following. “An emptiness?”

Beverley nodded slowly, her fingers curling into her palms as she continued. “They’re not like us. They don’t need to live. They need to fill themselves. And the longer they go on, the bigger that emptiness grows. They keep taking—blood, life, time—but they’re never filled. Never complete.”

She glanced at Abigail, then Will, before continuing. “That’s why most male vampires target females. They need companionship. They crave it. But it’s always short-term. A fleeting bond, one that fills them for a while but never lasts. And they don’t know how to keep it, because if they did—if they could—they would actually have to confront that vast emptiness inside of them.”

Abigail’s eyes were wide, absorbing the theory. “So… you think they’re afraid of love?”

“Not just afraid of it,” Beverley said, her voice quiet but firm. “They’re terrified of it. Love has the power to fill that void, but it also has the power to break them. To make them human again—make them feel things they’ve been running from for centuries. It would demand something from them they’ve long since forgotten how to give.”

Will sat back, his mind racing. “That would explain why they’re so guarded. Why they keep their distance. If they let themselves love, really love someone, it might be the end of them.”

Beverley gave a tight, knowing smile. “Exactly. They can feed and feed and take, but in the end, they’re still alone. Still empty. And that’s why they fear us so much. Because we are capable of love. Something they can’t have, and never will.”

There was a long silence after that, as the weight of her words sank in. Abigail looked distant, her mind no doubt spiraling into the depths of the darker realities of her own situation, while Will remained pensive, his eyes darting between Beverley and Abigail.

“So, if we’re their greatest fear…” Will began slowly, his voice quiet but filled with a dark curiosity, “then we should use that. We can exploit it.”

Beverley gave a wry smile. “Perhaps. But be careful. They’re not as easy to break as you might think. And once you start pulling at that thread, it could unravel everything.”

Abigail shuddered slightly, her thoughts swirling. “What if they’re already too far gone to feel it? Too empty to care about love anymore?”

Beverley’s smile faltered, and for a brief moment, a shadow of doubt crossed her face. “That’s the risk. The longer they live, the harder it is for them to feel anything at all.”

Chapter Text

The kitchen was filled with the warm scent of browning onions and herbs, the sizzle of butter in the pan mingling with the occasional clatter of utensils. Abigail stood beside Beverley at the stove, stirring a pot of stew while Beverley chopped vegetables with effortless precision. The fire crackled in the hearth, and outside, a pale wind scratched against the windows.

At the far end of the kitchen, Will crouched under the dining table, carefully adjusting the wobbly leg with a screwdriver and a block of wood. Winston lay nearby, occasionally lifting his head to sniff the air with interest.

Abigail, breaking the quiet hum of domesticity, asked without looking up from her stirring, “So… if vampires are real, does that mean the rest are too?”

Beverley raised an eyebrow but didn’t stop chopping. “The rest?” she echoed, humoring her.

Abigail shrugged. “Werewolves. Fae. Mermaids. All the things from storybooks.”

Will looked up from his work, curious.

Beverley chuckled, dropping a handful of carrots into the pot. “Of course they’re real,” she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Abigail blinked. “Wait, seriously?”

“Werewolves mostly keep to themselves,” Beverley said, waving her knife like a pointer. “They don’t like noise or cities. They’ll move from forest to forest, never staying too long. Fae… now those you have to be careful with. Don’t give them your name. Don’t take gifts. Ever.”

Will leaned back, resting his hands on his knees. “And mermaids?” he asked, voice dry.

“Stay out of the ocean,” Beverley said with a shrug. “Or the sea. Lakes are usually fine, though there are exceptions. Mermaids are territorial. They’ll charm you right into the waves and gut you under the surface before you realize you’re drowning.”

Abigail stared at her, wide-eyed. “You’re serious.”

“As a vampire’s hunger,” Beverley replied with a crooked grin.

Will narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “You ever hunted any of those?”

Beverley hesitated, the knife pausing mid-chop. She didn’t answer right away, just glanced over at the shelf above the pantry. With a sigh, she wiped her hands on her apron and reached up.

She pulled down a pair of old glass jars. The first held delicate, iridescent wings—tiny, gossamer things like frostbitten petals. The second was filled with silver-blue scales, each no larger than a coin, glittering faintly in the firelight.

Abigail stepped closer, her breath catching. “Fae wings…” she murmured.

“And mermaid scales,” Will said, straightening from beneath the table, brushing dust from his hands. “So, you have.”

“I didn’t go looking for them,” Beverley said, placing the jars on the table gently, like relics. “But sometimes the work finds you. Sometimes someone gets taken. Sometimes a trail leads where it shouldn’t.”

She met both of their gazes, serious now. “Monsters don’t always look like monsters. And some of them are far more polite than vampires.”

Abigail reached toward the jar of wings, then paused. “Is it true what you said? About names and gifts?”

“Deadly true,” Beverley replied. “You give a fae your name, you give them power over you. You accept their gift, you’re in their debt. And fae debts don’t get forgotten.”

Will looked at the jars, then at Beverley. “And what happens when they come to collect?”

Beverley smirked faintly, but her eyes were cold. “Then I remind them they’re not the only ones who can collect.”

The stew was bubbling warmly now, filling the cottage with the kind of comforting scent that could make anyone forget there were creatures in the world that drank blood for sport. Beverly stirred it with a casual hand, while Abigail leaned back against the counter, clutching a mug of tea that had long since gone lukewarm. Will had finished fixing the table leg and sat cross-legged on the floor, rolling a bolt of wood between his fingers, Winston’s head resting on his thigh.

Abigail tilted her head, her brow furrowed. “Could any of them… I don’t know, live among us? In the village. And we’d never know?”

Beverley snorted, her laugh short and incredulous. “What, you think Old Farmer Cross is hiding a mermaid in his rainwater tank? Or that Miss Ester from the chapel has a fae trapped in her birdcage, singing hymns in exchange for sugar cubes?”

Abigail grinned, just a little. “I mean… maybe?”

“No,” Beverley said, wiping her hands on her apron. “Werewolves hate people, and towns, and noise. They live in packs out in the mountains. You’d be more likely to find a bear in a butcher shop than a werewolf on Main Street. It’s vampires and shapeshifters you need to worry about in places like this.”

Will frowned, setting the bolt of wood aside. “Shapeshifters?”

“Exactly what it sounds like,” Beverley said, reaching for a spice tin. “They change shape. But they all come with a sign, a mark. Always on the wrist. Plum-coloured, like a bruise that never heals. They’ll do anything to cover it up. Scarves, gloves, long sleeves. Even in the heat.”

Abigail shivered slightly. “How would you even spot one?”

Beverley shrugged. “You don’t, usually. Not unless you’re looking, and even then—sometimes you catch them out of the corner of your eye, not quite… right. Like smoke trying to hold a solid shape. Or that strange jelly they always have at church cake stalls—too shiny, too perfect, but somehow… wrong.”

Will looked thoughtful. “Can they hurt people?”

“They can only harm you in the ways their current form allows,” Beverley said. “If they look like an old woman, they’ve got the strength of one. If they take the shape of a dog, you might want to watch your throat. Some of them can do other forms, but it takes effort. They’ve got limits.”

Will rubbed a hand along his jaw. “Can any of them… breed with us?”

Beverley paused, glanced at him, then back to the stew “Not usually. Mermaids are all women, right? They lure sailors to their deaths to, you know… make more mermaids.”

Will made a face.

“Fae are tiny,” Beverley continued. “Like parrots. That’s just biologically impossible. And vampires don’t reproduce like that. They have to bite to turn someone, and they only ever do it to adults. Can you imagine an eternal toddler?” Beverley laughed darkly. “Hell on Earth.”

Will raised an eyebrow. “What about shapeshifters?”

“That…” Beverley frowned, tapping the spoon against the side of the pot. “That’s a good question. I don’t think there’s ever been a verified case. I’d have to write to the Vatican, check their logs. But theoretically… it might be possible. If the conditions were right. It would likely need a human womb to carry it.”

Abigail groaned and slid down into one of the chairs. “Great. Perfect. Just what I needed. Another thing to worry about when I start dating. ‘Oh hi, yes, lovely to meet you, do you happen to have any mysterious purple birthmarks on your wrist? No? Oh good, then we can go for tea.’”

Will chuckled, but his eyes were distant, troubled. Beverley just stirred the pot again, letting silence fall for a few moments.

“Better safe than sorry,” she said finally. “Especially in this town.”

Will checked Winston’s ankles for good measure.
~
Abigail’s eyes narrowed slightly, her gaze traveling from Beverley’s head to her boots and back again. She tilted her head, the question dancing on her tongue for only a heartbeat before she let it fly.
“Are you… anything supernatural?”
Will blinked in surprise, his mouth twitching as though to say something—but he didn’t interrupt. Instead, he leaned forward slightly in his chair, intrigued.
Beverley didn’t even flinch. She let out a sigh like someone admitting they sometimes talk to plants and the plants talk back. She looked Abigail in the eye, a soft smirk playing at the corner of her lips.

“Just a regular old witch, I’m afraid.”

Abigail raised her eyebrows. “Witch?”

“Mm-hmm,” Beverley said, stirring the stew. “Not the cackling, broom-flying type. More the old-world kind. Healing, warding, poking at things I probably shouldn’t. Little bit of this, little bit of that.”

Will leaned back slowly in his chair, brow furrowed. “You’ve never mentioned that before.”

“You never asked,” she replied with a shrug, then flashed him a wry smile. “Besides, it’s not polite to go around announcing it. People get weird.”

Abigail crossed her arms. “So how old are you, exactly?”

Bev exhaled, setting the spoon aside. “Older than I look. Not ancient, not one of them—” she nodded vaguely toward the north, where the Lecter estate loomed like a shadow in the mountains—“but not young either. Let’s just say I was around before your grandma’s grandma, and leave it at that.”

Will opened his mouth again—likely to ask something else—but the knock at the door stilled them all.

Three raps. Firm. Official.

Will stood and crossed to it, glancing briefly at Beverley, who nodded once. Winston gave a soft whuff but didn’t move from his spot under the table.

He opened the door.

Jack Crawford stood in the early evening light, his face pinched with an unreadable expression. In his gloved hand, he held a parchment-thick poster, freshly inked, the crimson seal unmistakable.

“I thought you might want to see this,” he said, handing it to Will as he stepped inside.

Will took it, eyes scanning the elegant, looping calligraphy.

You Are Cordially Invited
To the Lecter Estate’s Autumn Banquet & Masquerade Ball
All Villagers of Age Welcome
To Celebrate the First Frost - Saturday, the 4th
Formal Attire Requested

Will handed the poster to Beverley, who held it at arm’s length like it might bite. Abigail leaned in to read it, her expression twisting with discomfort.

“Well that is an anomaly, it isn’t a full moon, that would be the 5th” she muttered.

Beverley nodded. “They’ve never invited the entire village before.”

“They barely talk to half of it.” Will added, rubbing the back of his neck.

Jack crossed his arms. “Something’s changed. Question is, are they showing their hand… or laying a trap?”

No one answered. In the distance, a cold wind whispered across the hills, and the smell of frost edged into the room through the open door.

“There’s only one way to find out, I guess we are going, except you Abigail, you will stay here.” Beverley said, sternly “And whatever happens, if we don’t come back, don’t come looking, I will send word to my bosses, someone will come for you in the event of our deaths, you will be protected as long as you don’t leave this house, you invite no one in, you lock the doors, you pull the curtains, and you stay inside.”

“Yes ma’am.” Abigail’s voice trembled slightly.

“We have two weeks to prepare.” Will sighed.

“It might be just enough time.” Beverley nodded.

Chapter Text

The night was cool, but not cold, the kind of spring evening where the last of the winter’s breath clung to the stone and wood of the village. Mist coiled low over the cobblestones as though reluctant to lift. A lantern flickered at the corner of the town square, casting long, reaching shadows.

Footsteps—light, deliberate—echoed against shuttered shops and the silent chapel. Bedelia Du Maurier walked with all the practiced grace of someone who had been watching humans for centuries. Her brown wool coat blended her into the mortal world, though nothing about her could ever truly be mistaken for ordinary. Beside her, Chiyoh moved like a phantom—slender and sharp, her eyes scanning the empty streets like a predator smelling blood in the air.

“It’s always interesting,” Bedelia murmured, “how quickly fear unravels the thread of civilization. A letter. A seal. A name written in crimson ink. And suddenly even the devout wonder if their gods will keep them safe.”

Chiyoh said nothing. Her attention was forward—toward the edge of the square where figures stood under flickering lamp light.

Will Graham. Beverly Katz. Jack Crawford. And Abigail Hobbs, standing just behind them, eyes narrowed with the quiet, watchful air of someone who had already seen more than her share of monsters.

The vampires slowed, but they did not falter.

Jack stepped forward, hands loose at his sides, but his posture coiled. “Out for a midnight stroll?” he asked, voice steady. “Bit unusual, seeing either of you outside the castle.”

Bedelia smiled faintly, her eyes shining like glass beneath the gaslight. “We’re merely attending to feast preparations,” she said, as if that explained everything. “The Lecters wish to welcome the village. Such things require… attention to detail.”

Chiyoh stood beside her like a statue, her eyes locked on Will. She studied him without expression—no curiosity, no recognition. Just a slow, simmering hunger, like a blade waiting to be drawn.

Will watched her right back, body angled slightly, protective. “You don’t usually run errands yourselves,” he said. “You send staff. Silent ones.”

“We wanted a touch more… subtlety,” Bedelia replied. “Something a servant cannot offer.”

Beverley took a step forward. Her hand was tucked deep into the folds of her skirt, gripping a small charm—ironwood and salt-etched, blessed and reblessed under cathedral light. She didn’t raise it, not yet.

Bedelia’s eyes slid to her, gaze lingering. She stepped closer. Inches now. The scent of her—incense and dry roses, and something else, older—filled Beverly’s nose. Her voice dropped into an ancient tongue. The old one. The Vatican’s forbidden dialect, said to have been created by Lucifer himself.

Beverley’s spine stiffened. She knew those words.

Bedelia smiled wider, almost pitying. In perfect, cold English she said, “Your trinkets are quaint, dear witch. But symbols cannot save you from what you’ve invited in. You toy with rituals you barely understand.”

Beverley didn’t move. “You think we’re scared?”

“I think,” Bedelia said, “you’re all unprepared. You still believe this is about power. It’s not. It’s about appetite.”

Will moved to stand beside Beverley, eyes narrowed. “What kind of appetite?”

Chiyoh finally spoke, her voice low and smooth. “The kind that outlives kingdoms.”

She took a single step toward Will. Not in threat. Not even interest. Just hunger. Cold and clinical. She looked at him as if he were a piece of music—familiar, unfinished.

Jack’s voice cut through the thick silence. “This isn’t your territory. We’ve kept peace in this village.”

Bedelia tilted her head. “We’ve lived among you for centuries, Mr. Crawford. There has always been peace. The only thing that’s changed is the invitation.”

She reached into her coat and pulled a folded square of parchment. She handed it to Jack—he took it warily.

A scarlet letter, wax-sealed with the Lecters’ crest.

“We look forward to seeing you all,” Bedelia said. “Dress accordingly.”

She turned, her coat swaying. Chiyoh lingered a second longer, eyes never leaving Will’s, then turned and walked beside her mistress.

Jack looked down at the letter, then up at the others. “They’re trying to lure us in.”

Will exhaled slowly, the knot in his stomach tightening. “And we’re going to walk straight into it.”

Beverley glanced at the ward in her hand. “We’d be fools not to.”

Will's voice was quiet behind them. “Then I guess we dress for the party.”

“Or the funeral.” Beverley swallowed.

The fog was thicker now, creeping like cold fingers across the village square, swaddling it in ghostly hush. The vampires had turned to go, but Abigail’s voice pierced the stillness, clear and tremulous.

“Is it true you live forever?” Abigail’s voice called out.

The question hung, a fragile thing in the damp air. Chiyoh paused mid-step, her chin turning just enough to glimpse Abigail from the corner of her eye. Without a word, she pivoted back, her boots soundless on the stones, her movements liquid.

She approached Abigail slowly, like a cat toward a sleeping bird, and circled her once—never touching, never close enough to breathe the same air, but close enough to be felt. Abigail stood very still, chin up, the faintest tremble in her hands.

“I was once your age,” Chiyoh said, voice quiet, low as tidewater. “A girl with blood drying on her hem and slit across my throat, I lay at the foot of a carved bed in a dark, stifling room. The lamps had gone out. The door was locked. I watched the shadows crawl the walls, and I waited.”

She circled Abigail again, gaze flicking down briefly to Winston, who sat alert beside Will’s feet, ears flat.

“I made peace with it. With the end. The failing of the body. The way pain becomes softness when it is stretched long enough. But death didn’t come.” Chiyoh’s eyes lifted to Abigail’s again. “It still hasn’t. It lingers. Gnaws. Never bites deep enough to take. Like that little dog of yours…” she nodded toward Winston, “…always behind you. Never far. Never close enough to catch.”

The air between them thickened with her words. Abigail swallowed.

Chiyoh’s head tilted, expression unreadable. “Tell me, Abigail Hobbs—what would you do with forever?” She let the question sink in before continuing. “When deadlines dissolve into fiction, when there is no urgency to act or speak or decide—would your mind hold firm? Or would it soften? Can you bear the burden of centuries, of watching every soul you know turn to smoke and soil, until even your name has been plucked from memory like a weed?” It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t even a warning. It was poetry, spoken by someone long past metaphor and into the marrow of meaning.

Will stepped forward, his voice firm and low. “That’s enough. Leave her alone.”

Chiyoh turned her head toward him but didn’t flinch. “Then teach her not to flirt with death if she cannot entertain its consequences.” She offered Abigail a long final look—curious, perhaps even reverent—and stepped back into the fog, returning to Bedelia’s side.

Abigail watched her go, her breath slow and shallow, her eyes shining not with fear but something more dangerous—fascination. She stood spellbound, gaze clinging to the otherworldly women like ivy on stone. The power. The stillness. The promise of it all.

Bedelia noticed. She smiled at Abigail, small and knowing, then turned her gaze to Beverley.

“And you,” she said smoothly, voice like velvet dragged across a blade. “You reek of immortality, but there is no stench of death on you.”

Bev’s mouth set, fingers still curled around the ward in her pocket. “You’ve got a hell of a nose.”

“Oh, it’s not smell, darling,” Bedelia replied, stepping closer, her eyes glinting. “It’s symmetry. You move like we do. Still as moonlight. Every breath, too conscious. Too contained.”

“I’m nothing like you,” Beverly snapped.

Bedelia’s smile deepened, serpentine and indulgent. “Of course not. But tell me—how many have you bled for knowledge? How many secrets have you carved from corpses with your silver scalpel? What do you dream of when sleep finally takes you—if it takes you?”

She leaned in, close enough for only Beverly to hear, though her voice still held no true whisper. “You are not the other side of the coin, witch. You are on the same side, only better dressed for daylight.”

Beverley’s jaw clenched. Bedelia’s eyes sparkled with amusement, and she turned away, walking with Chiyoh into the mist.

Jack was silent, watching them fade like ghosts. Will watched Abigail, who hadn’t moved since Chiyoh walked away.

“They’re gone,” Will said gently.

Abigail’s eyes flickered to him, then back to where the shadows had swallowed the women.

“I don’t think they ever really leave,” Beverley whispered “They’re not hiding themselves… something is mobilizing. I wonder what the Count is planning and if the other families are involved.”

“So, what do we do?” Jack asked, lighting his pipe nervously.

Chapter Text

The knock came just after midnight—soft, precise, and entirely expected.

Beverly Katz stood just inside the threshold of her old stone cottage, candlelight flickering over the timber walls behind her, a protective ward etched into the doorway with salt and chalk. A scent lingered in the cool air: old jasmine left too long in water, and something colder, metallic—like the edge of a silver blade held in gloved hands.

She opened the door but did not step back.

Chiyoh stood under the slant of the porch roof, perfectly still, her shadow long and motionless across the moss-covered path. Her coat, velvet-dark and buttoned high at the neck, shimmered faintly in the moonlight. Not a hair stirred in the wind. She did not blink.

“You’ve not invited me in,” she said, her voice as even and fluid as a glass of still water.

“No,” Beverly replied calmly, fingers resting lightly on the doorframe. “I haven’t. And I won’t.”

Chiyoh’s eyes swept across the threshold. “Very wise. Witches tend to have more sense than the usual townsfolk.”

Beverly didn’t move. “What do you want?”

“I could ask you the same.” Chiyoh tilted her head. “You’re not here for peacekeeping. You’re here for negotiations. The Vatican won’t settle until a papal seal graces a parchment with our names etched into eternal bondage.”

“No, they won’t” Beverly said dryly “Eternal bondage is what they want, to know you’ll play by the rules long after the Popes die out. Immortal and eternal.”

“Unless,” Chiyoh said coyly “Vatican City burns to the ground.”

Beverly gave a low, amused chuckle. “Is that a threat, Vampire?”

“You’d know if it were.” Chiyoh’s smile was sharp, not cruel, but edged with something deeper—regret, perhaps. Her voice softened. “You truly don’t recognize my mistress?”

That gave Beverly pause, then shook her head.

Chiyoh’s smile widened. “Strange, that. She recognizes you. Well—your mother. Your grandmother.” She stepped just a fraction closer, though still outside the line of salt. “Didn’t they burn at Salem? Haven’t you ever wondered who told the villagers what they were. And who… handed little Beverly to the Church.”

The words struck like a cold blade. Beverly’s breath caught. “You? You called the townsfolk on my family?”

“No. I didn’t. She did.” Chiyoh glanced at the castle in the distance.

“...You were the one who unlocked the cage…” Beverly couldn’t ward back the shock.

Chiyoh nodded, slow, solemn. “You were barely six. Caged. Watching them scream, claw, melt in fire. It doesn’t burn us, not the way it does witches. But you… you looked so small. So alone. I thought—what’s the harm?”

“You brought me to the Church.” Beverly’s voice was barely a whisper now. “You crossed onto the ground.”

Chiyoh nodded again.

“But how?” Beverly asked, bewildered. “You should’ve—burned.”

At that, Chiyoh bent and unfastened one of her boots. She peeled it off with delicate slowness, then rolled down her stocking.

A scar stretched across the sole of her foot—deep, bubbled, seared into flesh that refused to fully heal. Old, angry: a wound frozen in time.

“The fires of hell do not burn us,” she said softly. “But the heat of innocence does. The faith of the pure. That ground nearly took me. And yet—” she let the boot fall back into place—“I’d do it again.”

The silence hung between them, heavy and trembling.

Beverly swallowed. Her anger faded, replaced by something else. “Why save me? Why not let your mistress finish what she started?”

Chiyoh looked away, toward the trees. “I don’t know. Maybe I saw a flicker of something I lost. Maybe I was… tired of obeying,” Then she met Beverly’s gaze again, sharper now, colder “But you should leave. You’re not supposed to survive the dinner.”

Beverly’s brow creased. “What?”

“There’s a stake with your name on it,” Chiyoh said simply. “She has plans and she’s never liked unfinished business.”

Chiyoh turned without another word, her footfalls silent even over the gravel path. The wind curled in her wake, stirring leaves and salt and old secrets.

Beverly stood still in the doorway, the smell of old jasmine lingering, her hand pressed to her heart—burning.

“What’s the monster’s name?” She called “To name something is to have power over it.”

Chiyoh was before her in a blink, inches from her face “She has had many names, but the one you need, is Bedelia Du Maurier.”

“She’s French.” Beverly frowned.

“Aristocracy.” Chiyoh nodded.

“Are you really helping, vampire, or is this a game?”

“I am many things, but a liar isn’t one. Do yourself a favour and get out of this town, take yourself, take… the girl, and go.”

“Help us, vampire… Help us go against her.”

“Why? So the church can pull me onto consecrated ground and burn me like the witch trials? As payment for my good deeds?”

“I could ensure your protection…” Beverly reasoned.

“The Earth is only so big, at every corner my own kind could turn against me. I can’t outrun eternity. Run witch, take whatever you care with you.”

Chapter Text

The grand hall of the Lecter estate was cold with silence when Chiyoh stepped inside, her shoes clicking faintly on the black marble floor. The air smelled of wine, wax, and the lingering spice of blood, always present here, but subtle—like a scent burned into the walls.

“Where is he?” Chiyoh asked, her voice like velvet stretched taut.

Bedelia was already lounging near the hearth, sipping a deep glass of wine the color of garnet. She didn't look up as she answered, only swirled her glass and replied coolly, “The library. Brooding, I suspect.”

Chiyoh took a step forward, but Bedelia paused, sniffed once—twice—and slowly turned her head, fixing the younger vampire with her glacial stare.

“You’ve been with the witch,” she said, a gentle sing-song quality undercut with venom.

“I went to scare the girl,” Chiyoh lied smoothly, her eyes still, voice even. “Abigail. I thought she might be… ripe. But the witch stopped me.”

Bedelia rose slowly from her chair, predatory in her grace. Her lips curled into a sharp, insincere smile as she stalked forward. “You must think I’m very stupid.”

Chiyoh said nothing. Her face betrayed nothing.

The slap came without warning—swift, precise, and vicious. It didn’t break the skin, but deep red bruises bloomed like petals across Chiyoh’s cheek. She barely flinched.

“You think I didn’t recognize her?” Bedelia hissed. “She reeked of the Katz line. The same lineage I burned—twice. Grandmother and mother, both shrieking like kindling. And there was a child, wasn’t there?” Her heel struck hard into Chiyoh’s chest, sending her stumbling backward to the floor.

Chiyoh gasped, the wind knocked from her, but still made no sound of pain.

“The question,” Bedelia continued, circling like a lioness now, eyes glinting in the firelight, “is why she survived. How she survived. Unless someone…” She leaned down, hovering just above Chiyoh’s face. “Smuggled her away.”

Chiyoh remained still.

“Speak.” Bedelia pressed her foot hard into Chiyoh’s cheek, pinning her face against the cold floor. “Speak, or I’ll have your tongue for wine.”

It was then a hand appeared—long, pale, gloved in restraint—curled around Bedelia’s throat and gently, with terrifying calm, pulled her backwards. She choked, more in surprise than pain.

“Enough,” Hannibal said softly, behind her now. His voice held the weight of centuries, the quiet fury of a storm not yet broken. “You forget yourself.”

Bedelia’s eyes blazed, but she didn't resist. Hannibal’s grip was firm, final. He released her slowly, stepping past her to extend a hand to Chiyoh. The younger vampire took it silently, rising to her feet with a grace that barely betrayed the blow she'd taken.

“She was preventing you from blowing our cover,” Hannibal said plainly, brushing dust from Chiyoh’s shoulder. “From giving in to your impulses. From revealing the monsters we truly are.”

“We are monsters!” Bedelia spat, her hair wild now, her voice like a fire snapped loose from its fireplace. “And they should fear us. You’ve grown soft, Lecter.”

Hannibal turned to her then, fully, his eyes shadowed in the firelight.

“No,” he said. “I’ve grown careful.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Bedelia stared at both of them, trembling with indignation, teeth bared in a smile that didn't reach her eyes.

Chiyoh stood beside Hannibal, calm again, already healing. The gashes on her face were nothing compared to the heat that still burned on the bottom of her foot, the old scar of holy ground she'd crossed for a child she hadn’t been able to forget.

Bedelia downed the rest of her wine in a single, elegant gulp, and turned without another word.

Chiyoh’s eyes met Hannibal’s.

“She knows now.”

“I expected she would,” he replied.

The flames in the hearth crackled louder then, as if in warning.

~

Bedelia arrived just as the first threads of dawn bled into the sky, lavender and peach streaks creeping behind her, chasing the edge of her cloak like eager hounds. She slipped inside the great carved doors of Chilton Castle with a sweep of heavy fabric and the soft clack of heeled boots on polished stone, just as the sun crested the horizon. The doors groaned shut behind her, sealing out the light.

The interior was hushed, grand, cloaked in velvet darkness that suited her well. Cold stone warmed only by candlelight, and the faint scent of red wax and aged brandy.

“Bedelia,” said a voice, smooth and preening, before a shadow detached itself from the stairs and became a man. “To what do I owe the most exquisite surprise I’ve had all century?”

Count Frederick Chilton descended in full theatrical delight, robed in black and burgundy, his hair neatly combed back, his smile gleaming with polished charm. He took her hands as though they were relics, kissed both knuckles, then each cheek, then paused—too close—to kiss her lips. She allowed it, head tilting slightly with indulgent patience as he pulled her in by the waist.

“To appear at Chilton Castle on the very cusp of dawn,” he purred. “Tell me—did you fly? For you’ve made it just in time.”

“I loathe traveling by bat,” Bedelia said lightly, brushing the edge of her cloak off her shoulder as she stepped deeper into the hall. “But alas, it is necessary. One must keep up appearances.”

“Your presence certainly elevates them.” Chilton’s grin stretched wider. He moved to a silver tray and uncorked a decanter, pouring two glasses of thick, dark wine that glinted like garnet in the candlelight. “Will you drink with me? I keep your favorite in stock, of course.”

“Of course you do,” she murmured, accepting the glass with a soft smile. She swirled it once, then leaned in—not to drink, but to sniff. She moved toward him, just enough to let the stem of the glass lower, her nostrils flaring subtly as she took in the scent of his skin.

“Hmm. Alana Bloom,” she said, almost lazily, her voice a whisper, a note of silk and ice.

Chilton blinked. “What about her?”

“Can you send for her?” Bedelia asked, turning her head slightly, the candlelight catching in her eyes. “As soon as possible.”

He hesitated, eyes narrowing. “And why would I do that?”

“All will be revealed, Frederick,” she said, stepping closer, brushing one gloved hand along his chest. “But not just yet, the Vergers too, if you will.”

“Ah,” he said, regaining composure, “you and your riddles. It’s maddening, you know.”

“Then you’re still very much alive,” she said smoothly, tapping her glass against his. “Now tell me—would you mind terribly if I shared your bed for the day? I’m simply exhausted.”

Chilton’s grin became wolfish. “I’d be devastated if you didn’t.”

He extended his hand with an exaggerated flourish, leading her up the stairs as shadows clung to the hem of her cloak. Behind them, the great door remained shut tight against the sunrise. And above, the castle itself seemed to exhale, preparing for another day of secrets hidden behind stone, and silk, and blood.

Chapter Text

The room was dim, lit only by the soft flicker of a dozen beeswax candles clinging to the edges of gold sconces. It smelled of crushed herbs and resin, of lavender and burnt myrrh, steam curling upward from the basin where Chiyoh’s pale feet rested. The water shimmered with a faint blue sheen, a potion of Hannibal’s own making—ancient, alchemical, meant to dull the throb beneath her skin. The burns she never let heal.

Hannibal sat before her on a low stool, sleeves rolled to the elbows, hands gentle as he dabbed a cool cloth across the tops of her feet. His face was calm, but not without strain. He looked up at her with that impossible tenderness that made him, on rare occasion, seem almost human.

“What is Bedelia planning?” he asked quietly. “If you know… you have to tell me.”

Chiyoh’s eyes flickered toward the flame of a candle. “I don’t know.”

“You do.” Hannibal's voice was soft, but firm. “You’ve always known her better than she realises. You were her shadow before you were mine.”

She didn’t answer.

“Start at the beginning,” he said gently, dipping the cloth again. “Why did you go to see the witch?”

Chiyoh flinched slightly, barely perceptible, but Hannibal saw it. He always did.

“To save her,” she whispered.

“Again?” Hannibal asked, one brow raised, though his voice was still velveted affection. “Why?”

“I… I don’t know.”

He took a breath, carefully wringing the cloth before setting it aside. “Then allow me to offer a theory.”

He rose slowly, sitting beside her on the edge of the bed. “All the nights you’ve disappeared,” he said, folding his hands in his lap, “I’ve marked them. Do you know what they line up with?”

Chiyoh looked at him, unmoving.

“Midnight mass,” he said simply. “Every time. I hear the hymns from beyond the gates, even here, and I know you do too.”

She looked away.

“Religion conflicts with what we are,” he murmured, voice low. “At the core. It vilifies us. Condemns us.”

“I just like the music,” Chiyoh said quickly, too quickly. Her eyes stayed on the candle. “That’s all.”

Hannibal didn’t move, didn’t challenge her with force. He waited “It is like you go to repent, repent secretly, you can’t take the confessional, you’d die, but you try to absolve yourself, of what you hear, of what Bedelia says when you’re lurking in the shadows.”

And then, as if the words tore out of her, Chiyoh exhaled sharply and blurted, “She’s going to sabotage the festival.”

His brows twitched. “Bedelia?”

“Yes. She’s… planning something. I don’t know everything,” Chiyoh said, voice tightening, thick with dread, “but I know she’s called to the others. The old ones. The hungry ones. There’s going to be a feeding frenzy.”

The candle nearest them popped, wax hissing.

Chiyoh swallowed. “And… they’ll burn the witch.”

Silence bloomed, thick and sickening.

“She thinks so, at least,” she added, quieter, her voice nearly swallowed by the room.

Hannibal looked at her for a long time, his gaze unreadable. Not angry. Not afraid. Something deeper. He reached out and tucked a lock of her dark hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering against her cheek.

“Thank you for telling me,” he said, his tone even, measured—but there was a shadow growing in his eyes.

~

The dining hall of Chilton Castle was awash in gold candlelight and polished silver. High-backed chairs framed the great round table, and the air was thick with the metallic tang of fresh blood and the sweet, fermented musk of alcohol. In the centre of the spread was a decanter the colour of crushed rubies, steaming faintly where its contents met the open air.

Bedelia raised her goblet and swirled it thoughtfully, watching the thick crimson cling to the glass like syrup.

“Pig’s blood,” Chilton announced with a theatrical flair, leaning back with a self-satisfied grin. “A Verger exclusive. Alcoholic to our kind. Distilled directly from the rarest breeds.”

“Drunk pigs,” Mason chuckled, his teeth glinting in the candlelight. “We raise ‘em on molasses, berries, old wine. Enough sugar and booze in the flesh to kill a mortal. But for us?” He tipped his glass back. “It’s divine.”

Margot pressed a kiss against Alana’s neck, her lips lingering. “It’s how we built the dynasty,” she murmured. “We bleed them while they live. Drain them slowly over weeks. By the time they’re dry, they’re practically marinated. What’s left goes to the humans. Tastes like heaven, apparently.”

“The catch,” Alana added, plucking a strawberry from the table and dragging it through a smear of congealing blood, “is the hangover. Wicked.”

Chilton laughed loudly. “Speak for yourself. I find it rejuvenating.”

Bedelia took a sip and let it rest on her tongue. “You’re all wrong,” she said, softly. “It tastes like war.”

The room hushed, just slightly, heads turning toward her with interest.

Mason leaned forward, elbows on the table. “And what of Hannibal’s little soirée? Bringing together the sheep the night before the highest moon. What’s the play, hm? A masquerade of civility? A parade before the slaughter?”

Bedelia smirked faintly. “He thinks he’s being diplomatic. Sincerely, he wants to show the Church they’re no threat. That he and his little pets are enough to mean that we don’t need to sign the Rite like the rest of you.”

“And you believe him?” Mason asked, incredulous.

“No,” Bedelia replied. “I believe he believes it. Which is worse.”

Margot licked blood from her fingers, then leaned closer to Alana, biting at her collarbone playfully. “So what’s the plan?” she asked, voice muffled by skin.

“We swarm,” Bedelia said simply. “They’ll be gathered. We kill the village, leave the survivors to crawl to the Church with their stories. We remind them what power looks like.”

Alana let out a breathy laugh, still reclined in Margot’s arms. “Too obvious,” she drawled. “Hannibal would suspect it. The moment we start handing out wine and sharpened teeth, he’ll cut our heads off, killing us to dust in our sleep. No, if we move, it’s before—or after.”

“Before,” Margot suggested, her tone sharpened now. “They won’t expect it.”

“After,” Mason countered, eyes gleaming. “The disappointment will make the blood sweeter.”

Bedelia tilted her head, considering. “No,” she said finally. “We wait. A month, maybe more. Let them believe the charade worked. That the Lecters chose a pet, we are satisfied, and retreated into grace. Let the witch and her posse feel clever, smug, wronged or insecure, whatever the case may be”

She smiled, slow and thin. “Then we strike. Halloween. Full moon. Tradition. Legends say it’s when our strength peaks. The village will be distracted. Dressed in masks, feeding their young sugar, not fear. They won’t be watching.”

“They won’t be ready,” Mason said, delighted. “Delicious.”

Margot leaned back in her chair, doubtful. “A lot can happen in a month.”

“Yes,” Bedelia replied. “That’s why we let them relax. Let their guard fall. We stop circling like wolves. We smile. We entertain. Then… we devour.”

“What of your little pet?” Mason reminded “the Oriental one, Chiyoh.”

“I’ll take care of her.” Bedelia set her wine glass down.

Chapter Text

The church was quiet, too quiet. Stained glass filtered the cold morning light in streaks of pale rose and faded blue across the dusty pews. The great wooden cross at the altar loomed silently over them all.

Will paced the aisle like a caged animal, boots thudding softly against stone. His hands were shoved deep into his coat pockets, his jaw tense. Jack sat toward the front, arms folded, eyes narrowed. Abigail, curled on the edge of a pew, fiddled with a rosary someone had left behind. Beverly stood at the altar, leaning back against it like it might give her strength.

“This is going to end in a bloodbath,” Will said, low and certain. “He’s inviting all of them. The whole village. And I’ve seen him before. Hannibal… he only ever takes one man. One. Every few years. We know that now. But he keeps them. For a while. He eats them slowly. So how does he keep them alive?”

“He doesn’t need to take much,” Beverly answered. Her voice echoed, soft and clipped. “Blood replenishes. A pint, maybe two, and a human can walk it off. The older vampires only need to feed every few days. Some—if they’re disciplined—can stretch it to a month or more.”

Jack frowned. “And if they don’t feed?”

“They don’t die,” Beverly said, looking at him. “They age. Just like us. Slower, maybe, but it happens. Their skin wrinkles. Their hair grays. They feel pain. Time creeps in. But the moment they drink again—” She snapped her fingers. “It’s like they were never touched by time. They become exactly how they were when they were turned.”

Abigail shifted beside her, visibly unnerved. “So how are they made? Vampires, I mean.”

Beverly hesitated. “It’s... a ritual. The vampire drains the human, feeds until the brink of death. Then the vampire has to bite themselves and let the human drink. The exchange has to happen within minutes. The moment the human would’ve died, they drink—and then they turn.”

“Why don’t they just do that to all their victims?” Will asked, still pacing. “Make more. Grow an army.”

“It’s part of the Agreement,” Beverly said. “The Pact. The Church demanded it centuries ago. No more than one new vampire per hundred years per clan. Controlled. Tracked.”

“But the Lecters...” Abigail said slowly. “They didn’t sign, right?”

Beverly didn’t answer.

Jack leaned forward. “So what’s stopping them?”

The question hung.

Beverly’s eyes flicked toward the crucifix. She sighed. “My mother and grandmother... they were the ones who killed the Count and Countess Lecter. Hannibal’s parents. Decades ago. Lured them out, trapped them under daylight spells, and beheaded them both.”

Will finally stopped pacing. “And he knows?”

“He must,” Beverly said quietly.

Jack leaned back with a whistle. “Then wouldn’t that make him vengeful? I mean, Jesus. If someone did that to my family... I’d want to burn the whole world down.”

Beverly shifted uncomfortably. Her hands wrung the hem of her coat. She didn’t speak.

Abigail looked over, eyes narrowing. “Bev?”

Will turned, catching her silence.

The church felt colder than before, as if the truth itself chilled the stones. The stained glass dimmed as clouds passed over the sun, casting long, jagged shadows across the pews. Beverly stood still, her fingers splayed lightly over the altar as if drawing strength from the wood beneath her palms.

She took a breath.

“Mischa,” she said, the name soft and reverent.

Will looked up sharply. Jack’s brow furrowed.

“When the Lecters were killed,” Beverly continued, eyes distant, “they had taken in a child. A human girl. Mischa. She wasn’t food. She wasn’t meant to be turned right away. Hannibal was... brotherly to her. Protective. I believe they intended to raise her until she came of age, then turn her—let her choose it. Make her one of them, but not... too soon.”

Abigail shifted uneasily. “So what happened?”

“When the church came,” Beverly said, “and burned the Count and Countess Lecter, they didn’t just take lives. They took Mischa.”

Jack leaned forward. “Wouldn’t that make him more dangerous? More vengeful?”

Beverly shook her head. “She’s still alive.”

Silence.

“She’s like me,” Beverly said. “A witch. But more than that. Every once in a while, the Church reminds Hannibal. Sends him a letter. A message. Just enough to let him know she’s still in their care—and that if he steps out of line, if he breaks the agreement, they’ll make her death public. A burning. On consecrated ground. A place he cannot enter.”

Her voice trembled with an emotion she rarely let show. Respect. Fear. Grief.

“She taught me,” Beverly admitted. “Mischa is a Supreme. Mistress of the European Coven. I trained under her in Prague, before I was assigned here. She knows her life is the leash holding the Lecters in line. And Hannibal... he knows it too.”

Jack leaned back, exhaling. “So the church is blackmailing him with his own sister.”

“Yes,” Beverly said. “And it’s worked. So far.”

Abigail looked skeptical. “What about Bedelia? And the other one?”

“Bedelia doesn’t care,” Beverly said flatly. “If she knows—and I think she does—she likely encourages Hannibal to take Mischa by force. But he can’t. Mischa’s location is never fixed. She moves through the old countries, stays within heavily protected places. She oversees the illegally turned, trains the new generations of witches. She's a guardian. She’s necessary. And dangerous.”

Will stepped forward, eyes narrowed. “How old are you, Bev?”

The question landed like a stone dropped in still water. Beverly blinked, startled, then slowly straightened her posture, like the question itself forced her spine to remember.

She swallowed. “One hundred and eight.”

The room went still.

Will didn’t speak, nor did Jack. Abigail stared.

“The witch trials?” Jack finally asked, voice hushed.

“A century ago,” Beverly confirmed. “I was six. The woman with Bedelia, she dropped me off at the church, Mischa, barely 16 found me after... after they burned my mother and grandmother. She took me to the Church. The Lecters had died 13 years earlier, Hannibal had taken up Bedelia as his wife, and… the other I guess as a sister and a daughter, and Bedelia, found my family and either convinced Hannibal to tell the townsfolk about us, or did it behind his back, like I said, I don’t know how much they knew about Mischa or if it was just coincidence, but they burned my family.”

“She’s older?” Abigail asked.

“By about Ten years,” Beverly said. “Mischa turns one hundred and eighteen this winter. She rose fast. She was the daughter of a Supreme herself. The Lecters—Hannibal’s parents—ate her mother and father. But they kept Mischa. Something about her... potential.”

“And Hannibal taught her?” Will asked.

Beverly nodded. “Hannibal has his own form of magic. Not like ours. Older. Darker. He’s not just a vampire. He and Bedelia... they’re original. From the beginning.”

The shadows lengthened in the church. The sun slipped further behind cloud.

“So if there is a vampire bloodbath, Hannibal could lose Mischa. Despite her being like you, and potentially a threat, he doesn’t wouldn’t do that. It doesn’t make sense.” Jack smoked his pipe.

“No, but Bedelia, she’s not as fond of the rules and constraints.” Will spat.

Chapter Text

The moon hung low, casting its soft, silver glow over the cobbled streets of the town, a pale, eerie light that reflected off the fine dusting of autumn frost. The evening air was crisp, sharp, biting at the cheeks of those who gathered near the front gates of Lecter Castle. The invitation had been extended to all those in the village, and everyone—villagers, farmers, merchants, and even the occasional traveler—had gathered under the pretense of celebrating something much grander than the simple harvest that marked the end of the season.

The great iron gates creaked open, and the townsfolk began to file through. Their faces were half-hidden behind elaborate masks—brass, porcelain, velvet, or lace—each chosen with care, though none so elegant as those of the Lecters who stood at the heart of the event. The castle loomed in the distance, its ancient stones covered with creeping ivy, the windows aglow with the flicker of warm candlelight. The imposing façade gave way to the sounds of distant laughter and the swelling tones of a string quartet.

Inside, the grand ballroom shimmered in a golden light. The vaulted ceilings were draped with black and gold fabric, and beneath them, a thousand candles flickered, casting moving shadows on the walls. The floor, smooth and polished, gleamed under the steady rhythm of a waltz. Long tables were laden with food—roasted meats, exotic fruits, cheeses, and platters of delicacies from every corner of the world. Silver candelabras held the flickering flames high, their glow mixing with the soft tones of the orchestra’s strings.

From the balcony above, Hannibal and Bedelia stood, their eyes sweeping over the gathered crowd. The grandeur of the evening was deliberate, as always. A mask of opulence, beauty, and charm, all woven together to reinforce a carefully constructed illusion of civility. Beneath the surface, however, there was always the ever-present hunger—both literal and metaphorical—that pulsed at the core of the Lecters' world.

Beside Bedelia, Chiyoh stood like a shadow, her presence almost imperceptible except for the slight tension in her posture. She was watching the crowd below with a sharpness that could slice through bone. Her eyes, dark and piercing, scanned the room—every movement, every gesture, every whispered conversation—her mind racing with assessments, calculations, and worries.

“What is it?” Bedelia asked softly, sensing the shift in Chiyoh’s mood. Her voice, however, was light, teasing, as if she were fully aware of the vampire’s discomfort and enjoying the sight of it.

Chiyoh glanced at her, then quickly looked back to the crowd. "I don't like it," she muttered under her breath. Her gaze flicked over the dancers, noting each figure, each mask. "There's nothing... nothing unusual."

"No threat," Bedelia mused, taking a sip of her wine, her expression unreadable.

“But you’re waiting,” Bedelia continued, her lips curling into a slight smile. “Waiting for the other shoes to drop.”

Chiyoh’s lips parted to retort, but before she could, Hannibal’s voice broke in from behind them, soft and composed.

“Do you intend to stay here all night?” Hannibal asked, his voice a gentle murmur as he stood in the doorway. His dark eyes lingered on the gathered crowd below, but his attention was fixed on Bedelia. “The company is delightful tonight. Don’t you think?”

Bedelia raised an eyebrow, amused. “If you insist,” she said, brushing past him with a playful laugh.

Hannibal’s eyes flicked over to Chiyoh, his expression unreadable. Chiyoh turned slightly toward him, eyes narrowed as if measuring him. The connection between them was palpable—unspoken but understood.

“Don’t wander too far,” Hannibal said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Chiyoh said nothing but stepped back from the balcony, her figure vanishing into the shadows. As she moved, her sharp eyes skimmed the room again—looking, seeking, hoping for nothing. Her body was taut, as if anticipating a threat that never materialized. Yet still, she couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling deep in her gut.

The music swelled again, a string quartet playing a lively waltz that echoed through the grand hall. The dancers spun in perfect synchronization, their steps gliding across the polished floor. Masks glimmered in the flickering candlelight, and the sense of mystique—of illusion—was thick in the air.

On the ground floor, Jack Crawford, Beverly Katz, and Will Graham stood together at one of the edges of the ballroom, their eyes scanning the crowd. Each of them felt it—the subtle tension in the air, the sense that something was wrong. Something was amiss, even though everything appeared to be in perfect order. The people danced. They laughed. They clinked their glasses and filled their bellies. But there was no true joy in their movements. It was all too practiced, too perfect.

“Why are we here?” Will asked softly, his eyes watching the swirling figures on the floor below. “I mean, why would Hannibal invite us to this? This is all a game, isn’t it?”

“It’s a message,” Beverly said, her voice tight with nerves. She glanced over to where Hannibal was speaking with some of the villagers. His dark eyes were focused intently on the people in front of him, but there was an aura around him—a magnetic presence—that made it impossible not to look at him. “Hannibal’s sending a message. It’s... a performance.”

Jack frowned, rubbing his chin. “A performance for who? The town? Or... us?”

Beverly’s lips pressed together, the uncertainty creeping into her voice. “Both. Possibly both.”
Will was quiet for a moment before he caught Hannibal’s eyes across the room. The brief exchange of glances lingered, like an invisible thread pulling them together. There was something in Hannibal’s gaze—something that drew Will in, something warm, magnetic, almost... empathetic.

Hannibal, aware of Will’s stare, held his gaze for just a moment longer before turning his attention back to the crowd, his smile never fading.

“Stay alert,” Jack muttered. “We have no idea what’s really going on here. But whatever it is, it’s going to be ugly.”

As the night wore on, the music never stopped. The dancers never faltered in their step. And Hannibal, ever the gracious host, moved from group to group, laughing and telling stories with such ease that it was impossible to believe that behind those perfect manners lay something darker. His eyes never lost their sharpness, though—he observed everything with the keen gaze of a predator.

Meanwhile, Bedelia leaned against a marble pillar on the far side of the ballroom, her eyes following the movements of Beverly as she moved through the crowd. Her lips curved upward, her gaze sharp and knowing. She tilted her head as if considering something.

“Aw, expecting the worst of me?” Bedelia teased as she strode over to Beverly, her footsteps silent against the stone.

Beverly turned to face her, her body stiffening. The sudden appearance of Bedelia was like a stone sinking into water—ripples spread across the room. “Well, well, well, look what the 'Katz' dragged in.” Bedelia’s voice dropped, her words laced with subtle malice.

For a moment, the air seemed to freeze, every breath holding still in the vast, candle-lit room.

Bedelia’s eyes narrowed as she leaned in closer, her voice lowering to an ancient cadence. She spoke in the old language—words heavy with the weight of centuries. “Nothing is predictable, little witch. And immortals? We have all the time in the world.”

Beverly’s stomach twisted, the words carrying a chill deeper than the cold night air outside. Her eyes flickered to the balcony where Chiyoh had just disappeared. She could feel something in the air—an unspoken challenge, a sharpness in Bedelia’s words. But Bedelia only smiled, that unsettling, cold smile that never seemed to reach her eyes.

“You think you're the only one who can survive a game like this?” Bedelia’s voice was low, purring with dangerous amusement.

Beverly forced a tight smile, straightening her back. “I’ll be fine, Bedelia. You’re the one playing the wrong game.”

For a moment, there was an edge between them, a sharpness that cut deeper than the masks they wore. Then, as quickly as it appeared, Bedelia’s demeanor shifted again. She turned and walked away, blending seamlessly into the crowd.

Will caught Beverly’s eye, his brow furrowed with concern. “You okay?”

Beverly didn’t answer immediately, her eyes scanning the room again, this time more purposefully. “We’re being watched,” she said softly, almost to herself.

The night stretched on, the air inside Lecter Castle thick with the heady mix of wine, laughter, and the intoxicating scent of rich, warm blood. The villagers danced in circles, their bodies swaying to the orchestral waltz that seemed to echo louder with each passing moment. The music surged like a wave, pulling them deeper into the hypnotic spell of the evening. Some stumbled, a few teetered on their heels, but none seemed to mind. Their masks were all that remained of their identities, their faces hidden behind ornate, gilded surfaces, while their souls, already somewhat lost in the intoxicating blend of blood and wine, drifted farther away from reality.

The low hum of conversation and soft laughter filled the spaces between the music, as guests mingled and whispered in small groups. The air was thick with the scent of pigs’ blood, potent and intoxicating to the vampires among them, the effects of which were becoming increasingly evident in the way the villagers moved—slower, more languid, their laughter becoming slurred. There were a few who seemed oblivious, completely swept up in the spectacle, while others felt the edges of the night begin to slip, their drunkenness making them bolder, wilder.

As the evening grew older, the mood became more and more disjointed. Some villagers struggled to maintain their composure, swaying with the rhythm, while others were already lost in an intoxicating stupor, their eyes glazed and unfocused. Beneath the revelry, a quiet tension lingered, though most of the townsfolk were far too drunk to notice. But Jack Crawford, Beverly Katz, and Will Graham, all sharp-eyed and sober, watched the scene with a sense of unease, their minds constantly shifting, seeking out every hint of danger that might appear.

And then, as the music reached its crescendo, the sound of clinking glass rang through the room, sharp and sudden, drawing the attention of every single guest. Bedelia’s voice, smooth and unhurried, cut through the chatter, drawing every eye to her as she stood on the edge of the grand balcony, a glass of deep red wine in her hand.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she announced, her voice as cold and controlled as ever. “The Lecters have chosen their next Chosen One.”

A wave of murmurs rippled through the crowd, and for a moment, the music faltered, as if even the orchestra felt the weight of her words.

“This one shall be taught. This one will rise above all others,” she continued, her eyes scanning the crowd with sharp amusement. She glanced down at Will with a predatory gleam in her eyes. “And William Graham, dear William, has been chosen.”

A cheer erupted from the drunk villagers, their applause raucous and disoriented, but still loud enough to fill the hall. The applause was fervent, almost forced, but they did not know any better, lost in the haze of alcohol and the spectacle. They surged forward, pushing Will toward the Lecters, some of them already reaching to touch him, some pulling him closer, their hands grabbing at his clothes.

Jack instinctively moved toward Will, but Beverly placed a hand on his arm, stopping him with a soft, steadying touch.

“Don’t worry,” Will muttered, leaning toward Beverly, his voice steady but strained, “I’ll be fine, take care of Winston.”

Beverly’s gaze softened, though the tension in her posture remained. “Stay alert,” she whispered, even as she watched Jack’s reaction, knowing he’d want to intervene.

Will nodded, but there was little he could do as the villagers, drunk on the power of the moment, shoved him toward Hannibal and Bedelia.

“Come along, William,” Hannibal’s voice called out from the center of the ballroom, smooth and welcoming as always. “There’s no need to resist.”

The villagers’ clapping and shouting faded as they were ushered out of the ballroom, the music slowing to a stop, and the last few drunken laughs dissolving into the distance. The castle grew quieter, and the lights dimmed as the last of the partygoers were escorted from the room, leaving Will standing alone with Hannibal and Bedelia. The echo of footsteps on the stone floors became a hollow sound as the vast emptiness of the ballroom settled in.

Now, the air was heavy with anticipation, suffocating in its stillness.

Bedelia circled around Will, her movements like a predator stalking its prey. She eyed him with an intensity that made him feel small, vulnerable, her smile predatory.

“You know why you’re here, don’t you?” she purred, her eyes gleaming with amusement.

Will stood tall, though his muscles were tense, coiled tightly with a sense of unease. He gave her a measured nod. “I am food,” he replied, his voice calm but with an edge of bitterness.

Bedelia’s smile only widened as she leaned forward, her fingers brushing against his cheek, soft, as though she were caressing a pet. “A good boy,” she said, her tone almost maternal. “And if you behave, you’ll last another year.”

Will swallowed hard, trying to steady his breathing. The weight of her words, the promise of whatever fate awaited him, pressed down on his chest, suffocating him. But before he could respond, Hannibal stepped forward, his voice cutting through the tension.

“Enough, Bedelia,” Hannibal said, his voice soft yet commanding. “It’s time for you to retire for the evening.”

Bedelia shot Hannibal a look, but she didn’t argue. With a sigh, she stepped back, her heels clicking sharply on the floor as she turned and walked toward the darkened hallway, her figure swallowed by the shadows.

Hannibal’s attention shifted back to Will, his gaze softening, though there was still an underlying current of darkness in his eyes.

“Come,” Hannibal said, his voice gentle as he gestured for Will to follow. “I will show you to your room.”

Will hesitated, but the weight of the moment pressed in on him. He followed Hannibal through the dark, winding corridors of the castle, the oppressive silence of the halls a stark contrast to the chaos of the earlier party.

Once inside the room, Hannibal closed the door behind them, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. Will took in the lavish surroundings—the heavy, dark curtains, the intricate tapestries, and the large, imposing furniture that seemed to dwarf everything around it. It felt like a prison, though no bars or chains were visible.

“Apologies,” Hannibal began, his voice low and almost regretful. “For you being chosen. Bedelia… she’s jealous of women. She always has been. So, she feeds on men—she prefers them. You’re merely the next in line.”

Will turned to face Hannibal, his face a mixture of disbelief and wariness. “Why do you let her do what she likes?” he asked, his voice quiet but sharp with an undercurrent of suspicion. “Why do you let her have so much power?”

Hannibal’s smile faltered, a flicker of something darker passing over his features before he answered, his voice tinged with something unfamiliar.

“I once had love for her,” Hannibal confessed, his gaze distant as though lost in the weight of the past. “But I never truly evaluated it, not until recently. All these years with her… they pale in comparison to what an eternity of loneliness would be like. Time, Will, becomes unbearably slow when you have forever to live.”

Will’s brow furrowed as he took in Hannibal’s words. “But why not leave?” Will pressed. “Why not stop all of this? Get away from it all?”

Hannibal turned to face Will, his expression unreadable. “Because the only way to protect you from whatever Bedelia is planning is to have you here,” he said, his voice firm. “If you’re not here, then you’re vulnerable. And I will not allow that.”

Will’s heart sank at the words, the weight of his helplessness pressing in on him like a vise. He couldn’t escape, not now—not from Bedelia, and certainly not from the castle.

“I’m sorry,” Hannibal murmured, his voice softening as he placed a hand on Will’s shoulder. “But this is for your own good.”

Will stood quietly for a moment, his fingers brushing lightly against the cool stone of the room. The dim light from the flickering fireplace cast long shadows across the walls, stretching and twisting like dark tendrils. His gaze, however, remained fixed on Hannibal, who stood by the window, looking out into the night.

Will broke the silence, his voice quiet but steady. "What’s it like? To be bitten… fed from?"
Hannibal turned his head slightly, eyes narrowing, as though considering the question carefully. Then, he gave a small, almost imperceptible smile.

“It’s like the sting of a bee,” Hannibal replied, his voice low and measured. “A sharp, brief pain. Then nothing. It’s as if the sensation disappears entirely, leaving no trace. It’s the hunger that drives it—the need to feed. Afterward, a slight headache, perhaps, but it’s nothing compared to the fulfillment of that need.”

Will exhaled slowly, processing the information. He hadn’t expected such an honest answer, though there was something unsettling in Hannibal’s calmness about the entire thing. It was as though feeding was simply part of his nature—like any other mundane task. Will chuckled softly, the sound coming out lighter than he’d intended.

“I get those headaches a lot,” he said, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “My father used to say it’s because I think too much. Can’t turn it off.”

Hannibal’s expression softened slightly, but he didn’t respond to Will’s words. Instead, he returned his gaze to the window, watching the shifting shadows outside, as if contemplating the night itself.

Will stood still for a moment, his thoughts swirling. The questions, the curiosity, the pull that Hannibal had on him—it was all too much, too consuming. Finally, he asked the one question that had been gnawing at him, the one he could no longer ignore.

“Why am I not afraid of you, Hannibal?” Will’s voice was quiet, but the intensity in his words cut through the stillness of the room. “Why does something like you, something so powerful, not scare me? In fact…” Will hesitated, as if the admission itself was difficult, but then the words spilled out, raw and honest. “It infatuates me.”

Hannibal’s eyes, sharp and calculating, shifted back to Will, his gaze holding steady. There was something unreadable in his expression, a flicker of something deeper, more ancient, but he didn’t move.

“You fear what you don’t understand, Will,” Hannibal said, his voice calm, but with an edge that could have been mistaken for affection. “But you understand me, don’t you? You’ve seen the darkness within yourself, and you’ve seen the darkness in me. And perhaps, in some way, that makes us less frightening to one another.”

Will didn’t know how to respond, the weight of Hannibal’s words hanging in the air like a delicate thread between them. He wanted to say something—anything—that might explain the strange sensation that had been growing inside of him. Something deeper than fear, something inexplicable. Something dangerous. But the words wouldn’t come. Instead, all he could do was stand there, caught in the pull of Hannibal’s presence.

Hannibal’s voice broke through the silence again, softer now, almost as if speaking to himself more than Will.

“Perhaps, Will,” Hannibal said, his eyes narrowing slightly, “you are drawn to what you see in me because you see it in yourself. A longing for something more. Something eternal.”

Will swallowed hard, his heart hammering in his chest. He wasn’t sure whether to be comforted by the statement or terrified by it. The weight of it, the truth in it, was like a heavy burden pressing down on his soul.

“I don’t…” Will started, but his voice faltered. “I don’t know. I just—there’s something about you. Something I can’t explain. Something I shouldn’t feel. But I do.”

Hannibal didn’t speak for a moment, as if he were waiting for Will to find the words that would make sense of it all. When he did speak, his voice was gentle, as though soothing the very doubts Will had laid bare.

“Sometimes, Will,” Hannibal said softly, his tone almost affectionate, “the things that we cannot explain are the very things that define us. And perhaps, in time, you will understand why you feel the way you do.”

Will could feel the weight of Hannibal’s gaze, sharp and intense, as if piercing right through him. But instead of shrinking from it, he felt himself drawn in closer, pulled toward that dark center of gravity that seemed to exist only between them.

The silence stretched out, but it was a comfortable silence now, heavy with understanding—or at least the promise of it. Will couldn’t help but wonder how much of it was real, how much of it was manipulation, and how much of it was his own weakness—his need for something he couldn’t name.

Will stood silently for a moment, his thoughts turning inwards as he processed the tension in the air. The heavy atmosphere between him and Hannibal had been a strange one ever since their conversation, and though they hadn’t spoken much more since, Will couldn’t shake the sense of foreboding that lingered. The feeling was like a storm on the horizon—dark, inevitable, and yet still too distant to fully understand.

His voice, however, broke the quiet, an undercurrent of curiosity threading through his words. "What’s Bedelia planning?" he asked, his gaze fixed on Hannibal, as though the question was one that had been gnawing at him for far too long.

Hannibal turned to face him, his eyes narrowing slightly as if weighing the decision to reveal what he knew. There was no denying the fact that the situation with Bedelia had been growing more tense. It was becoming clear that whatever she had in mind wasn’t just a simple game or a passing whim. There was something far deeper at play, and the risk was only growing.

“I’ve talked with Chiyoh,” Hannibal said after a brief pause, his voice smooth but laced with an edge of caution. “She spoke to me about Bedelia’s intentions. She believes Bedelia is preparing to make her move soon. That much, at least, is clear. Chiyoh believes that she is stirring up trouble with the other the families, in order to create some kind of bloodbath, take back the power of the vampires, make us Apex predators again, rule the world so to speak”

Will’s brow furrowed, his expression shifting from curiosity to concern. He’d already suspected that Bedelia’s actions were part of a larger scheme, but hearing it from Hannibal’s lips felt like the final piece of the puzzle falling into place.

Hannibal continued, his gaze now more focused, as though parsing through his thoughts. "But nothing has happened yet. I can sense the presence of vampires in the area—familiar presences, the Blooms, the Chiltons, the Vergers—but none of them are anywhere near. They’re up to something, no doubt, but they’ve kept their distance for now."

Will’s eyes narrowed, piecing together the information as it came. "So you think they’re waiting for something?"

"Exactly," Hannibal replied, the word carrying a certain weight.

Will nodded slowly, processing what Hannibal had shared. It made sense. Bedelia, for all her control and careful demeanor, had never been one to keep her emotions hidden completely. If Hannibal was correct—and Will had no reason to doubt him—it was clear that Bedelia was planning something far more intricate than what anyone had anticipated “You won’t let her do anything though, will you, for Mischa’s sake. So, what’s your plan?" Will asked, his voice low, the uncertainty still creeping through him. "How do you stop her from doing whatever it is she’s planning?"

“How do you know about Mischa?”

“Beverly trained under her.”

“It is true that the church threatens Mischa to keep me in line, but I am not even sure she’s alive.”

“Beverly said she just turned one hundred and eighteen, she’s a supreme.”

Hannibal’s lips curled into a small, knowing smile, but there was a sharpness to it, something that spoke of a mind always ten steps ahead. "I’ll have Chiyoh act as my eyes and ears. A watchdog of sorts," he said, his voice calm but decisive. "She will tail Bedelia. Watch her movements, track her actions. I trust Chiyoh. She will be discreet, and she knows how to stay out of sight."

Will’s mind raced. He was beginning to understand the lengths to which Hannibal would go to ensure control, to prevent any potential threat from gaining the upper hand. The idea of using Chiyoh as a lookout, even though it felt like something out of a spy novel, made a certain kind of sense. Hannibal’s world was a maze of lies, power struggles, and hidden motives, and having someone as resourceful as Chiyoh on his side could tip the balance in his favor.

"But how do we know Bedelia won’t figure it out?" Will asked, his voice skeptical but still hopeful.

Hannibal’s smile grew slightly, a touch of admiration in his eyes. "Bedelia is clever, yes. But Chiyoh is even more so. She knows how to move in the shadows, to blend into the background. Bedelia won’t suspect a thing—not yet. And as long as we stay ahead of her, we can control the situation."

Will nodded, the weight of the conversation settling over him. "And if something goes wrong?" The question hung in the air, unspoken but present, heavy with the potential consequences of failure.

Hannibal turned to him, his gaze steady, almost reassuring. "Then we adapt. We’ve done it before, Will. We will do it again."

Will met Hannibal’s eyes, the tension that had existed between them now shifting, becoming something else—an understanding, perhaps, or simply an acceptance of the reality they now found themselves in. The line between them had never been more blurred, and Will wasn’t sure if he was walking into something far more dangerous than he could ever comprehend, or if he had finally found someone who understood the darkness that resided within him. Either way, there was no turning back now.

Hannibal's voice broke the silence, soft and deliberate. "I will keep you safe, Will. As long as you remain under my protection, nothing will harm you." The words were both a promise and a warning, but they were said with such conviction that Will found himself believing them, if only for a moment.

He took a breath, his heart pounding in his chest. There was something unnerving about the way Hannibal spoke, the way he operated—so sure, so confident. But Will couldn’t deny the pull, the sense that Hannibal’s world, twisted as it was, had become a strange, magnetic force that he couldn’t seem to escape. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to escape it, either “And what is to be my payment for such protection?”

“Bedelia thinks by having you here we will eat you, and you won’t be a threat any longer, but, what she doesn’t know is that I have no plans to eat you. As long as you stay in this room, she can’t come in, old magic, older than her, older than Beverly, wards my family built into the walls of this castle. Stay here.”

Chapter Text

The bath was deep and steaming, the room thick with the scent of jasmine and bloodroot oil. Bedelia lounged in the vast marble tub like a queen in her throne, the water lapping against her pale skin, veiling her body in curling steam. Her head lolled back against the bath’s carved rim as Chiyoh, poised and silent, brushed the ends of her golden hair with a heavy ivory comb. The rhythmic sweep of the bristles was the only sound for a long while, save for the gentle bubbling of the water and the occasional crackle of fire from the hearth nearby.

Bedelia sighed with something close to pleasure. “It was a success, wasn’t it?” she said, her voice languid and sweet as syrup. “The villagers loved it. They danced like fools, drank like pigs, and when we announced our little William would be staying, not a single protest.”

Chiyoh said nothing. Her hands moved steadily through the curls of Bedelia’s hair, smoothing, untangling. Her face remained blank, unreadable.

“The root of our problems,” Bedelia continued, drawing a lazy finger through the water, “is now safely tucked away in the larder. All those instincts, all that stubborn cleverness—marinated now in uncertainty. It won’t be long before he breaks down, and then we feed.” She smiled to herself, eyes closing briefly. “After that, just the witch. Take her out, and we can finally move forward.”

Chiyoh stilled momentarily, the brush pausing mid-stroke.

“You,” Bedelia went on, “you’ll be rewarded, of course. A castle of your own. Your own domain. Your own hoard. You’ve earned it, haven’t you? So many years as a quiet, obedient thing. It's time you moved up in the world.”

Chiyoh remained still. She neither nodded nor shook her head. The brush resumed its soft passage through the golden locks. Her expression stayed distant, as though the promise meant little—or perhaps too much.

The door opened quietly, and Hannibal stepped inside.

His presence shifted the air in the room instantly, like a cold breeze snuffing out a candle. Bedelia’s eyes opened at once, a slow smile curling across her lips as she turned her head. “Darling. Have you come to bathe me yourself?”

“No,” Hannibal said smoothly, his voice a soft murmur of velvet and steel. “Only to speak. Chiyoh, you’re excused.”

Chiyoh rose without a word, setting the comb gently on the table beside the tub. Her eyes met Hannibal’s briefly—communicating something silent and solemn—before she disappeared into the shadows beyond the door.

Hannibal picked up the comb, stepping behind Bedelia and kneeling at the bath’s edge. He dipped the ivory teeth into warm water before dragging them carefully through her wet hair. His touch was as gentle as Chiyoh’s, perhaps even more so, but the mood had changed. There was no indulgence now—only calculation.

“You should tell me,” he said quietly. “What the plan is. And why.”

Bedelia tilted her head slightly, the corners of her mouth twitching upward. “You don’t trust me?”

“I trust you to always have a plan,” he said. “Whether I agree with it is another matter.”

She chuckled, low and pleased. “You’ll be so proud of me, Hannibal. When this is all done, we’ll have peace. True peace. Not negotiation. Not compromise. Not groveling at the feet of men who claim God gave them power. The Church will leave us alone—not because they’ve come to an agreement—but because they’ll fear us.”

The comb paused briefly in his hand. “And how do you intend to accomplish this fear?”

Bedelia leaned forward in the bath slightly, letting the water rise around her collarbones. “By wiping out the village. Not with a show. Not in one night. No. We make them vanish. Piece by piece. Quietly. So no one suspects anything until it’s too late. The Lecters, finally atop the pecking order again. Worshipped, not questioned.”

“And Mischa?” Hannibal asked, the brush lowering into his lap. “Is she not a part of that church?”

Bedelia’s smile faltered.

“She’s still their hostage,” Hannibal continued, his voice hardening ever so slightly. “If we disrupt the balance, if we draw too much attention, they’ll burn her. You know this.”

Bedelia’s face shifted—thoughtful, then cunning. “Not if we find her first,” she said, turning her head just enough to see him over her shoulder. “We take her back. Before anything else. We turn her—make her one of us. Then they can’t touch her. She’ll be untouchable, like we are.”

Hannibal was quiet for a long time, the comb once again dragging slowly through her hair. “And you believe she’ll accept this? That she’ll let herself be turned?”

“I think,” Bedelia said, eyes glittering, “that it would be nice to have her back within these walls. The castle has been so… dull without a proper Lecter daughter. Besides, she’s had her time among the holy. Time to return to the family.”

Hannibal stared at the strands of gold running between the teeth of the comb, unmoved. “And if she doesn’t want to return?”

Bedelia leaned back, water sloshing gently around her. “Then we make her understand,” she said softly. “Family is everything, Hannibal. Even to monsters.”

He said nothing, setting the brush aside and standing. Steam clung to his coat, curling around him like mist. He turned from her, walking toward the window as moonlight spilled through the high glass.

“You cannot control everything, Bedelia,” he said finally.

“No,” she replied, reclined again in her bath. “But I can control enough.”

He looked back at her, the glow from the water flickering on the marble walls.

“Don’t force my hand,” he said. It wasn’t a threat. It was a promise.

Bedelia smiled as she closed her eyes. “You’ll thank me when we’re gods.”

“I don’t want whatever it is you’re planning.”

“You don’t know what you want,” she said again, her voice slow, almost scolding. “You’ve gone so soft, Hannibal. Your parents—they were warlords. Fears. Nightmares. I remember the times at your castle, when you were courting me, before they died. They were powerful. Commanding. Terrifying. They taught you and Mischa the way of the old. And now look at you. Playing at humanity. Hosting balls. Smiling for farmers. You think Mischa would respect this... this diplomacy? Your parents would be ashamed of you.”

She let the words hang in the air, confident in their cut.

Hannibal turned slowly, his face unreadable. Not angered—yet not calm either. The silence between them thickened, filled with something dark and ancient. His eyes, that strange and endless brown, regarded her not with hurt, but with something worse.

Pity.

“My parents,” he said, voice smooth as black glass, “were tyrants.”

Bedelia blinked.

“They were powerful, yes. But power without purpose is madness. They sought dominion over blood, over land, over each other. Even their love for Mischa and I… was a kind of control.” He stepped closer to the tub, his hands folded behind his back. “You see power as an end. I have lived long enough to see that it is a means. One that consumes those who fail to wield it with care.”

Bedelia’s eyes narrowed, but she said nothing.

“I remember those nights as well,” Hannibal continued. “When I courted you. You loved the castle. The rituals. The chaos. But you never understood the cost. My parents were not gods. They were monsters. Beautiful ones—but monsters nonetheless.”

He lowered himself to sit beside the bath, slowly. Intentionally. His gaze pierced through the steam like the tip of a blade.

“They taught Mischa and I the ways of the old,” he admitted. “But it was Mischa who reminded me of mercy. Of wonder. She did not hunger for power. She was light, where the rest of us fed on shadow.”

He looked down at the water, rippling softly from Bedelia’s slow movements.

“When the Church took her, it was not just punishment. It was a lesson. One I’ve had over a century to consider.”

Bedelia’s mouth twitched. “So what? You think being kind will win them over? That if you show them you’re civilized, they’ll just forget what you are?”

“No,” he said simply. “I do not ask them to forget. I ask them to choose. As I have. To be more than what our blood demands of us.”

He stood then, slow and tall.

“Your problem, Bedelia, is that you think the past was glory. I remember it as blood.”

There was a long silence.

Then Bedelia, still reclining like a queen in the bath, tilted her head back and laughed—a soft, indulgent sound. “You sound like Mischa.”

“I take that as a compliment,” he said, his voice quiet.

Her laughter faded, replaced by something colder. “She won’t come back to you. She’s too clever for that. She’s survived too long.”

Hannibal's eyes darkened slightly.

“And if she doesn’t want to come back,” Bedelia said, almost purring, “what will you do then? Let her die for the cause? Let the church keep its sword over your neck forever?”

“I will not betray her to save myself,” Hannibal said. “And I will not let you force my hand.”

Bedelia leaned forward, elbows on the edge of the tub. “You think I’m your enemy?”

“I think you’ve forgotten what loyalty means,” he said. “And that makes you dangerous.”

She smirked, but there was a flicker in her eyes—doubt, perhaps, or recognition of something she’d long buried.

“Enjoy your bath, Bedelia,” Hannibal said, turning again toward the door. “And remember: the old ways died with my parents. Do not resurrect them.”

And with that, he vanished into the shadows of the corridor, his coat trailing like smoke behind him, leaving Bedelia with her oils, her silence, and her ghosts.

Chapter Text

The cottage was dimly lit, candles flickering low on the windowsills. Rain tapped against the windowpanes like impatient fingers. Beverly paced in front of the hearth, eyes darting between Jack and Abigail. Jack was tense, practically vibrating with frustration, while Abigail’s arms were crossed, her eyes sharp and burning.

“We can’t wait,” Jack barked. “We don’t know what they’re doing to him—”

“He’s not dead yet!” Abigail snapped. “But he will be if we keep sitting here pretending we’re in control!”

“That’s enough!” Beverly shouted.

The room shook.

Not from her voice—but from something else. A wave of invisible force rippled out from Beverly, like a pulse of thunder wrapped in silk. It silenced them instantly. The flames in the candles flared, then settled. Abigail stumbled back a step, her mouth hanging open. Jack froze mid-step, blinking like he’d just been slapped by the very air.

“We didn’t expect this,” Beverly said, her voice firm and controlled. “We didn’t plan for this. But it’s happened. And based on everything we know, we can assume Will has… maybe a year. At best. Then he’s dead.”

Abigail’s face twisted. “It was the Asian one.”

Jack frowned. “What?”

Abigail turned to them. “At the party. The one on the balcony. When she was in the street, with Bedelia, she kept watching Will. Like she knew. Like he was selected.”

Winston began barking—loud, furious, sharp. The sound cut through the tension like a blade.

He stood stiff at the door, his hackles raised. Then a strange stillness washed over the room. The kind of stillness that makes the hairs on the back of your neck rise. Something was outside.

Beverly moved to the door cautiously, her palm glowing faintly with power. She cracked it open.

Standing in the misted threshold was Chiyoh.

Her face was calm, unreadable, framed by rain-slick black hair. She made no move to speak. No move to advance.

Jack didn’t wait.

He lunged.

With a snarl, he slammed into her, taking her to the ground with all the force of a trained hunter. His fist met her jaw with a sickening crack—and he was the one who screamed. Bone shattered on impact. He reeled back, clutching his hand, teeth bared in pain.

Chiyoh lay still beneath him, utterly unaffected, eyes blinking slowly up at the sky. Only when Jack doubled over, swearing under his breath, did she speak.

“Are you done?” she asked, coolly.

Bev was already there, grabbing Jack by the shoulders and yanking him back. “Enough, dammit. You can’t hurt a vampire like that. Not unless you’re armed with more than fists.”

Abigail stood frozen behind them, staring with wide, uncertain eyes.

Beverly reached down, her tone cautious but not unkind. “Let me help you up.”

Chiyoh accepted the hand. Her grip was cold, strong, ancient.

“What’s your name, vampire?” Jack demanded, still cradling his broken hand.

Chiyoh dusted herself off, gave him a look that bordered on amusement, then turned to Bev.

“I am Chiyoh,” she said simply.

The room fell silent again. The rain picked up outside, drumming harder against the glass. Winston growled low in his throat, but didn’t bark this time.

Chiyoh’s presence seemed to warp the air itself—like a storm walking in the shape of a woman. She looked to Beverly now, gaze softening only slightly.

“I came to talk,” she said. “And… to warn you.”

Abigail took a step forward, voice edged. “Warn us about what?”

Chiyoh looked at each of them, then lowered her gaze.

“Bedelia Du Maurier.”

Beverly’s jaw clenched. “What about her?”

“She intends to devour your friend,” Chiyoh said. “But not all at once. She prefers a slow feast. Over the course of a year. A tradition, among the old houses.”

“And you’re just… telling us this?” Jack asked, disbelief thick in his voice.

“I owe him a life,” Chiyoh said. “He was chosen because I hesitated. I do not wish for him to die.”

Abigail’s voice was ice. “Then why stand by and let him get taken?”

Chiyoh looked at her, eyes dark. “Because I am bound by more than just will. Bedelia’s reach is long, and I am not yet free.”

A tense silence settled, broken only by the soft creak of the cottage walls and the sound of Chiyoh’s quiet breathing.

“What do you want from us?” Beverly asked.

“To keep him alive,” Chiyoh said. “And to keep Bedelia in the dark.”

Bev looked her over, her witch’s instincts burning, uncertain.

“You better not be playing both sides,” Jack warned.

Chiyoh didn’t flinch. “I’ve made my choice.”

Winston finally settled, laying back down by the fire. Abigail stepped closer to Beverly, eyes still narrowed in suspicion.

Beverly nodded once, slowly. “Then let’s talk.”

“Find Mischa, bring her here. I would find her myself, but I can only hunt at night, and I don’t have safe places to hide of a morning, if you want your Will back, you need to find her and have her come here.”

“Why?” Abigail’s voice came from inside.

“Because Hannibal won’t kill Bedelia, but Mischa could, if she was asked.”

“Can’t you do it?” Beverly watched Chiyoh carefully.

“Not without causing hellfire. Find Mischa. In the meantime, I will do my best to keep your dear William safe.”

~
The sun had set behind the jagged mountains when Hannibal entered the east wing guest quarters with a silver tray balanced in his hands. The castle had grown quiet as the moon took its place in the sky, and the deepening blue cast long shadows through the leaded windows of Will's room.

Will was sitting on the edge of the velvet-settee, half-dressed, his hair a tousled mess of curls, looking more like a misplaced poet than a prisoner. When the door creaked open, his eyes flicked toward it, surprised to see Hannibal himself instead of one of the silent-footed servants.

The scent hit him first—savory, warm, utterly disarming.

"Is that..." Will squinted. "Bacon?"

Hannibal gave a faint smile, walking in with the same grace that unnerved so many. “And eggs. Poached to perfection. Darjeeling tea, aged and smoked in barrels from Nepal. Your body still needs proper sustenance.”

Will blinked as the tray was set before him on the low table. The plate was arranged like art—glossy pink strips of bacon crisped just right, golden-yolked eggs soft and trembling, toast cut into triangles and slathered with a thin sheen of butter that shimmered in the candlelight.

“I feel like I should be suspicious,” Will said, eyeing the food. “Are you fattening me up? Ripe for feeding?”

Hannibal sighed gently, settling into the armchair opposite him. “That would certainly please Bedelia. She prefers her meals… tender.”

Will gave a dry, humorless chuckle, but picked up his fork anyway. The first bite of egg made him pause—close his eyes. It was divine. He hated how divine it was.

“You’re a good cook,” Will said begrudgingly.

“I was taught by the finest, and taught myself better still.”

Will chewed, swallowed, then sipped the tea. It was floral, smoky, unlike anything he’d tasted before.

“You’re lucky I’m starving.”

“I counted on it.”

They sat in a moment of relative quiet, the crackling fire painting Hannibal’s sharp features in flickering gold. Will glanced over the rim of his cup.

“Do you always treat your meals this nicely?”

Hannibal smirked. “Only the ones I’d prefer not to eat.”

Will looked down at his plate, stilling his fork. “Is that your idea of comfort?”

“No. But it is my idea of honesty. Why don’t you tell me about your family?”

“What is this? Story telling time?”

“Casual communication, I would say.” Hannibal chuckled “You know, there is another vampire family, the Vergers, they raised that bacon, pigs blood, if raised correctly, can be alcoholic to vampires, unlike regular wine which does nothing but allow us to enjoy the taste. It also makes the best bacon, so I am told. We eat, occasionally, because we can, but nothing tastes the same as when we were human, alive, so, I enjoy cooking for my human guests.”

Will didn’t reply. Instead, he took another bite, slower this time. Then he said, “You asked me about my family.”

Hannibal inclined his head.

“My mother died giving birth to me,” Will said. “I don’t remember her. It was just me and my dad, until he got sick.”

“What did he do?”

“He worked the ports. Freight mostly. Tough job. Dirty air. Caught something in his lungs—tuberculosis, they think. He was gone by the time I was twelve.”

Hannibal studied him. “Siblings?”

“No. Just me.”

“And Winston?”

Will smiled faintly at the name. “He’s the only creature I’ve ever really trusted. I used to train dogs for pest control. Sell them to farms, nobles with rat problems, that sort of thing. But I worried too much. About the dogs. About who took them. If they’d be loved. Treated well.”

“And now?”

“Now I just keep Winston. And make ends meet clearing out vermin around the village. I’m… comfortable with things that crawl and hide in the dark.”

Hannibal chuckled. “Abigail, the gravedigger’s daughter—was she one of your strays, too?”

Will looked up sharply, not offended, just surprised at the perception.

“She was alone. Or nearly. I saw something in her. Something worth protecting.”

“And Beverly?”

Will tilted his head. “She’s the one who always makes sure I don’t forget that I’m worth protecting too.”

There was something tender in his voice when he said her name.

He shifted, set the fork down, and asked, “What do you know about Beverly, anyway?”

Hannibal leaned back, hands resting loosely in his lap. His expression was thoughtful.

“She is not like the others,” he said slowly. “She walks the line between old magic and new blood. Controlled, sharp, careful. She has studied more than most witches her age, more than some twice her age. Her power... it’s quiet, but vast.”

Will waited, sensing there was more.

“She was trained by a mistress of the old world,” Hannibal continued. “That kind of teaching is rare now. It leaves marks. Strength that even she might not fully comprehend yet.”

Will swallowed the last of the tea, his throat dry despite the heat of the drink.

“She told me she was raised by witches.”

“She was raised by wolves,” Hannibal corrected, voice distant. “But learned to speak human.”

Will frowned. “You make her sound dangerous.”

“She is,” Hannibal said, and there was no malice in it. Only respect.

“Would you hurt her?” Will asked.

“I would not,” Hannibal said simply. “But Bedelia would, if she thought Beverly stood in the way of her plans.”

Will leaned forward, setting the emptied teacup back onto the tray with a soft clink. The warmth of the meal settled low in his belly, calming his nerves, even if his mind was anything but calm. Hannibal sat across from him, elegant, still, a predator in repose.

“So,” Will said, voice low, curious, but not unkind. “You would describe your sister—Mischa, isn’t it?—as the wolf that raised Beverly?”

Hannibal’s dark eyes flicked up. For a moment, his expression didn’t change, but something in the air shifted. Not tension, exactly. Not anger. Something deeper. Older.

He tilted his head slightly. “Yes,” he said softly. “In part.”

Will held the gaze, though something in him screamed to look away. “You speak of her like she’s a myth. Like she’s... everywhere.”

“To many, she is,” Hannibal said. “Mischa has walked continents. She has worn the veils of queens and the cloaks of paupers. When our parents were destroyed and the church took her, I believed she was dead. That belief nearly killed me.” He paused, his gaze dropping to the firelight that played across the rug. “But Mischa is not so easily killed. Not even by the Church.”

Will remained silent, sensing that if he broke it too soon, the story might vanish.

“She was taken from the Lecter estate, hidden by the Church, raised in secret among the remaining European covens who had aligned with their cause. But she did not bend,” Hannibal went on. “She learned their ways. She earned their trust. And when they gave her power, she used it to protect witches the Church would burn otherwise.”

“Like Beverly,” Will said.

Hannibal nodded once. “Mischa saw something in her—something rare. She trained Beverly personally. That is not something done lightly, not even among immortals. Witches are not just chosen by bloodline. They must be strong of will, sharp of mind, dangerous without cruelty. Beverly is all these things.”

There was something almost reverent in the way Hannibal said her name.

Will stared into the fire now. “So you admire her.”

“I respect her,” Hannibal corrected. “There is a difference.”

Will smirked faintly. “And what about Mischa? Do you still love her?”

That gave Hannibal pause. He stood then, slowly, walking to the fireplace and placing a hand on the stone mantle, as if grounding himself.

“She is the part of me that never aged. The part that did not become a monster when the world told me to.”

The silence stretched again. Hannibal's voice softened. “She keeps me human, even now.”

Will watched the way the light caught the strands of Hannibal’s hair, glinting bronze and gold. He realized then that he wanted to meet her. This phantom sister. This wolf. The woman who trained Beverly and defied the Church. He wanted to know what it was she had seen in Beverly, and why Hannibal—immortal, powerful, terrible—spoke of her like a saint and a ghost in one breath.

“Does Bedelia know?” Will asked finally. “That Mischa still lives?”

“She suspects,” Hannibal said. “But she does not understand what Mischa means—to me, to the Church, to the structure we all exist within.”

“And if she found out?”

“Bedelia is not stupid. She would not move unless she believed she had the advantage. But Mischa moves in shadows Bedelia cannot enter.”

Will leaned back in the velvet chair. “And if someone were to hurt Mischa-?”

Hannibal’s voice dropped lower. “I would burn the world before they returned to their bosses.”

Will said nothing. But for the first time, he realized something terrifying and strange in the air between them.

Hannibal Lecter was not afraid of the Church.
He was not afraid of Bedelia.
He was not even afraid of death.

But he was terrified—utterly, eternally—of losing someone. Will could see it. And suddenly, he understood just how dangerous that kind of love could be. And maybe, just maybe, why Hannibal had chosen him.

Will felt something twist in his gut “Bedelia though, she’s not going to just let me walk away, is she?”

“No,” Hannibal admitted. “But I will not let her devour you, either.”

Chapter Text

The knock came in three sharp raps, impatient and precise.

“Cacciatrice Mischa,” called a voice through the thick wooden door, the cadence urgent, the tone steeped in ecclesiastical authority. “A letter, arrived for you.”

Another knock, this time heavier. The young clergyman shifted on his feet in the narrow hallway of stone, dressed in his crimson cassock, sweat beading beneath the collar. He glanced at the wax-sealed envelope in his hand—thick parchment, burnished edges, sealed with deep red wax bearing the sigil of the Katz clan: a serpent coiled around a sword.

He knocked again. Harder. “Signora Mischa, it is very important that you answer!”

The door creaked open with a hiss of ancient hinges. The woman standing there was tall, gaunt in the elegant way of marble statues. Her long blond hair shimmered with a light that did not belong to this world—it clung to her like moonlight. She wore dark trousers, a pressed vest, and a shirt with rolled sleeves, an androgynous uniform of indifference. Her skin was pale, not merely white but absent of any warmth, like candle wax and snow. Her eyes—icy, oceanic, endless—narrowed slightly.

“What is all this fuss about?” she asked, her Italian smooth, annoyed.

The clergyman swallowed, visibly unnerved. “Una lettera. It has the Katz seal, here.”

She stared at the letter in his outstretched hand for a beat too long before reaching forward and plucking it from his fingers without thanks.

“You also have an appointment,” he added quickly. “The clergy meets in twenty minutes. And… the Holy Father himself has requested your attendance.”

Mischa was already turning away, not even looking back as she muttered, “tell them I am occupied.”

The door slammed with a heavy thud behind her.

Inside her chambers, the only sound was the quiet echo of her boots on the stone floor as she crossed to the simple wooden table. No extravagance here. A silver dagger rested beside a half-drunk goblet of misused communion wine. A stack of crumbling texts written in Latin and Greek, and languages older than the walls themselves, leaned against a candlestick nearly burned to the base.

She broke the wax seal with a thumb and unfolded the parchment.

The handwriting was sharp, precise—Beverly’s. A summons, cryptic but direct. A request for Mischa to come to the township immediately. No mention of Will Graham by name, but the implication was clear: the time for hiding was over.

Mischa’s eyes narrowed. Her breath came in slow, measured puffs as she considered.

Then, wordlessly, she stood. She crossed to the hearth and held the letter above the flames. It caught immediately, curling into blackened ash in her gloved hand before she let the cinders fall.

She packed with precision, wrapping a long silver blade in cloth and tucking it into a travel bag alongside a few essentials. A heavy wool coat. Boots polished to a mirror shine. She didn’t need much. Mischa Lecter was a weapon, and weapons carried themselves.

She opened the door to her chamber again and stepped out into the dim corridor. Her footsteps echoed softly off the flagstones, brushing past the closed doors of the clergy’s inner chamber. She could hear them inside—voices raised, her name whispered in fear and reverence, some urging patience, others urging the cage be tightened.

“Mischa,” came a call as she passed. One of the younger clerics, a trembling deacon. “You are summoned. Please…”

She didn’t even glance at him. She kept walking. Past the golden filigree, past the oil paintings of martyrs, past the stained-glass windows of angels and devils locked in eternal battle. Her coat swished as she moved. Her boots rang like church bells with every step.

And then she opened the front gates.

The Vatican rarely slept, but it did quiet. In the dawn hours, the plaza stood empty, save for the coo of birds and the distant sound of Rome stirring. The sunlight had barely touched the tops of the ancient buildings, a pale, golden whisper on cobblestones.

Mischa Lecter stepped into the first seconds of daylight without hesitation.

The light touched her skin and she did not burn.

~

The full moon cast its silvery glow over Lecter Castle, illuminating the arrival of the esteemed vampire families: the Chiltons, the Blooms, and the Vergers. Their entourages, comprising lower-ranked vampires and human attendants, brought with them an air of anticipation and opulence. The castle's grand hall buzzed with activity as guests mingled, the scent of pig wine permeating the air, and the rhythmic sounds of music enticing many to dance.​

Bedelia, ever the gracious hostess, basked in the attention, her laughter echoing as she engaged with guests, her presence commanding yet inviting. Hannibal, less enthused, found himself ensnared in conversations with Frederick Chilton and Alana Bloom. Frederick's incessant chatter and Alana's probing questions tested his patience, while Mason Verger's sardonic remarks about Hannibal's apparent unease only added to his discomfort.​
Meanwhile, Chiyoh, ever dutiful, prepared a meal for Will Graham. Approaching his chamber, she knocked softly before entering.​

"There are many sets of fangs in the castle tonight," she warned, placing the tray before him. "But your door is warded. Only Hannibal and I can enter unless you invite someone else by name. They will try, though, drawn by your scent."​

Will observed her movements, noting an occasional limp. "I thought vampires didn't feel pain," he remarked.​

"Generally, we don't," Chiyoh replied. "But these are holy wounds, unhealed as penance for my sins."​

"Were you religious?" Will inquired.​

"I've witnessed many religions rise and fall," she mused. "Catholicism is merely the most recent to take hold."​

Will shrugged. "If it brings you comfort, helps explain the inexplicable, then perhaps it's worth believing—or at least pretending to."​

Chiyoh offered a soft smile. "The kindness you show me is more than I deserve."​

Their moment was interrupted by Bedelia's sudden appearance at the door. "Chiyoh, you're not dressed up just to hide in the shadows," she chided, her fangs glinting as she winked at Will.

~

The pig wine had taken on a velvet glow in the candlelight, staining crystal goblets with a deep, ruby hue. Hannibal stood near the stone balustrade of the ballroom, watching the revelers sway and swirl beneath the chandeliers, their laughter echoing up to the vaulted ceilings. The full moon hung outside like a silent sentinel, casting silver through the arched windows.

Mason Verger sidled up to him, swirling his goblet lazily. His face, twisted as always in a mockery of joy, bore something close to real contentment as he gazed out over the festivities.

"This village of yours," he said, "it’s downright picturesque. Idyllic, even. So calm. So… obedient. The people must love you. What's your secret, Count Lecter?"

Hannibal did not look at him. "The secret to obedience is not love. It's belief. Let them believe in peace, in power, in tradition. They will behave as if they are safe."

Frederick Chilton joined them with a chuckle, his doublet embroidered too richly for his status. "No papal mandate helps, eh? Hannibal gets to do as he likes. Perform whatever magic suits him. Unchecked. Unlike the mistakes of the Verger, Bloom, and Chilton lines." He sipped his drink with dramatic flair. "Our ancestors' arrogance got us all excommunicated in one way or another. You? Untouched. Free from the curses of the old church."

Mason gave a bitter grin. "For now," he murmured.

Just then, movement drew their attention across the ballroom. Bedelia entered with poise, her gown dripping with gold-threaded lace, Chiyoh beside her in charcoal silks that clung like moonlight to a blade. The crowd shifted subtly, space parting as they descended into the heart of the party.

Frederick straightened his collar and downed the rest of his wine in a gulp before striding toward Bedelia. "Countess Du Maurier," he declared with a flourish, bowing low, "may I have this dance?"

Bedelia arched a single amused brow but offered him her hand. "Do try not to trip over your own ego, Frederick."

Mason watched them go with mild disgust before turning toward Chiyoh. "And what about you, tall and terrifying? Shall we make the floor scream with envy?"

But before he could extend a hand, Margot appeared at his side like a shadow taking shape. Her expression was cool, calculating, and entirely without amusement.

"We had an agreement, brother," she said quietly, her voice silken but iron-strong. "You do not approach her."

Mason’s grin faltered but didn’t vanish. He inclined his head with mock grace. "Of course. Wouldn’t want to upset our precious balance."

Chiyoh didn’t say a word, her gaze already on Hannibal. He gave a slight nod and murmured over the rim of his glass, just for her: "Take a walk, Chiyoh. A long one."

Despite the sharpness of Hannibal’s look and Margot’s silent warning, Chiyoh stepped forward, extending her hand toward Mason Verger.

“Very well,” she said coolly. “Let us dance.”

A pleased, wolfish grin split Mason’s face as he took her hand and led her onto the floor. The music swelled—haunting strings and hollow drums—and the crowd parted to make space for them. Chiyoh moved like shadow and silk, her every step elegant, graceful. Mason was less so, but what he lacked in finesse, he made up for in boldness.

He let his hand skim across the small of her back, his fingers drifting lower than etiquette allowed. She didn’t flinch.

“I must say,” he breathed, “I didn’t expect you to indulge me. The cold knight with the limp and the deadly eyes.”

She leaned in, her breath ghosting his throat. “I’m tired of indulging others, Mason. Tired of walking behind Lecter. Behind Bedelia. Always cleaning their messes, playing guardian to their secrets.” Her lips brushed his ear, her voice honeyed and low. “I want in.”

Mason’s hand tightened at her waist. “In?” he echoed.

She pulled back enough to meet his gaze, her eyes gleaming in the golden light. “At the table. A real seat. My own land. My own people. My own bloodshed. I know you’re planning something. I want to be a part of it.”

“You mean betray your master?” Mason whispered, delighted.

“Not betrayal,” she said, her voice measured. “Evolution.”

He stared at her for a moment, the pleasure on his face turning to something dangerously close to awe. “You are exquisite,” he said. “All that steel and grace. The others, they treat me like a joke—but you…” He chuckled. “You could be my bride, if you wanted.”

She allowed him to twirl her once, her dark skirts blooming like petals around them.

“Halloween night,” Mason murmured, drawing her close again. “That’s when it all happens. That’s when the castle will burn, and the church won’t lift a finger. Lecter will be reduced to ashes, and Bedelia with him. The blood pact will be broken.”

“And what about Will Graham, Hannibal’s little pet?” she asked lightly.

Mason shrugged. “He’s the match to strike. All we need is to drain him dry.” His tongue flicked across his lips. “But after that, you and I—”

He spun her again, grand and dramatic, his eyes gleaming with want and ambition.

But Chiyoh did not return to his arms.

A gloved hand intercepted hers on the final turn. Hannibal.

He pulled her into a proper waltz with a cool, smooth grace that outmatched Mason’s clumsy attempts entirely. Chiyoh didn’t resist, letting herself be drawn into his rhythm.

“You defied me,” he said quietly.

“I danced,” she replied, her expression unreadable.

“You conspired,” he corrected.

They spun across the floor with an elegance that silenced nearby whispers.

“Did you get what you wanted?” he asked, voice like velvet wrapped around steel.

Chiyoh’s lips parted. “Enough.”

He dipped her suddenly, holding her just above the floor. The chandelier's light caught her pale throat.

“Good,” he murmured. “Then take what you’ve learned. Leave now. Take it to Beverly. Warn her. Stay out of the castle until sunlight.” He raised her back to standing. His hands, gentle, brushed the edge of her shoulder before releasing her entirely.

Chiyoh gave a slow, deliberate nod. Then, without another word, she slipped from the ballroom like a shadow cast by moonlight.

~

The knock on the door came just before the wind picked up, a gust rolling through the trees surrounding Beverly’s cottage like a whisper of the coming storm. Beverly blinked awake, her spellwork humming gently along the threshold like a second heartbeat. The protective wards pulsed—gentle, not alarmed. Familiar.

She rose from her chair and glanced toward the couch. Abigail lay curled beneath a quilt, her cheek pressed into the fabric, her breathing soft and even. Beverly moved silently, barefoot, to the door and opened it a crack.

Chiyoh stood under the eaves, her coat dusted with leaves, her pale face solemn, eyes shadowed but steady.

“I have information,” Chiyoh said quietly. “Will is safe. Unharmed. I made sure of it.” She hesitated, glancing past Beverly’s shoulder. “And I’d really like to come in. Sit down. Speak plainly.”

Beverly’s eyes narrowed. “I believe you,” she said, and meant it. Chiyoh's voice didn’t tremble with deception, only weariness. “But you know I can’t invite you inside.”

“I understand.”

Beverly stepped out into the chill night, pulled her coat tighter, and nodded toward the path leading around the back of the house. “Come to the shed.”

The small stone outbuilding was dark inside, but Beverly lit it with a flick of her fingers, conjuring a soft golden glow that filled the corners without threatening the night. Chiyoh stepped through the doorway only after Beverly paused, turned, and said with care, “I invite you in.”

She crossed the threshold slowly, as if waiting for something to push back. Nothing did. She sat down heavily on the wooden bench near the worktable and exhaled, letting the exhaustion in her limbs settle.

Beverly studied her in silence, eyes catching on the fine trembling lines of pain etched into the corners of Chiyoh’s mouth. “Let me see your feet.”

Chiyoh blinked. “What?”

“Your feet. The way you limp sometimes. I noticed it. Those burns must never let up”

Chiyoh hesitated, then untied her boots and slipped them off. The socks peeled away stiffly. Beneath, the soles of her feet were raw and blistered.

“These seem fresher than the last time, you must walk across sanctified earth often?” Beverly asked, her voice softening.

“When I must,” Chiyoh murmured.

“You shouldn’t have to. That kind of pain doesn’t fade.” Beverly disappeared into the dark corner of the shed, rummaging through shelves lined with herbs, tinctures, and tools. She returned with a small clay jar. “It won’t heal them, but it will ease the ache.”

Chiyoh took it cautiously, unscrewed the lid. A cool, herbaceous scent wafted out—lavender, mugwort, and something rarer. She dipped a finger in, the balm almost glowing in the lamplight, and applied it slowly to one foot. Her body froze.

Then she exhaled. Her shoulders sank, her jaw unclenched. “This… this is the first time in a century I’ve been without pain,” she said, almost a whisper. “You have no idea what you’ve given me.”

Beverly sat opposite her. “I do. And now you can give something to me.” Her voice was calm, firm. “Did you find out what they’re planning?”

Chiyoh’s face twisted. She looked away for a moment, then back, her eyes sharp and clear. “They plan to strike on Halloween. Mason. Margot. Alana. Chilton. Bedelia. All of them.”

Beverly’s blood ran cold.

“They’ll raid this village, unleash a feeding. The others will come—lesser vampires, wild ones. They’ll descend like locusts.” Chiyoh clenched her hands in her lap. “And they’ll blame Hannibal. Make it look like his doing. So that the villagers turn on him. Kill him. Then Bedelia takes his place. The town burns. It becomes a warning to the church. To the world.”

Beverly sat back, silent.

“She wants to rule. She always has. But Hannibal stood between her and the throne. This way, she keeps her hands clean. A scapegoat. A sacrifice.”

“And Will?” Beverly asked, though she feared the answer.

“They’ll keep him until the next full moon,” Chiyoh said quietly. “Bedelia likes to keep her food alive. But she will kill him eventually. She’ll make it slow. Poetic, she says.”

Beverly gritted her teeth, rage curling up her spine. “Hannibal… does he know?”

“I think he suspects. But not the full plan. Not Halloween. He sent me to confirm it, to bring word.” Chiyoh looked up, her voice thickening. “He said I am a watchdog now. For the witch.”

Beverly blinked, then allowed a small smile. “I’ve been called worse.”

Chiyoh’s mouth twitched. She shifted slightly, careful not to smear the balm. “He told me to stay away from the castle until sunrise. I think he’s trying to protect me. In his way.”

“Like you protected me.” Beverly whispered.

“Did you contact, Mischa?”

“I sent word, but the Vatican is a long way away and there is a chance they intercepted the comms, this being about her brother, but, if she comes, it will take a few weeks.”

"So she might not make it before Halloween." Chiyoh swallowed.

"Maybe not." Beverly agreed.

Chapter Text

Jack Crawford got the call just past dusk. A neighbor had reported lights flickering in the windows of Will Graham’s long-abandoned house—candles, maybe. Strange shadows moving behind the glass, shards of broken bottles on the porch. Jack didn’t waste time. He drove the familiar road fast, pistol heavy against his side, his gut already knotted with dread.

The front door creaked open too easily. The house smelled of old wood, damp earth, and something metallic underneath. He stepped inside carefully, gun raised, his breath barely making a sound.

The candles were everywhere—lining the mantle, the windowsills, the floorboards. Wax pooled like old blood on the wooden planks. Something had been broken in the kitchen—glass, by the sound of it. But the house wasn’t empty.

A woman stood at the center of the room, her silhouette drawn in firelight. She turned as he stepped closer. Her eyes were calm and strange, like polished coin—mirroring someone else he’d once stared down. Bedelia. But not Bedelia.

And then everything froze.

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Could only watch as the woman approached with graceful, unhurried steps, her bare feet silent on the floor. She circled him once, her fingers grazing the air near his face.

“You’re Jack Crawford,” she said with a nod, more curious than pleased. “Mischa Lecter. Sorry for breaking in.” Her voice had an old-world accent, subtle but unmistakable. “But Beverly has a guest in her shed, and I cannot be seen by her. Chiyoh and I have history.”

Jack blinked. His muscles unlocked like a switch had been flipped. He stumbled slightly, then straightened, eyes narrowed. “You want Beverly,” he said slowly. “I’ll bring her to you.”

Mischa smiled faintly, her lips like the edge of a dagger. “Don’t ask how I got here so fast. Just go.”

There was no arguing with her—not with that power shimmering under her skin. Jack left, the air behind him suddenly colder.

~

At Beverly’s cottage, she met him at the door. Abigail was in the kitchen, distracted by a book and a half-eaten apple.

“She’s in Will’s house,” Jack said. “Mischa Lecter.”

Beverly stilled. Her shoulders tensed, her eyes narrowed, pulse ticking visibly in her throat. “I go alone,” she said. “You stay here. Look after Abigail.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.” Then, as she turned to leave, she added over her shoulder, “And don’t invite Chiyoh into the main house.”

Jack didn’t ask why. The night was full of questions that didn’t want answers.

~

Will’s house had never looked more haunted. Beverly stepped through the door like crossing a threshold into a dream—one of the bad ones, laced with longing and foreboding.
Mischa waited for her in the glow of candlelight, statuesque and still. Her eyes found Beverly immediately, and the tension between them stretched like a drawn wire.

“Beverly,” Mischa said, soft and low.

Beverly exhaled slowly. “You came, I didn’t know if you would.”

“I had no choice.”

There were a hundred things to say, none of them said. Instead, Beverly crossed the room and stood close, close enough to smell the night clinging to Mischa’s skin, to see the old grief tucked behind her gaze.

Mischa touched Beverly’s jaw with surprising tenderness. “You haven’t changed.”

“You have,” Beverly whispered. “You’re colder.”

Mischa leaned in. “Only on the surface.”

Then came the kiss.

It wasn’t sudden. It was slow, like the breath before a storm. Their mouths met, and the room fell away. Deep and aching, the kiss tasted of memory and danger, of everything that had been lost and might still be found. Beverly’s fingers curled into Mischa’s coat. Mischa’s hand cradled the back of Beverly’s neck.

It lasted until neither could breathe.

And still, they didn’t let go. Their foreheads rested against each other.

“I am sorry you couldn’t stay in the Vatican with me, they would have killed us both for what we are, not witches, but… lovers.” Mischa whispered quietly.

“I know you did it to protect me. I was mad about it for a few decades, but at least I am alive. What have they done to you.”

“Can we not talk about it tonight.” Mischa kissed her again, gently unbuttoning Beverly’s blouse “Can the storm wait an hour, or too, can I hold you for one night before the world takes over again?”

“I have missed you…”

~

Beverly was the first to awaken, tangled in the rumpled sheets of Will’s bed. Morning light filtered in weakly through the curtains, dust motes hanging in the air like tiny ghosts. Mischa lay on her stomach beside her, breath slow and even in sleep, her dark hair spilling over the edge of the mattress. The curve of her back was bare.

Beverly’s gaze traced the lines of her spine—then stilled.

Scars.

Not faint, not old and forgotten. Deep lash marks, some faded with time, others newer, angrier. They crisscrossed her skin like a history written in pain. Holy marks. Wounds that had not fully healed, that perhaps could never heal. Punishment and penance, written in flesh. Not given—chosen. The kind the devout inflicted upon themselves in the name of some ancient repentance.

Beverly drew the covers back further, her breath catching. Two fresh wounds, red and raw, encircled Mischa’s upper thighs—precise, deliberate. The marks of a cilice.

Mischa stirred, rolling over still asleep, rosary beads falling between her breasts. Beverly sighed, leaned over and kissed her “My love, wake up.”

Beverly reached out gently, her fingertips grazing Mischa’s shoulder. The warmth of her skin was real, tangible, but distant—like touching something sacred, or something long dead. Mischa stirred, brow furrowing slightly before her eyes opened, slow and unguarded in the quiet light.

Beverly didn’t speak at first. She only looked at her, at the marks carved into skin that had seen centuries. Then, softly, “Why do you do this to yourself?”

Mischa blinked, her eyes focusing. There was no surprise in her expression, no shame. Only a quiet resignation.

“It’s part of my penance,” she said, voice hoarse with sleep and something older. “For those I destroy.”

“But they’re monsters,” Beverly said. “You’ve said that. That the Church sends you after them. Sanctioned deaths.”

Mischa nodded slowly, turning onto her side. The sheet slid, revealing more of the pale, marked skin. “Yes. But sanctioned doesn’t mean sinless.”

Her voice was calm, as if reciting something memorized long ago. “The Church requires I clear my soul to remain in its grace. What I do—what I am—is not without cost. No number of Hail Marys can save me from that.”

She met Beverly’s eyes, something solemn and immovable behind her gaze. “I kill monsters. But I’ve become something else entirely. The wounds are reminders. The pain is a tether. It keeps me just close enough to God to still be seen.”

Beverly reached out, her fingers brushing one of the fresh wounds along Mischa’s thigh. Her touch was feather-light, reverent, aching.

“And if you stopped?” she asked.

Mischa smiled faintly, a curl of sadness on her lips. “Then I’d fall all the way.”

“You’re worried you’ll become a vampire, like the Lecters?” Beverly asked softly, tucking a loose curl behind Mischa’s ear.

“I’m worried I’ll be tempted,” Mischa replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

Beverly studied her. “You were a little girl when they took you in. You were what—three, four—when the Church found you? Do you really think that short amount of time would have shaped you like that?”

Mischa’s eyes flicked up, sharp and ancient. “I knew several languages before I could speak in full sentences. I knew old magic. And secrets—secrets no child should have carried. I remember everything. Every single day of those three years. His mother. His father. Hannibal. Bedelia.” Her voice dipped, grew distant. “I remember the way they spoke. The way their words hummed with power. They were raising me to be turned. To die on my twentieth birthday and be reborn in their image. I expected it. I wanted it.”

She paused, the memory pressing against her chest like a weight.

“Then the Church got to me. And they spent years unmaking what had been done. Teaching me that the Lecters were monsters. That they were unfit for life. That their kind was to be purged.” Her voice turned bitter. “They taught me how to kill them. Expected me to do it. And I could. The underlings, at least—the unbound, the ones who’d broken covenant. I cleared them out like vermin. Pest control.”

Her gaze drifted past Beverly, eyes distant, haunted.

“But I still hear them,” she whispered. “Their voices. Hannibal’s especially. Like a prayer said backwards, a whisper stuck on repeat. I hear him every time I close my eyes.”

Beverly didn’t move. She just listened, her hand still resting near Mischa’s face, feeling the tension coil beneath her skin like a held breath. Mischa was quiet for a long moment, the air thick with unspoken things. Then, her eyes drifted back to Beverly—soft now, thoughtful. “You’re different,” she said.

Beverly tilted her head slightly, but didn’t interrupt.

“You were raised to be what you are. A witch. The power of the old ones runs through you—just and ancient and accepted. There was never a question of whether you’d be anything else. No one forced it on you. You didn’t fight it.”

Beverly’s gaze stayed steady. Mischa went on, her voice low, reverent.

“The Church didn’t need to unmake you. They only enhanced what was already there. You fit. You belong. It was easy for you to become a monster hunter. There’s no conflict in it, no shame. Your path was made clear. There’s vengeance in you—but it’s clean. Righteous. You kill, and it’s holy. Your bloodline is gone, so every creature you put down is part of that grief, that justice. It absolves you.”

Mischa reached out, brushing her fingers over Beverly’s hand as if to ground herself.

“I was supposed to become a monster,” she whispered. “They were preparing me for it from the moment they brought me in. That house… that family… they loved me like something they planned to own. To keep. To transform. I wasn’t meant to fight them—I was meant to join them. To revel in it.”

Her voice trembled, just slightly. “And I did. I wanted it. I dreamed of the turning. Of the day I’d rise with their blood in my mouth and eternity in my eyes. The pain, the kills, the penance—it doesn’t undo that. No number of prayers will ever truly erase what I was supposed to become.”

Beverly’s hand closed over hers, firm, grounding.

“You were just a girl, Mischa,” she said softly. “A child. You didn’t choose any of it.”

Mischa’s jaw clenched, her eyes glistening. But she didn’t look away.

“Maybe not. But part of me still wants it. That’s what scares me most.”

“How did you get here so fast, Mischa?”

“Unsanctioned transfiguration. I will pray for that sin tonight.”

Chapter Text

As the sun slipped below the horizon, the vampires began to stir.

Throughout the old estate, the echoes of the night before clung to the air like perfume—heady, indulgent, and just a little sour with the sharp edge of hangover. The Blooms were the first to rise, groaning softly as they disentangled themselves from velvet couches and silk sheets, their skin marked with playful bite wounds—love bites from too much wine, too much dancing, too much everything.

The Verger twins emerged from the shadows of the solarium, barefoot and tousled, nursing goblets of spiced blood as if it were coffee. They didn’t speak, only exchanged amused glances, a bruise blooming beneath Margot’s jaw where someone had bitten too hard in play.

In the largest bed in the house, tangled in a mess of pale limbs and cool sheets, Bedelia lay like a queen in repose. Alana was tucked under one arm, lips parted slightly in sleep, her hair strewn like spilled ink across the pillows. On Bedelia’s other side, Chilton snored lightly, half-naked, wearing nothing but a velvet robe and a thin scratch across his chest that looked more flirtatious than violent. His lips were still stained red.

But Hannibal was not among them.

He moved silently through the house, a silver tray in hand, the scent of roasted duck and saffron rice trailing behind him like incense. He climbed the stairs toward Will’s room with quiet purpose, the way a priest might approach the altar.

Will was awake, sitting cross-legged on the edge of his bed, hair uncombed, the remains of a book forgotten on the nightstand. His eyes flicked up as Hannibal entered, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Sounds like the party ended with everyone having a good time," Will said, his voice still rough with sleep.

Hannibal set the tray down, lifting the lid with a flourish. “Yes,” he agreed. “Though I suspect it may be the last of such nights for some time.”

Will raised an eyebrow. “That ominous, huh?”

Hannibal poured him a glass of red wine. “Chiyoh has been asking questions. Too many, too carefully. She’s been investigating. And from what I’ve gathered, the others—the Chiltons, the Blooms, the Vergers—they are planning something. Likely to overthrow me.”

Will frowned, taking a bite of the duck. “Is there... anywhere else we could go?”

Hannibal looked up slowly. “We?”

Will hesitated. “You and... you and Chiyoh, of course.”

A pause.

Then Hannibal smiled, slow and deliberate, like a knife unsheathing itself. “Did you think I would leave you behind, Will? To burn? To die?”

Will didn’t answer, but the faintest tremor passed through him.

“Of course not,” Hannibal said. “You could come with me. As you are.”

He stepped closer, his voice lowering. “Or... I could turn you.”

Will’s breath caught.

“If you wanted,” Hannibal murmured, his eyes catching the candlelight. “You’d never have to fear fire or time again.”

Will glanced toward the tall, shuttered window, its frame glowing faintly with the last blush of twilight. He hesitated, then looked back at Hannibal, who was arranging cutlery with his usual fastidious grace.

“Is it alright if I open a window now that it’s night?”

Hannibal looked up, smiling faintly. “Of course. You’re safe after sundown.”

Will rose, pushing open the heavy window. Cool air swept into the room, brushing past his face and curling around Hannibal like a whisper. The breeze carried the scent of the forest—pine, moss, distant smoke.

And something else.

Hannibal’s expression shifted. His nostrils flared slightly, a subtle tension creeping into his spine. He rose, movements smooth but alert, his gaze fixed on the open window.

Will noticed it immediately. “What is it?”

“Eat quickly,” Hannibal said, his tone now clipped, purposeful. “And put on boots. We need to go to the village.”

Will blinked. “To the village? Is that... is that safe?”

Hannibal turned toward him, something sharp and unreadable behind his eyes. “Have I given you any reason to doubt me?”

Will looked at him, really looked, and shook his head. “No.”

“Then trust me.” Hannibal stepped closer, voice softening, silk over steel. “Now take me to your friends in the village.”

~

The ride into the village was quiet, save for the steady rhythm of hooves striking packed earth and the distant call of birds settling into the trees for the night. Hannibal sat tall in the saddle, composed as ever, while Will clung behind him, the chill wind tugging at his coat. The village came into view slowly—lanterns flickering to life one by one, casting golden halos against the encroaching dark.

They stopped at Will’s house, the same one where strange lights had flickered in the windows just nights before. Hannibal dismounted with grace, then turned to offer his hand.

Will took it, sliding down with a grunt, his boots crunching on the gravel. Hannibal tied the reins to the post with practiced ease, then looked toward the house.

“You’ll have to invite me in,” he said calmly, with a slight tilt of the head. “You know the rules.”

Will gave a faint, awkward smile. “Right. Of course. You’re welcome to come inside.”

Hannibal nodded, stepping toward the front door, the old wood creaking beneath his hand as he opened it. Will followed him in, the familiar scent of herbs and wax greeting them. The house was quiet, dark except for a few oil lamps left burning.

They climbed the stairs together, Hannibal’s tread silent, Will’s slightly heavier behind him. At the top, the hallway stretched out dim and narrow.

Then chaos.

Out of the shadows, Mischa struck like a whip.

Her foot collided with Hannibal’s chest, sending him crashing backward down the stairs. He landed hard, his body crumpling for the briefest moment before he began to rise.

But Mischa was faster.

She was on him in seconds, her weight bearing down as she straddled his chest, a curved dagger pressed against his throat. The silver blade sizzled where it touched him—his skin reddening and blistering instantly, like flesh under the noon sun.

Will stood frozen at the top of the stairs, wide-eyed.

Mischa’s hand trembled, ready to plunge the dagger into the hollow of Hannibal’s throat.

Then Hannibal spoke—quietly, softly, in a tongue that hadn’t been heard by mortal ears in centuries.

“No, sister. Don’t… Mischa.”

The words stopped her like a spell. Her breath caught, her fingers trembling on the hilt. Her eyes locked on his—and for the first time in a long, long time, she hesitated, then Hannibal threw her off of him, against the wall, knocking the wind out of her without meaning to.

In a flash, Hannibal’s hand moved—sharp, decisive, instinctual. He shoved Mischa off of him, not with fury, but with the force of centuries-old muscle trained to survive. Her body hit the wall with a sickening crack, the plaster caving beneath her like brittle shell.

The wind left her lungs in a single soundless gasp, her body folding to the floor. Something inside her gave—ribs, likely—but she made no noise, gave no indication of pain. Just a grim, unmoving silence where most would have screamed.

Will stumbled down the last few steps, eyes darting between them. “Jesus—”

Beverly appeared behind him, half-dressed in her petticoat, corset, and shirt, her legs bare, She moved fast, brushing Will aside as she dropped to her knees at Mischa’s side, hands already assessing damage. There was blood—only a little, but enough—where Mischa’s head had struck the wall. The pale plaster behind her was cracked in a deep, human-shaped indentation.

Will bent to help Hannibal to his feet, gripping his arm, though Hannibal was already rising with that eerie, weightless ease of his kind.

“You let him in?” Beverly snapped, her tone sharp as a blade. “Will—what the hell were you thinking? You don’t invite a vampire into your home, especially not this one!”

Her glare cut to Hannibal, who brushed dust from his coat with a polite expression that barely masked the coil of tension still winding through him.

“He asked me to bring him to you guys in the village,” Will muttered, unsure whether he was defending Hannibal or himself.

“Yeah. I’ll bet,” Beverly hissed. She turned back to Mischa. “Help me get her—” But before she could finish, Mischa stood. Just rose, smooth and silent, as though nothing had happened.

She reached up, rubbed the back of her head with one hand, blinked at the blood on her fingertips, and exhaled slowly. She pressed her hand gently to Mischa’s ribs, checking for worse damage but Mischa didn’t flinch.

“Let me take your corset off and check your ribs?” Beverly whispered.

“Later.”

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I forget my own strength. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Mischa tilted her head, watching him with guarded eyes.

“It’s good to see you,” Hannibal added, and this time, there was no calculation in his voice. Just truth. “I never expected to see you again.”

Mischa crossed her arms, one hand still gingerly rubbing the back of her head. “I could say the same. I’ve avoided this part of the planet for a hundred years. I was planning to avoid it for a hundred more.”

She shot a glance toward Beverly, then back to Hannibal. “The Church forbade me from coming here. That’s why she’s here in the first place. You know that, don’t you?”

Hannibal nodded, his eyes unreadable.

“All you had to do was sign a goddamn agreement,” Mischa said, her voice rising. “Just a few lines of ink and we all could’ve gone home.”

“It is on principle that I won’t,” Hannibal replied, his tone still composed but lower now, wearied. “But I keep my head down… for your sake.”

Will’s eyes flicked between them, tense.

“They threatened to kill you if I didn’t,” Hannibal added, more quietly. “And I believed they would.”

Mischa let out a scoff, sharp and bitter. “They won’t kill me. I’m their asset. Their secret weapon.”

She took a step forward, staring him down. “They wouldn’t even kill me to get back at you. Not even to control you. They’d sooner send me to kill you.”

Hannibal stepped closer to Mischa, his voice low, intimate in the quiet of the wrecked hall.

“If you truly wanted me dead,” he said, eyes locked to hers, “you would have done it.”

Mischa's jaw tightened, but she said nothing.

“You’re above that,” Hannibal continued, tilting his head slightly. “Or… are you below it now? Yearning for something more? Eternity, unbound by the Church’s chains. You could be free, Mischa. I could give that to you.”

Her eyes flared—not with hunger, but with rage. “Get out.”

He didn't move. “No.”

His gaze drifted toward Beverly. “Beverly, would you be so kind as to fetch Chiyoh—”

“I’m already here,” came a calm, silken voice from the open doorway.

Chiyoh stepped over the threshold, cloaked in shadow, her presence sudden but somehow not surprising. She stood with poise, a gloved hand resting lightly on the doorknob.

“May I come in?”

Will glanced toward Mischa and Beverly, then nodded hesitantly. “Yes. You can.”

Chiyoh entered without sound, eyes scanning the room, lingering briefly on Mischa, then Beverly, then finally Hannibal. She offered him a shallow bow of the head. “You wanted me?”

“Tell them,” Hannibal said, “about Bedelia’s plan. And when it’s likely to unfold.”

Chiyoh’s expression grew cool, clinical. “She’s moving soon. Before the next full moon. She’s rallying the others… the Vergers, the Blooms. Even Frederick. They want you overthrown, Hannibal. You’ve held power too long.”

Mischa began to pace, one hand twitching near the hilt of her dagger. “Then I should kill her. Tonight.”

“You wouldn’t get out of that castle alive,” Beverly warned gently.

“I know.” Mischa’s tone was cold and flat. “But maybe it’s worth the sacrifice.”

Chiyoh inhaled slowly, her head lifting like a hound catching scent. She looked between Mischa and Beverly, her lips curling with sly amusement.

“So that’s why,” she murmured. “That’s why you didn’t have Beverly killed, Hannibal. She’s not your hunter. She’s your sister’s lover.”

Before anyone could react, Mischa struck.

Her hand lashed out and struck Chiyoh across the face, a sharp, echoing crack that hung in the air. Chiyoh didn’t fall, didn’t flinch—only turned her head back with a cold smile, the red mark already blooming on her cheek.

Will blinked, stunned. Hannibal said nothing, but his eyes were gleaming now—interested.

Beverly stepped in between them, one arm brushing Mischa’s. “Enough.”

But Mischa’s breath was unsteady, and her fingers were trembling slightly at her side. Not with fear. With fury. Or perhaps something deeper, something more desperate.

“It’s alright Beverly, I take no offence.” Chiyoh nodded, healing the bruises already “There is a third alternative.”

“What’s that?” Will managed to say.

“We leave, let Bedelia have this place, and we set up shop somewhere else, let the townspeople die, or kill her themselves.”

“The church wouldn’t sanction that, I would be called in a month to wipe them out.” Mischa faltered slightly “Where is the nearest church?”

“Down the street.” Beverly nodded.

“I need to go and think.” Mischa took herself into the cold air outside, Beverly tried to follow, but Hannibal stopped her.

“Let her.”
~
The church loomed silent in the dark, its heavy wooden doors groaning as Mischa pushed them open. Inside, it was cold, breath-fog cold, and smelled of old incense, stone, and mildew. Dust hung in the air like sleep. She walked down the aisle slowly, her boots echoing faintly off the worn flagstones, each step deliberate, her eyes fixed on the altar at the far end.

The statue of Christ towered over her, arms outstretched, face frozen in serene agony. She sank to her knees before it, hands clasped, but her prayers were restless.

"Am I to destroy him?" she whispered, her voice raw in the emptiness. "Tell me. Is that your will? Burn him with the others?”

Silence.

“Or… can he be spared? Just him.”

Only the groan of ancient wood answered her, the creak of the church settling into its bones.

“I’ve given everything,” she hissed. “The pain, the vows, the blood. I was a child and they made me your weapon. Now you won't even look at me?”

Nothing.

She stood slowly, rage crawling up her spine like fire. Her fingers trembled as she reached forward and shoved the statue with both hands. It toppled, crashing against the stone floor in an explosion of plaster and dust. A shriek of wood echoed as it cracked against the steps of the altar. She kicked it again—hard—splintering the face, shattering the outstretched hands.

"ANSWER ME!"

The doors creaked again—this time not from the wind.

Two men entered cautiously, holding up long-handled lanterns. Their flickering light cut through the shadows, throwing gold across the nave. Jimmy Price held one high, squinting forward, while Brian Zeller held his closer to the ground.

They froze when they saw her: a pale figure in dark, travel-worn clothes, kneeling among the rubble, streaked with blood and dust, her golden hair wild around her shoulders.

“Uh… ma’am?” Price said slowly, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Is everything alright in here?”

Mischa coughed suddenly, a horrible wet sound. Blood splattered the broken statue at her knees, and her body hunched forward, shaking.

“Shit,” Zeller muttered. “Do you need a doctor?”

She didn’t lift her head. “No… I need a priest.”

Price blinked. “Well, funny you should say that. I’m sort of… standing in as one. Just until the Church appoints a proper replacement.”

She looked up at him with glassy eyes, uncertain. “It might not work,” she said, voice trembling. “But if you could just… pray with me. It might starve it off. Just enough.”

Price glanced at Zeller, then knelt beside her, setting the lantern down. His hands reached out and took hers, steady and warm.

“What is it?” he asked gently. “What are we trying to starve off?”

Mischa’s eyes fluttered. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Price looked over his shoulder. “Brian. Find Beverly. Now.”

Zeller didn’t need telling twice. He turned and ran, the lantern swinging wildly in his hand as he burst into the street, boots hammering against the frozen dirt. The village was quiet, shadows long in the fading twilight—until he spotted a shape moving up ahead.

“Beverly!” he called. “Beverly, you need to come—there’s a woman in the church, blonde, bleeding, out of her mind—smashed the altar, coughing blood, she said she needs a priest!”

Beverly’s head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing. She looked at Will, who had just caught up with her. “You’re with me.”

Will opened his mouth to ask questions, but Beverly was already moving. He swore softly under his breath and followed after her.

Behind them, Hannibal stood in the doorway of Will’s house, his coat dusted with faint ash. He offered them a calm nod.

~

Beverly burst through the church doors, boots slamming against the stone as she sprinted down the nave. Will was just a step behind her, breathing hard, lantern swinging in his hand. The scent of blood hit her first—copper and ruin—and then she saw Mischa, crumpled among the shattered remains of the statue, Price holding her hands and murmuring something under his breath, pale with concern.

“Mischa,” Beverly said, dropping to her knees, grabbing her shoulders. “Tell me what’s wrong. Tell me.”

Mischa looked up at her, face hollowed and blood streaked, eyes distant. “It’s happening,” she whispered. “I’ve kept it back for so long. But I can feel it… again.”

Beverly glanced at the blood-stained floor, the pallor of her skin, the tremble in her limbs. “What’s happening? What do you mean?”

Mischa’s voice was fragile but steady. “The night the Lecters were attacked… their mother didn’t just die. She bit me.”

Beverly stiffened. “What?”

“She tried to turn me. I don’t think she meant to. Maybe it was instinct, maybe desperation. But she didn’t give me enough. I wasn’t turned… not fully. The transformation never finished. The Church… they found me before it could. Their magic—those rites, the fasting, the pain—it starves it off. It keeps it from waking. But if I wander too far from them, or forget what I am, or stop punishing myself—” Her mouth twitched, then bared teeth, pained and grim. “I feel it stirring.”

Will knelt nearby, his face pale. “What happens if it finishes?”

“I die. Or worse,” she said softly. “Something else is born. They don’t even know what it would be. It might be me… or something worse than even Hannibal.”

Beverly’s hands dropped from Mischa’s shoulders, her mouth slightly open. “You’re… a vampire in waiting,” she said, breath catching. “All this time, and you didn’t tell me.”

“I couldn’t,” Mischa said. “If the Church found out I’d spoken of it—if they thought it was spreading—I’d have disappeared. You know that.”

Beverly sat back on her heels, stunned, the truth crashing over her. “And now… now I’ve brought you here. I called you here. I pulled you into this, and now it’s starting again—”

“It’s not your fault,” Mischa said, trying to sit up straighter, wiping blood from her chin. “This was always going to happen. Being this close to him… it was inevitable. The Church knew. That’s why they use me to keep Hannibal in check. Not because they’d kill me to punish him… but because they know he could finish what their mother started. They know what I could become. And they’d rather see me dead than turned.”

Beverly looked away, jaw clenched, throat tight. “They’d rather kill you than let you choose.”

Mischa touched her hand gently. “Because they’re right to be afraid.”

“You can’t die, or change here, this church has no holy man. Price, Zeller, Will, help me carry her to my house.”

Lanterns lit their path through the dense fog as Price, Zeller, and Will carried Mischa between them, her body slack and trembling. Her skin was cold beneath their hands, breath shallow, and the sickly sound of blood rattled in her chest. Beverly led them swiftly through the dark, her own lantern raised high, casting long, flickering shadows against the trees and stone.

They reached her cottage. She flung the door open with a force that rattled the hinges, and ushered them inside. The hearth fire was already lit, crackling low, and the scent of rosemary and old ash clung to the beams.

“On the table,” Beverly ordered.

They laid Mischa down on the long oak slab in the kitchen, her limbs folding awkwardly. The lanterns swung gently overhead, casting pale light on her blood-slicked collarbone and the faint shimmer of her veins, too close to the skin.

“Fetch tinctures, poultices, raw belladonna, and poppy resin from the apothecary chest. And the black bottle from the shelf near the hearth,” Beverly said, urgency in her voice. “Hurry.”

Price and Zeller looked between her and the near-dead woman on the table, then bolted through the door into the night once more.

Will was already gone, running toward his house with a lantern in hand, his breath rising in clouds behind him.

Hannibal and Chiyoh arrived minutes later, their cloaks dripping with fog, eyes sharp with recognition. Beverly opened the door without a word and stepped aside.

“Enter,” she said.

Hannibal approached the table, his eyes sweeping over Mischa. He drew a dagger from beneath his coat, glancing briefly at Beverly, who gave a small nod. Mischa’s corset came away in one long, decisive slice, the fabric falling to the floor with a thud.

He gave Beverly a look—curious, almost amused—then turned back to Mischa.

“You have to choose now,” Hannibal murmured, brushing a strand of hair from her damp forehead. “Death… or eternity.”

Mischa’s lips moved, but no words came.

Beverly’s hand touched her arm. “Don’t leave me,” she whispered. “Please. I don’t care what they say, or what we’re supposed to be. I can’t lose you.”

She turned to Hannibal. “Do it. If she won’t choose, then you must.”

Mischa jerked, spasmed—then arched, her throat exposed in a violent motion. Her eyes opened wide, burning silver for the briefest second before rolling back.

Hannibal hesitated, his expression unreadable. Then he struck. His mouth closed around her throat, fangs sliding in with terrible grace. Mischa screamed—a sound that pierced the night, shook the rafters, and made even Chiyoh turn away. Her blood sang in his mouth, ancient and strange.

When he’d had enough, he bit deep into his own wrist and pressed it to her lips. Mischa drank—hesitant, instinctive, and then it stopped. Her body sagged. Her eyes closed. She was utterly still.

Beverly leaned over her, trembling. “Did it work?”

“We will know by next moonrise,” Hannibal said quietly, licking the last trace of blood from his wrist. “If the curse took root, she’ll wake weak… fragile. If not, the rot will set in before dawn.”

“We need to move her,” Beverly said. “To the cellar. Where no light can find her.”

Will and Hannibal bore Mischa down the narrow steps into the basement. The air was cold and damp, heavy with earth and old secrets.

Beverly had already prepared a place—blankets laid out on straw, a bowl of sanctified herbs cast aside, no holy objects in sight. She wept as she spread a linen sheet over the stone, whispering old words she barely remembered from her grandmother.

They laid Mischa gently down.

“She must be washed,” Hannibal said. “Every trace of blood. But carefully. No holy water. No sanctified oils. Her body can’t endure it—not now.”

Beverly nodded, kneeling beside Mischa. “I’ll take care of her,” she said. “I’ll do it with my own hands.”

“She’s yours to protect,” Hannibal replied. “Until she wakes. Or not.”

They left Beverly alone in the quiet dark, kneeling beside the body of the woman she loved, with a bowl of warm water, a cloth, and tears falling silently into the folds of her underskirt.

Chapter Text

Hannibal, Will, and Chiyoh passed beneath the iron gate of the castle as the night thickened. The torches along the hall crackled with a cold flame, casting flickers of amber across the stone walls. Inside the great room, the Blooms, the Vergers, the Chiltons, and Bedelia lounged in lazy elegance around a wide table, wine goblets half-full, wax-dripped candles burning low, and a deck of well-worn cards splayed out across the velvet cloth.

Laughter echoed—low and indulgent. Alana leaned against Margot’s shoulder, her lip marked with a kiss. Mason was mid-boast, and Chilton had a red mark at his throat that was far from medical.

Bedelia rose when she saw Hannibal enter, sweeping across the room in satin and smoke. She took his face in both hands and kissed him, slow, deliberate, deep.

But then, she pulled back slightly… and sniffed. Her expression shifted—an elegant stillness taking over “Mischa Lecter?” she said softly. “She’s here? You called her?” Her eyes flicked between the three of them. “Where is she? She should have a place at this table.”

Hannibal didn’t answer her directly. Instead, he turned to Chiyoh “Take Will to his room.”

Will opened his mouth, but something in Hannibal’s voice kept him silent. Chiyoh gave the faintest bow, her eyes lingering on Bedelia for a beat too long, before she led Will away down the corridor.

Hannibal reached out and clasped Bedelia’s arm, gently but with steel behind it.

“We need to talk.”

She let herself be pulled, following him with measured grace through the doors and into the adjoining chamber—a long gallery lit only by sconces. The stone walls swallowed their footsteps. Hannibal let go of her and turned to face her fully.

“On the night my parents died,” he began, his voice low, dangerous, “my mother… supposedly… bit Mischa. She attempted to turn her but failed. That is what Mischa believed.” He paused “But tonight, when I fed from Mischa—I didn’t taste my own bloodline. I tasted something else.”

Bedelia's smirk grew slowly, like a cat stretching before the pounce. “Yes,” she said, unbothered. “I bit her. I tried to turn her. Your mother interrupted me. She tore her from my arms and hurled her into the hands of a priest before I could finish the turning. Before we escaped.”

She tilted her head.

“I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“No,” Hannibal said, voice tight, every syllable carved from centuries of control. “You were creating a safety net. The turned cannot harm their turner. Mischa cannot kill you now. Nor can she kill me, not after tonight.”

His gaze darkened.

“Just as Chiyoh cannot raise a hand against me. But she can kill you, if I asked her to. So you might want to watch your step.”

Bedelia held his eyes, the smirk still curling at the edge of her mouth—but there was a flicker now, something wary beneath the surface.

The silence between them thickened. Beyond the walls, somewhere deep in the forested night, a wolf howled.

~

Abigail woke to silence. The house was still, save for the whisper of wind pushing through the open door. Pale moonlight spilled across the floorboards. She sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes, then blinked.

Blood.

It streaked across the kitchen table in dried swaths, a dark, dull red. Nearby, a corset lay discarded, the laces torn, the fabric soaked in something she didn't want to name.

“Beverly?” Abigail called out, her voice cautious, thin with unease.

Footsteps creaked from the back of the house—no, from below. Beverly appeared at the top of the basement stairs. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her cheeks hollow. She wore only a loose shift, her feet bare, her arms streaked with dried blood and dust.

Abigail's face paled. “What happened?”

Beverly didn’t answer right away. She looked behind her, toward the darkness she had emerged from, then back at Abigail.

“You are not to go down there,” she said, her voice hoarse but firm. “It’s dangerous. It’s contained, for now—but you cannot go near the basement. No matter what you hear.”

Abigail nodded, eyes wide, solemn. “Are you okay?”

Beverly hesitated, then shook her head, almost imperceptibly. “No.” She turned and walked into her room without another word, the door clicking softly shut behind her.

~

Evening came like a hush over the forest. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting orange light over the walls. Beverly sat slumped in a worn chair, dozing, her face slack with exhaustion. Abigail moved about quietly, tidying the remnants of dinner. She rinsed the last bowl, humming something barely audible, her back to the room.

Then the scream came.

It wasn't human. It tore through the floorboards like a curse, ragged and feral. The teacup in Abigail's hand slipped and shattered on the floor.

Beverly sat bolt upright, her breath caught. “Was that—inside, or—?” Her voice trailed off.

Abigail shook her head, unable to answer. Another scream—louder, closer—rattled the windows in their panes.

Beverly was already moving.

She threw open the cellar door and took the steps two at a time. The basement stank of sweat and burning flesh. Mischa writhed on the blanket spread across the stone floor, her body twisted, muscles seizing. Blood flecked the corners of her mouth.

Beverly knelt beside her. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Mischa’s back arched as she clawed at herself. “My back—my back—”

Beverly rolled her onto her side—and froze.

The skin across Mischa’s spine bubbled and seared, the faint outline of a crucifix blistering to the surface like a brand from within. Smoke curled from the wound.

“It’s in me,” Mischa rasped. “The priests… they buried it in my skin. It was dormant. It’s waking up now—please—please, you have to cut it out—cut it out—”

Beverly pulled a small blade from her pocket, her hands trembling. “I’m so sorry.”

She didn’t wait for more. She pressed the knife to the ruined flesh and began to cut. Mischa didn’t scream this time. She bit down, her jaw tight, blood trickling from the corners of her lips as Beverly dug into her back, the crucifix emerging like rot from a wound.

The holy mark sizzled in Beverly’s palm before she flung it away into the dark.

Mischa collapsed, breath heaving, skin glistening with sweat and blood.

“I’ve got you,” Beverly whispered, cradling her. “I’ve got you.”

The basement returned to silence—thick, wet, and waiting “Thank you…” Mischa steadied herself, the wound healed over enough to stop the blood, but not enough to stop the pain, it was like Chiyoh’s feet, old and fresh at the same time.

Mischa lay curled on the blood-soaked blanket, her skin pale and cooling, eyes dull and wet with pain. Beverly had wrapped her in linen, gently, carefully, shielding her from the flickering torchlight. Her breath came slow, shallow.

“Are you mad at me?” Mischa whispered, voice cracking.

Beverly turned, still crouched beside her. “What?”

“I can only exist in the darkness now,” Mischa said, a bitter smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. “In the shadows. I’m a monster now. You should kill me. That’s what the church would want.”

Beverly’s jaw tightened. She reached for Mischa’s hand, cold in hers.

“No,” she said firmly. “You’re not a monster. You’re free now. They forced you into the light, made you their weapon, their servant. But this? This was your choice—or as close as you were ever going to get. You’re in the shadows now, yes. But you’re not in chains.”

Mischa’s eyes fluttered open. “And you?”

“I’m not theirs anymore,” Beverly said. “I won’t hunt for them. I won’t follow their commandments. I won’t help them turn you into something they fear just so they can say they’re righteous for killing you.”

Mischa let out a dry, humorless laugh. “So we run?”

Beverly nodded. “We disappear. Somewhere they’ll never find us.”

Mischa smiled faintly, turning her face away, her voice almost inaudible “They’ll find us.”

“Then let them try.”

Mischa looked at her for a long moment, eyes glistening again, not with pain this time, but something softer, heavier “You were always braver than me,” she whispered.

Beverly leaned down, her lips at Mischa’s temple. “That’s not true.”

“Well, at least I can kill Bedelia now, and tell the tale.” Mischa exhaled.

“You’ll be weak for a few days… maybe longer.”

“Then I’ll be strong, like Hannibal.”

~

Bedelia sat behind her desk, the amber glow of the study’s dim lighting casting long shadows across the bookshelves. Chilton leaned against the doorframe, a smirk tugging at his lips as he observed her.

"You really think you’ve put a thorn in Hannibal’s plan?" Chilton asked, voice dripping with amusement. "I suppose I should congratulate you on your boldness, though I don’t believe for a second you’ve gotten the upper hand."

Bedelia didn't flinch at his words. Her eyes, sharp and calculating, remained fixed on the pile of papers before her, though she wasn't reading them. "It’s not about the upper hand, Chilton," she replied coolly. "It’s about making sure Hannibal doesn’t get everything he wants."

Chilton laughed, the sound hollow and self-assured. "So, this is it? You’ve brought Mischa back to finish what you started? To kill him, perhaps? Or to have your own little Chiyoh—someone to protect you, someone to be loyal while you sit on your little throne?" His smile widened, enjoying the mockery in his own words.

Bedelia’s gaze didn’t waver, though there was a brief flicker of something dark in her eyes, something like recognition, or perhaps regret. She folded her hands in front of her, fingers twitching slightly. "You think I need protection?" she asked, her voice low, almost amused at the suggestion. "I’m simply setting the pieces where they belong. Mischa is a weapon, yes, but she’s also leverage. And right now, I need her to remind Hannibal of his own vulnerabilities. I need him to know that I can still outplay him. Although, I think he finished off the turning, which means I can’t use Mischa against him anymore." Her lips twisted slightly. "I could take out Chiyoh though, if I wanted."

Chilton tilted his head, studying her, but the gleam in his eye suggested he didn’t entirely believe her words. "You’ve always been more than capable of outplaying him, Bedelia. But this..." He trailed off, his amusement slowly giving way to something more calculating. "This isn’t about leverage, is it? This is personal. You wanted her here because you wanted to finish the job."

A pause. Bedelia didn’t flinch.

Chilton’s smile remained as he stepped closer, his voice dropping to a mockingly sympathetic tone. "How poetic. After all this time, you still can’t quite let go of Hannibal, can you? Not even in the way you plot his downfall. You wanted him to kill you—hell, you even wanted him to be your monster. Now you think this is the way to escape it all, by having Mischa do the dirty work for you."

Bedelia’s lips curled into a smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. "You underestimate me, Chilton," she said coldly. "This is not about escaping him. It’s about ensuring that if he ever truly believes he can control me, he’s sorely mistaken."

Chilton gave her a long look, half bemused, half intrigued, but he didn't press her further. Instead, he tilted his head toward the door. "Well, whatever game you’re playing, Bedelia, just make sure you’re ready for the consequences. You may have thought you were playing him for a fool, but I suspect he's already five steps ahead of you. We both know Hannibal never does anything without a reason."

Bedelia remained silent, the weight of his words sinking in. She wasn’t worried—not yet—but even she knew the line between control and chaos could easily blur when Hannibal was involved.

"You’re right about one thing," she said, her voice suddenly softer, though the edge of her resolve remained. "This isn’t over. Not yet."

Chilton smiled again, as if sensing her unspoken thoughts. "No," he said, turning to leave, "not yet."

Will paced restlessly in his room, the walls closing in on him as his thoughts circled relentlessly. He needed to speak with Hannibal, needed to understand everything that was happening. Frustration bubbled up in his chest as he called out sharply, his voice echoing through the stillness. "Hannibal! Chiyoh!"

There was no answer.

Instead, the door to his room creaked open, and Margot stepped into the threshold, a smirk playing on her lips. Her gaze flickered around the room, landing on the intricate wards adorning the door, before she whistled lowly in amusement.

"Well, well," Margot said, her tone light but with an edge of something more knowing. "Seems like these little trinkets are trying to keep me out. Cute." She tilted her head as her eyes roved over Will, taking in the tension in his posture. "And you're prettier than the other men Hannibal keeps around here, too. More delicate... more interesting. I imagine that's why you're here. My name is Margot Verger"
Will was caught off guard by her bluntness, staring at her for a long moment before he spoke, his voice sharp with confusion. "What do you want, Margot Verger?"

She leaned against the doorframe casually, seeming unfazed by his tense demeanor. "Oh, nothing much. Just passing through. But, you know, I do enjoy keeping an eye on Hannibal's little... projects. I’ve been around long enough to know he has his favorites. And speaking of favorites..." She clicked her tongue, her eyes narrowing. "Is it true? Is Mischa Lecter really alive? And possibly a vampire now?"

Will didn’t answer right away, his silence betraying the weight of the question. Margot didn’t need him to respond. Her sharp gaze caught his hesitation, and she gave a little shrug of acknowledgment, a knowing smile tugging at her lips.

"You don't have to say anything, darling," she said with a wicked gleam in her eye. "I can see it in your body language. You look like you’ve just walked out of a nightmare, and it's written all over you."

Will didn't answer. He couldn't. His mind was too full of questions, doubts, and the strange, horrifying realization that so much of this was spinning out of control.

Margot continued, unfazed by his silence. "Well, just so you know, there's this... interesting law among vampires. The turned one—Mischa, for example—can never harm the one who turned them. It’s some weird vampiric law, a sort of twisted loyalty. It’s not like she’s going to come after you, or Hannibal, or anyone else. She won’t be able to. Not without breaking the most fundamental rule of being a vampire."

Will looked at her, his eyes narrowed. "And what does that mean for me? For us?"

Margot shrugged nonchalantly, but there was an edge of satisfaction in her voice. "It means whatever's going on in that twisted little head of yours—whether you're with Hannibal, or fighting against him, or just trying to survive—Mischa won’t be able to do anything to harm you, or him. She’s bound by that rule. Just something for you to consider."

With that, she gave him one last look, her lips curling into a smile that could only be described as smug. "You might want to figure out who’s really in control around here, Will. It’s never as simple as you think."

Chiyoh appeared as if summoned by smoke, silent and sudden in the doorway, her eyes like slivers of moonlight in the gloom. Margot faltered mid-step, her mocking smirk faltering under Chiyoh’s cool gaze.

"You’ve said enough," Chiyoh murmured, not unkindly, but with the weight of centuries in her tone. "Go."

Margot arched a brow, lips parted like she might argue, but thought better of it. With a soft scoff and a flick of her cloak, she stepped back into the corridor and vanished into the shadows.

Chiyoh stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. The room seemed smaller with her in it—more solemn, more tethered to something old and powerful. Will, still tense, straightened as she crossed the room and stood near the hearth, arms folded.

“What is going on?” he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Why does everyone act like they know something I don’t?”

Chiyoh shook her head slowly, the candlelight casting soft flickers along her cheekbones. “I don’t truly know,” she said, her voice quiet and wary. “Hannibal is mad—more so than usual. I heard raised voices between him and Bedelia not long ago. Something’s shifted. Something old and dangerous. I don’t like it.”

Before Will could respond, the door creaked again—and Hannibal entered.

His presence filled the room at once, as if the space had been waiting for him to arrive. His gaze moved over Chiyoh, then settled on Will. He looked more composed than he had any right to, but there was something volatile in the air around him—something restrained by sheer force of will.

“There’s a complication,” Hannibal said, stepping closer.

Will’s breath caught. “What kind of complication?”

Hannibal hesitated, then spoke with deliberate care. “It was not my mother who attempted to turn Mischa.”

Chiyoh’s brows drew together sharply. “You said—”

“I was wrong,” Hannibal cut in. “I was told it was my mother. But tonight, when I turned Mischa—when I fed from her—I tasted another line. It was not Lecter blood. It was… foreign.”

Will blinked. “Then who—?”

“Bedelia,” Hannibal said softly. “It was Bedelia who bit Mischa. Who tried to turn her first. My mother stopped her. But the damage had been done. And now... now she cannot kill Bedelia. Just as she cannot kill me. Just as Chiyoh cannot raise a hand to me either.”

Chiyoh’s mouth was a thin, hard line.

“She’s bound?” Will asked.

Hannibal nodded. “It is a law older than kingdoms. The turned cannot harm their sire. And Bedelia—” his voice tightened, “—Bedelia ensured that if she ever lost control of Mischa, she would never be in danger herself.”

Chiyoh stared into the hearth, her voice low and bitter. “She made a weapon… and ensured no one could turn it against her.”

Will glanced between them both, feeling suddenly very, very small in the wake of ancient manipulations and immortal grudges. “So what now?”

Hannibal’s eyes glittered. “Now, we wait for Mischa to wake… and see who she remembers herself to be.”

“It took me a month to recover from the turning.” Chiyoh remembered “A month is too long, Halloween is sooner than we think.”

“We wait, and we hope.” Hannibal said bitterly.

“And I’ll pray.” Will found himself whispering.

Chapter Text

Beverly wrapped the heavy wool cloak around Mischa’s shoulders, fastening it carefully with the silver clasp before guiding her upstairs. Mischa moved slowly, stiffly, as if each step cost her some small piece of herself. Her skin was pale as bone, her lips faintly tinged with blue, but there was a glimmer in her eyes—a shifting light, red and silver—something alive, something ancient.

Beverly led her into the sitting room and eased her down into the armchair by the hearth. Mischa sank into the cushions, her eyes distant, unblinking, hands folded neatly in her lap like a doll forgotten in a castle. The fire crackled low beside her, casting soft light over her hollow cheeks.

Abigail emerged from the kitchen, drying her hands on a cloth, her brow furrowed.

“That… that was the scream from earlier, wasn’t it?” she asked, hesitantly.

Beverly gave a single, weary nod. “Yes. Abigail, this is Mischa Lecter. She’s... she’s a vampire. But she’s no threat. She only turned last night.”

Mischa didn’t move. Her eyes briefly flicked to Abigail, the silver bleeding into red, then back to the fire.

Abigail stared, fear flickering across her face. “She’s—really—?”

“She’s recovering,” Beverly said gently. “It’s like being born all over again. Loud. Painful. Disorienting.” She leaned down and tucked a thick blanket around Mischa’s shoulders. “Can you help me with something? Look around the house for anything remotely religious. Crosses, old Bibles, anything that might be blessed. Put it in the shed out back. Just in case.”

Abigail nodded slowly and turned away without another word.

Once she was gone, Beverly crouched beside Mischa, her voice soft. “You need to feed. You’re too weak. You have to.”

Mischa’s head turned, just barely. “Not from you,” she whispered. “I could never bite you.”

Beverly looked heartbroken but said nothing, only brushed Mischa’s hair back from her face as footsteps sounded from the entry.

The door creaked open.

Chiyoh entered first, her eyes sweeping the room like a hunter’s. Hannibal followed fast behind her, and Will just behind him, his coat still dusted with the cold of the outside.

“Mischa,” Hannibal breathed, his voice trembling with something close to joy. He moved to her side, kneeling beside the chair, taking her pale hand into his. “You made it through the night. I’m so glad.”

Beverly stood, shifting back slightly. “She’s refusing to feed. I offered, but—”

“She must,” Hannibal said, his voice firm but not cruel. “The blood sustains her now. Without it…”

Mischa shook her head slowly, her eyes wet. “No. I won’t hurt anyone. I won’t become—”

“I’ll do it,” Will said suddenly, stepping forward. “It’s okay. I don’t mind.”

Mischa looked up at him, horrified, but before she could protest again, Hannibal reached for Will’s hand.

A sharp prick of his teeth, almost tender—barely a wound. Blood welled up. Hannibal offered the wrist to Mischa without hesitation, gently guiding her face forward.

She resisted for a heartbeat longer, trembling, then her lips parted and she latched on.

Her eyes flared crimson, and the room fell quiet.

Will didn’t flinch. Hannibal’s hand hovered beneath her chin, steadying her. After a few moments, Hannibal leaned in and licked the wound on Will’s wrist, sealing it closed.

Mischa slumped back in the chair, eyes fluttering shut, color returning faintly to her cheeks.

“She’ll be alright,” Hannibal said, brushing a lock of hair from her brow. “She just needs time.”

Beverly looked at Mischa, then at Will, her throat tight with emotion.

Chiyoh stood by the door, arms crossed, watching it all unfold in silence.

“Thank you.” Mischa whispered to Will.

Hannibal rose slowly from Mischa’s side, smoothing his cuffs with quiet precision, his face a mask of composure—though those closest to him could sense the tension beneath it. The firelight gleamed off his eyes as he turned toward Beverly, Will, and Chiyoh.

“She’s stable now,” he said softly, “for the moment. But there’s something you all must understand. Especially you, Beverly.”

Beverly met his gaze, arms crossed tightly around herself. Will stood beside her, pale but steady, while Chiyoh lingered at the edge of the room, her expression unreadable.

Hannibal’s gaze dropped to Mischa, still slumped in the chair, the blanket wrapped tight around her shoulders. “Mischa came here with a purpose. A noble one, in her mind—noble, and doomed.”

Beverly frowned. “What do you mean?”

“She believed she could kill Bedelia,” Hannibal said simply, voice low. “That was the heart of it. Her act of defiance. The church’s answer to an ancient grievance.”

Will’s brows furrowed. “But…?”

“But she can’t,” Hannibal replied, his eyes locking onto Beverly’s. “Because it wasn’t our mother who bit Mischa that night. It was Bedelia.”

A beat of stunned silence.

“No,” Beverly said, breathless. “That’s not what Mischa believed—”

“She was wrong,” Hannibal said, almost gently. “When the Lecter estate burned and our parents died, Bedelia acted. She bit Mischa—tried to turn her. But my mother intervened before the transformation could take root. Mischa was handed to the Church… and Bedelia fled with me. It was her insurance. A hidden thread woven into her web.”

Chiyoh stepped closer, her voice tight. “You’re saying Mischa can’t harm Bedelia.”

“Nor me,” Hannibal said with a faint smile. “Not now. Not since I finished what Bedelia started. The turned are bound to their sires—spiritually, magically. They cannot kill them. Not Bedelia. Not me.”

Beverly looked at Mischa, who remained silent, her expression unreadable, though her eyes glistened faintly in the firelight.

“She came all this way to kill her,” Beverly whispered. “She put herself through all of this—”

“And now she’s bound,” Hannibal said, softly but firmly. “To both of us. She can never lift her hand against Bedelia. She is trapped in the very curse she meant to break.”

Will swore under his breath, glancing at Mischa. “So what now? What does that mean for her?”

“It means,” Hannibal said, “that we must find another way to end Bedelia’s hold on us. Mischa’s role in this game has changed… but she’s not lost. Not yet.”

Beverly knelt beside Mischa again, her voice barely above a whisper. “We’ll find a way. I swear it.”

And Mischa—weak, weary, bound to her fate—closed her eyes, as if clinging to the thread of that promise.

“What if I did it?” Will asked quietly from the corner.

“Will… Mischa and I trained for.. A century, and I don’t even think I could kill her.” Beverly explained.

“Why can’t Hannibal?”

“I can, but… it would be in poor taste. It would make my position harder in the vampire pecking order, and I have eternity to live with that.” Hannibal eyed him.

Will shifted his weight by the hearth, arms crossed over his chest, eyes fixed not on the fire, but on the flickering shadow it cast on the wall—as if he were staring at something only he could see.

“She’s always been one step ahead,” he said after a long silence, his voice low, contemplative. “That’s how Bedelia survives. How she’s stayed in control all these years. She manipulates bloodlines, oaths, magic. Everyone’s tied to her in one way or another. But not me. She thinks I am food”

Hannibal raised a brow, curious. Chiyoh narrowed her eyes, her posture still and sharp. Beverly looked up from where she knelt beside Mischa, concern flickering in her eyes.

Will turned to them slowly. “I was never part of her design. She didn’t turn me. She never marked me. She’s never touched me with her blood, and I’ve never taken hers. That makes me clean.”

Hannibal tilted his head, intrigued. “Clean is a generous word, Will.”

Will smirked. “Maybe. But unbound? Yes. That’s what matters. I’m not tied to her the way the rest of you are.”

Chiyoh stepped forward, her voice edged with warning. “She’ll see you coming.”

“Not if I make her see something else,” Will replied. “She thinks she knows me. Thinks I’m still teetering on the edge of being Hannibal’s perfect reflection, or that I am his toy, pet, under his thumb, it doesn’t matter. And maybe I am. But she doesn’t expect me to move on my own.”

Beverly stood slowly, wiping her hands on her skirt. “What are you saying? That you’ll kill her?”

Will nodded. “If it comes to that. If we can’t break the bindings, if Mischa can’t strike, if none of you can… then yes. I’ll be the knife.”

“And how would you get close enough?” Chiyoh asked.

“She wants to talk to me. She always does. She sees me as a weakness in Hannibal’s armor—an opportunity. I’ll let her think I’m ready to listen. That I’m curious. That I might even turn. She’s fascinated by the fact that Hannibal isn’t allowing her to eat me.”

Hannibal let out a quiet laugh. “You’re willing to play a dangerous game, Will?”

“I’ve always played dangerous games with you,” Will said, meeting his eyes. “You can teach me how to play her.”

Mischa finally looked up, her voice hoarse but clear. “If you do this… you’ll be marked. There’s no turning back.”

Will looked to her and offered the faintest, bittersweet smile. “I turned my back on normalcy the moment I stepped into Hannibal’s castle. If this is the price of freeing you all from her chains… it’s worth it.”

Beverly stepped beside him, uncertain. “And if she sees through you?”

“Then I hope one of you finishes what I couldn’t,” Will said. “But she’s not expecting me to strike. That’s the advantage.”

Chapter Text

The castle had quieted with the descent of night, its cold stone corridors lit only by sconces and lanterns flickering low with golden light. In the drawing room, Hannibal stood by the grand window, hands folded neatly behind his back, his silhouette sharp against the sweeping darkness beyond. Will sat nearby in a velvet-backed chair, watching him with a mixture of curiosity and calculation.

“She enjoys precision,” Hannibal said, his voice a smooth murmur, “not just in words, but in touch. The way you hold her—light, at first, then firm. She must feel that you can take control, but only if she lets you.”

Will raised an eyebrow, fingers tracing the lip of his glass. “So she’s the one who leads, but she wants to feel like she’s being followed willingly.”

“Exactly,” Hannibal said, turning to face him. He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, like a dancer crossing into the rhythm. “She will test you. She will circle you like a wolf around a wounded stag. But if you stand still, unwavering, she will come to you. She enjoys restraint… but only from those who know when to break it.”

Will smirked faintly. “And the kiss?”

Hannibal's eyes darkened slightly. “Not rushed. Not hungry. She despises desperation. But when the moment comes—full, deliberate. She likes to feel it in her spine. Her neck is sensitive, just behind the ear.” He raised his hand to his own neck in demonstration. “Like a violin string drawn taut.”

Will stood, slowly, moving toward him. “Show me.”

There was a pause—a quiet, knowing silence.

Hannibal’s hand lifted to Will’s jaw, his touch cold at first, then warmer as it settled. Their eyes locked. Will did not flinch. Hannibal’s fingers brushed his cheek, his thumb grazing the corner of his mouth.

“She’ll watch your eyes,” Hannibal said, quieter now. “She’ll know what you’re thinking before you do.”

“And what if I’m not thinking of her?” Will asked.

Another pause.

“Then you’ll be thinking of me,” Hannibal whispered.

Will’s breath hitched slightly. Their mouths hovered near one another, the distance between them alive with tension. Then—slowly, deliberately—Hannibal closed it.

The kiss began with a softness that belied the heat beneath it. Will responded instinctively, one hand finding Hannibal’s shoulder, the other cupping the back of his neck. It deepened quickly—hungry, yearning, as if something long buried had finally surfaced. Hannibal’s fingers wound into Will’s curls, pulling him closer, their bodies meeting, pressed together with a ferocity neither had planned for.

It was not just lust—it was recognition, reverence. A collision of intellect and desire. Fire, carefully stoked for years, finally permitted to burn.

When they pulled apart, breathless, Will kept his hand on Hannibal’s chest.

Hannibal spoke first, voice low and rough. “You’ll do well with her, if you remember one thing.”

Will looked up at him, eyes still dazed. “What’s that?”

“She can never know that, even when you kiss her… you’re still thinking of me.”
~
The castle halls were long and echoing, moonlight spilling through the stained glass and catching the dust in the air like glittering ash. Will’s footsteps were steady as he moved through the stone corridors, hands in his coat pockets, eyes scanning every corner. The shadows did not frighten him anymore—they intrigued him.

Behind him, Bedelia followed with a lightness to her step that contradicted her centuries. Her long silk robe trailed behind her like smoke, and her voice was honeyed with mischief.

“What’s gotten into you, Will?” she asked, practically gleaming with amusement. “You seem… braver tonight. Curious, even.”

Will glanced back, offering a small, disarming smile. “I thought, if I’m going to be here—live here—I should probably start knowing what’s really going on. Where everything is. Who everyone really is.”

Bedelia’s smile widened, delighted. “How very responsible of you,” she said, linking her arm with his without asking. “Shall I give you a tour then? I’ve always had a flair for hospitality.”

Will allowed it, even leaned into her just enough to sell it. He let his gaze flick down her form and back up again, his expression painted with feigned fascination. “Strange,” he said softly, “that you’re not in charge.”

Bedelia laughed, low and rich. “Oh, darling,” she purred, “Hannibal may wear the pants, but I hold his balls.” She winked. “And I play with them when I’m bored.”

She guided him through the castle—showing him the music room, the blood-stained cellar, the library where voices whispered of forgotten lore. The air grew thicker as they ascended the grand staircase to the upper floors. Bedelia moved like a queen in her court, savoring every step.

At the end of one long hallway, she paused before a set of heavy carved doors. “This,” she said, with a flourish, “is where I rest.”

Will raised an eyebrow. “Do vampires actually need rest?”

“Not really,” she said with a knowing smirk. “But when you have eternity, you find ways to pass the time. A nap here and there. A little indulgence. Life slows down. Pleasure stretches longer.”

“And what is it you enjoy?” Will asked, his voice low.

Her eyes sparkled like moonlit ice. “Being in charge.”

Will let his expression soften, gaze admiring, voice just above a whisper. “I like being told what to do.”

Bedelia didn’t wait—she stepped forward, cupping his jaw with long fingers, and kissed him. Slow, deliberate, tasting him. Will let her. He even followed her lead, allowing his hands to slide along her waist, drawing her in.

She pulled back just long enough to murmur against his lips, “You can touch me… if I say so.”

Will nodded, murmured his agreement, playing the role well—so well it might even have felt real for a moment.

But before the scene could deepen, a quiet voice cut through the tension like a blade.

“That’s enough.”

They turned to see Hannibal standing in the doorway, eyes unreadable, his posture casual but his presence crackling with unspoken authority.

Will stepped back immediately, the illusion dropping ever so slightly from his face. He bowed his head politely and turned to leave, slipping past Hannibal with a murmur of “Sorry, Count Lecter.”

When Will was gone, Hannibal stepped into the room fully, closing the door behind him with a soft click. Bedelia sighed dramatically and turned away, arms crossed.

“You’re scolding me,” she said, pouting just enough to be coy. “For playing with our food.”

Hannibal approached her slowly, expression neutral “it is funny, that you play with the food, but don’t allow me to have a lady to play with, that you’re my one and only, but I am not yours.”

She rolled her eyes and moved to sit at the edge of the bed. “If you’re not going to play, Hannibal, I have to find my own fun. And you know how much I hate being bored.” She looked up at him through her lashes. “Unless… you’d like to remind me why I shouldn’t be.”

Hannibal kissed her deeply, then threw her on the bed smiling.
~
Hannibal closed the door behind him with the soft click of old wood meeting frame. Will stood near the hearth, arms crossed, eyes burning with restrained frustration.

“I almost had her,” he muttered, not bothering to look at Hannibal. “You didn’t need to interrupt.”
Hannibal stepped further into the room, unhurried. “You forget,” he said, voice smooth and maddeningly calm, “we are in this for the long game. Bedelia thrives on drama. She enjoys being pursued, desired, fought over. She’s the flame, and we are all moths.”

Will scoffed. “So I’m supposed to play the moth and wait until she burns me?”

“She loves attention. She loves trouble. You played your part beautifully,” Hannibal replied, approaching until they were just breaths apart. “But she also loves knowing someone else wants what she has… what she thinks she controls.”

There was a pause, a beat too long, before Hannibal added, more quietly now, “Still, the thought of you lying with her… it made me angry.”

Will’s gaze finally met his.

“It should be me,” Hannibal said, and something shifted in his voice—no longer patient mentor or manipulator, but something raw, something real. “It’s always should have been me.”

“This can’t work if you’re going to be jealous, Hannibal.” Will reminded “It also can’t work if I smell like you, she’s got a nose like a bloodhound.”

“She won’t know the difference between sex and the smell of me biting you.”

“Are you sure? Are you willing to risk it?” Will asked flirtatiously.

Hannibal sighed with frustration “No. No I am not.”

“Then you have to wait. We will both have to wait.”

Chapter Text

Bishop Abel Gideon rode into the village with the authority of fire and brimstone, his horse’s hooves clattering against the stone-paved road like a herald of judgment. His cloak, tattered crimson lined with gold thread, flared behind him as he dismounted in front of the old church. The doors stood open as though expecting him. Inside, the cold light filtered through stained glass, painting fractured saints across the pews.

Will stood in the shadows near the altar, still as the statues lining the nave. Beverly was waiting in the front pew, upright, composed, her hands folded around a parchment sealed with the insignia of the Papal Court. When Abel entered, she rose and walked to him, her expression unreadable.

He took her cheeks in his gloved hands and kissed each one, solemn and mock-ecclesiastical. “Doctor Katz,” he murmured, stepping back with a knowing smile. “And who, pray, is this young man brooding at your side?”

“A friend,” Beverly said, turning only slightly to gesture toward Will. “Will Graham.”

Abel’s pale eyes flicked over Will, but whatever judgment he passed remained unspoken. Instead, his attention snapped back to Beverly, sharper now.

“And where,” he said, slow and pointed, “is Mischa?”

The air thickened. Beverly hesitated for only a second, but Will’s jaw tightened. Abel saw it.

“Ah,” he sighed, a disappointed click of the tongue. “So it’s true, then. She’s turned?”

“She has,” Beverly said softly, firmly. Her fingers curled tighter around the letter.

Abel shook his head and made a low noise of disapproval. “Then she must be destroyed. You know that. It is forbidden. Against the agreement.”

Beverly didn’t flinch. “The Lecters were never bound by it. They negotiated their own terms. Mischa is protected.”

“Oh, please,” Abel chuckled, brushing invisible dust from his shoulder. “Everyone in this wretched church knows you’ve been in her bed since the Academy. Protection or not, you'll rot in hell. No sacred duty or holy fire will save you from that particular brand of damnation.”

Beverly swallowed once, barely visible. Her posture didn’t shift. Her voice stayed level.

“That is exactly why I’m leaving,” she said. “I stayed this long because of her. I believed there was a place for us here, some twisted redemption. But if Mischa can’t be part of the Church—if she isn’t welcome—then the Church serves no purpose to me.”

For a long moment, Abel said nothing. Then he laughed. Loud, genuine, cold “And that,” he said, shaking his head, “is exactly why they sent me. To clean up the messes your little holy sisterhood can’t. Fools. All of them. Imagine, believing in the power of women.”

Will stepped forward at last, his presence like the shift of a shadow coming to life. His voice, quiet but carrying, broke through Abel’s laughter with the weight of something ancient and patient “Perhaps you should stay inside tonight, Bishop.”

Abel turned toward him, amused. “Oh?”

Will’s eyes didn’t waver. “Who knows what—or who—is lurking in the dark.”

There was something in the way he said it, not a threat exactly, but not a warning either. Just a truth laid bare, as old as the night itself. The stone walls of the church seemed to draw closer, the flickering candlelight casting long, claw-like shadows up the vaulted ceiling.

Abel regarded him for a beat too long, the laughter gone from his face now, replaced with the faintest trace of calculation. Then he smiled, slow and predatory “Are you threatening me, Mr. Graham?”

Will tilted his head, a glimmer of something unreadable in his eyes “Of course not. Just… suggesting. The dark isn’t what it used to be.”

Abel looked to Beverly, but she said nothing, her expression as still and cold as a graveyard in snow. The silence pressed in again “Get out of my Church.” he demanded.

~

Chiyoh stood at the edge of the old churchyard, half-shrouded in the shadow of a twisted yew tree. The stone path glimmered faintly with frost, and the stained-glass windows flickered with candlelight from within. Through one narrow pane, she watched him—Bishop Abel Gideon—his figure unmistakable even distorted by colored glass. He moved with the self-assurance of someone who believed the world would kneel before him if he only raised a hand.

She didn’t hide. She wanted him to see her.

And he did.

Moments later, the heavy front door creaked open. Abel stepped into the night air, the gold trim of his cassock catching the moonlight as he descended the steps. He moved with calculated calm, like a wolf dressed in holy cloth, and made his way to the rusted gate where Chiyoh waited, arms crossed.

“Ah,” he said, smiling as though greeting an old friend, “you must be the one they call Chiyoh.”

She tilted her head, her expression as still and unmoved as stone. “And you must be the sanctimonious one they call Bishop Gideon.”

He chuckled, low in his throat, clearly amused. “Like the first sons of Adam and Eve,” he said, his voice smooth and coiled. “Or so the Church would have it.”

Chiyoh arched an eyebrow. “And yet not quite so innocent, I imagine.”

Abel’s smile twitched, just once. “Doesn’t Chiyoh mean a thousand years?” he said, voice sharp now, biting. “Fitting, for a vampire.”

She didn’t blink. “Then it seems we were both named well.”

He held her gaze, something colder flickering in his eyes now, but she simply stepped forward, close enough for him to smell the ancient iron of her presence.

“I’ll be watching you,” she said. “Don’t turn your back for too long.” She left him there at the gate, the wind shifting as she passed, and Abel, for the first time that night, was very still.

~

The forest path back to the estate was hushed and heavy, the kind of silence that settles in just before a storm breaks. Beverly and Will walked side by side, neither speaking, their breath misting in the cool night air. The moon hung low, its pale light turning the trees into silver skeletons. By the time the manor came into view, both of them wore the kind of tension that settles in the bones.
Inside, the fire still crackled in the hearth, unchanged. Abigail dozed curled in a velvet chair, arms wrapped around herself. Mischa sat across from her, precisely as Beverly had left her—still, upright, and waiting. As if she’d known they would return bearing bad news.

Mischa looked up as they entered, her expression unreadable. “Well?”

Beverly crossed the room slowly, shedding her coat, her face taut with something brittle and raw.

“We have a problem,” she said. “Bishop Gideon is in the village.”

Mischa blinked. “Abel?”

Will nodded grimly. “The Church wants to clean house.”

For a heartbeat, Mischa didn’t move. Then, quietly, she rose from her chair. Her legs trembled slightly under her, but she straightened her spine with resolve.

“I need to see him.”

“No.” Beverly’s voice was sharp, the word slicing through the room. She stepped in front of Mischa, her hands reaching instinctively as if to hold her in place. “You can’t. He’ll kill you.”

Mischa shook her head, her eyes glinting with stubborn conviction. “He was like a father to me. I’m sure he’ll understand.”

“He won’t,” Will said, stepping forward now, his voice lower, darker. “He already said what he came here to do. He intends to kill you, Mischa.”

Mischa’s lips pressed together. Her hands clenched at her sides. Then she lifted her chin, eyes locking with Will’s “Get out of my way.”

Will didn’t move. His jaw tightened, the pain in his gaze sharper than before. He shook his head slowly “No,” he said. “Hannibal would never forgive me.”

~

Mischa stood tense near the window, hands clenched around the edge of the sill as though she could steady herself with the feel of cold glass. Will hovered nearby, watchful, unwilling to let her take another step toward the door.

The fire crackled low behind them, casting long shadows across the room—and then one of those shadows moved.

Chiyoh stepped forward soundlessly, as if she'd always been there, simply waiting for the right moment to emerge. Her voice was calm, cool, and just sharp enough to cut.

“You should be resting.”

Mischa turned, startled but not afraid. Will exhaled—he hadn’t even sensed her arrival.

Chiyoh crossed her arms and glanced between the two of them. “But I suppose we’re all here to talk about Abel Gideon.”

Will gave a grim nod. Mischa said nothing, only studied Chiyoh with a haunted sort of hope.

“I’ll be watching him,” Chiyoh continued, her tone unwavering. “I’ve had a great deal of practice removing bishops since the beginning of the Catholic Church. It’s something of a talent by now.”

She stepped closer, the firelight catching the edge of her cheekbone, her gaze cold and steady. “He won’t lay a finger on any of you. Not while I’m here.”

Something in her voice wasn’t just a promise—it was an oath, ancient and blood-bound. Mischa blinked, caught between awe and disbelief.

Will looked at her. “You think you can stop him?”

Chiyoh met his gaze. “I know I can.”

~

The castle was quiet, lit with the golden hush of late evening—tall candles flickering in wrought-iron sconces, their light catching on old portraits and silver decanters. Will and Chiyoh crossed the threshold together, boots echoing on the stone floor. The scent of wine and firewood lingered in the air, warm and strange after the chill of the churchyard.

In the drawing room, the gathering was already in full swing. Hannibal sat languidly in one of the high-backed chairs, a crystal glass of deep red in his hand. Bedelia was beside him, draped in blue silk, sipping her wine with that air of eternal patience. And Chilton—still there, somehow still talking—was leaned too comfortably against the mantel, spinning some story that had long since lost its audience.

Everyone’s patience with him had thinned to near-invisibility. Everyone’s, except Bedelia’s, who regarded him with the amused detachment of someone studying a particularly well-dressed rat.

Will’s gaze flicked over the room like a man stepping into a den of sleeping lions.

Chiyoh walked in without hesitation and took a seat, folding herself neatly into a carved wooden chair. Will followed, silent as ever, and stood behind her.

Chiyoh’s tone was calm, but it struck through the idle chatter like a bell.

“Bishop Gideon is in town.”

That silenced even Chilton.

Hannibal raised an eyebrow. Bedelia did not blink. Chilton, however, gave a sharp little laugh, swirling his wine lazily.

“Oh, vampire hunters are a dime a dozen,” he said, dismissively, “Kill one, turn another, and more appear. Like weeds in holy soil.”

Will’s lip twitched, not quite a smile.

Chiyoh didn’t look at Chilton. “He’s not a weed. He’s fire. And the Church sent him to burn.”

That quieted even Chilton’s smirk, though not for long.

Hannibal took a long sip of wine, then looked over the rim of his glass. “Then we must decide,” he said softly, “whether to smother the fire—or feed it.”

Bedelia swirled the wine in her glass, the candlelight catching on its surface like blood in water. Her expression was cool, thoughtful—then it shifted, just barely, a sly curl at the edge of her mouth.

“Set it,” she said, her voice as smooth and sharp as a scalpel.

All eyes turned toward her.

She lifted her glass delicately, as though making a toast. “Let it burn. The church, the hunters, the ashes of their righteousness. If they came to cleanse us with fire, perhaps we should be courteous and return the favor.”

Chilton blinked, momentarily stunned into silence.

Hannibal looked almost amused, his fingers tapping gently against the stem of his glass. “You do have a flair for the dramatic, Bedelia.”

“Not dramatic,” she replied, smiling faintly. “Efficient.”

Will glanced toward Chiyoh, who remained still as stone, though her eyes had narrowed slightly.

“You’re talking about razing the church,” Will said slowly. “People will die.”

“People already are,” Bedelia replied, her voice cool and unrepentant. “If you think Gideon’s presence ends with Mischa, then you underestimate him. He’ll take the village next. Then the city. And if he can, the world.”

She set her glass down, not with violence, but with the kind of finality that left no room for argument.

“If fire is what they want, let’s give them a pyre.”

Chapter Text

The village slept under a thin veil of mist, its narrow lanes cloaked in the hush of night. Bedelia walked slowly, her pale cloak trailing over the uneven stones, the hem damp with dew. Her face was calm, almost serene, as though she were simply taking in the quiet beauty of a forgotten town. But there was purpose in her steps, and danger in the silence she carried.

Unseen, Chiyoh followed.

She moved like shadow, her presence unnoticed by even the night itself, boots whispering over earth and stone. She kept her distance, far enough not to be seen, close enough to hear. Always watching. Always waiting.

At the edge of the churchyard, Bedelia stopped. She stood before the old iron fence, twisted and black with age. A hush settled in, heavier than before. Then—

“Abel,” she called softly, almost sweetly.

The church door creaked. From within, Bishop Gideon stepped into the moonlight, his cassock unbuttoned, his hair loose, eyes hungry in a way no sermon could hide. He crossed the churchyard like a man emerging from a fever dream.

They met at the gate, iron between them.

Without hesitation, they kissed over the fence, slow and lingering. It was not tenderness—it was old hunger. Mutual and venomous.

When they parted, Abel’s breath trembled. “Is it time?” he whispered. “For me to be changed?”

Bedelia touched his cheek, her gloved fingers brushing the line of his jaw. “Soon,” she promised. “So soon. Just a little more patience.”

He laughed weakly. “I’m not getting any younger, darling. I’d prefer not to decay while my face is still beautiful.”

She smiled, a glint of teeth beneath her calm. “There’s still work to be done. You must kill Beverly… and Mischa. The girl, Abigail. Then Chiyoh.” Her voice lowered, reverent with anticipation. “So that no one remains who could stop the turning of the village. I want you to have a real hoard to rule over. Not scraps. Dominion.”

Abel’s eyes gleamed.

“And then,” she said, softer now, leaning close, “I’m going to kill Hannibal.”

That brought his brows up, delighted and doubtful.

“He’ll never see it coming,” Bedelia whispered. “Not from me.”

Abel chuckled. “And what of Will Graham?”

Bedelia’s smile turned indulgent. “I like Will. He’s empathetic. Infatuated with vampires. He stares too long. Thinks too deeply. I’ll turn him too. Something beautiful. Something soft. We’ll need a little plaything, after all.”

~

Bedelia turned from the church with deliberate grace, her cloak catching in the wind like a curtain closing on a well-rehearsed performance. She walked several paces into the open lane before stopping, glancing once over her shoulder.

“Come now, Chiyoh,” she called into the shadows, her tone warm, coaxing. “No need to be shy. Come out. Just talk to me.”

There was a long pause. The night held its breath.

And then Chiyoh stepped forward from beneath the yew trees, silent as snowfall, her posture elegant but wary. She stopped beside Bedelia, the two of them framed by the ancient iron fence, moonlight slicing between its spires.

Bedelia regarded her with the fondness of someone inspecting a delicate but underwhelming artifact. She reached out and, with a gloved hand, brushed a lock of hair from Chiyoh’s cheek, fingers lingering just a moment too long.

“You shouldn’t lurk in shadows,” she scolded gently. “You’ll only hear things you wish you hadn’t. It’s bad for the soul. And worse for the heart.”

Chiyoh didn’t flinch, though her eyes followed every movement with the stillness of a blade.

“You’re beautiful,” Bedelia murmured. “But so very weak. You’ll never amount to anything if you keep playing ghost. Hiding behind Hannibal. Chasing his leash like a dog who forgot it’s free.”

She tilted her head, studying her. “But what if I offered you something more? A place at the table. Real power. Not scraps from his hand.”

Chiyoh said nothing, but the line of her jaw tightened.

Bedelia’s smile grew sharper. “You’re almost as old as I am. And still, you’re treated like a child. Isn’t that unfair?” Her voice dropped, silken and cruel. “You’ve never had a lover. No one, aside from Mason, has shown any real interest in you. And Mason—well. He doesn't count.”

Her hand slid to Chiyoh’s shoulder, voice coiling like smoke. “Wouldn’t it be nice? To have a warm bed. Someone to come home to, every once in a while?”

She tsked softly, eyes narrowing. “Or is it the trauma? What was it—harem of the Japanese emperor? Is that it? All that damage, all that silence. You can’t trust anymore. Can’t be a nun, not really, but still following the same dull little rules.”

She leaned closer, voice shifting into elegant Japanese, low and purring, Shall I find you a nice man? Or a woman, if you prefer?

Chiyoh said nothing. Not a word. But her gaze locked on Bedelia’s.

“You’re looking a little old, when was the last time you fed?” Bedelia’s thumb touched Chiyoh’s lip, then leaned in and kissed her, Chiyoh stood still, frozen to her spot “I could find space to love you as well, Chiyoh, if you could find in yours.”

Chiyoh said nothing, but took a small step back, bowing her head politely.

“I wish you’d talk to me… if my father were still alive, he’d have had a field day with your mind. Go find yourself something to eat, I’ll see you at the castle.”

~

Chiyoh stood in the road long after Bedelia had turned away, her figure shrinking into the dark until, in one elegant motion, it shifted—shoulders folding, limbs condensing, silk twisting in on itself. And then she was gone, a black-winged silhouette flapping soundlessly into the night, headed back toward the castle.

Chiyoh watched the sky until the last glimmer of wings disappeared over the hills.

Then she turned, slowly, and walked toward Beverly’s cottage.

The door was unlocked. Inside, the fire had burned low, casting long golden bands across the walls. Mischa was awake, her back to the hearth, a mess of yellowed papers spread across the table—documents, diagrams, old letters, all carefully laid out under her hands. She looked up when Chiyoh entered.

Her brows knit together. “Are you… alright?”

Chiyoh stood in the doorway a moment too long, lips parted as if to speak, her eyes unfocused. She stepped forward, staggered slightly, caught the edge of a chair.

Mischa rose, concerned now, but before she could cross the room, Chiyoh’s expression shifted—surprise, then confusion, then nothing at all. Her body crumpled like parchment, and she collapsed to the floor.

When she woke, it was to the sound of Beverly’s voice.

“Don’t move yet,” she said softly, crouched at her side. Her hand was on Chiyoh’s shoulder, grounding her.

The cottage was dim again, candles flickering. Mischa stood in the corner, arms crossed, worry etched deep on her face.

“You were poisoned,” Beverly said. “I found traces of it on your lips.”

Chiyoh blinked slowly, breath shallow. Her mind clawed its way back to the memory—cool fingers, the brush of a gloved hand, and then—
“Bedelia,” she said hoarsely. “She kissed me.”

Beverly nodded grimly. “Then you’re lucky.”

She stood, moving to the table to pour a small glass of something clear and bitter-smelling. “It was a warning. If she’d wanted you dead, you would be. She wanted to show you what she could do.”

Mischa stepped forward quietly, the soft rustle of her dress barely cutting the silence that hung thick in the aftermath. Her eyes lingered on Chiyoh—pale, trembling, the poison still ghosting through her veins—and then lifted to Beverly.

“Take care of her,” Mischa said gently, but with the steel of resolve buried just beneath.

Beverly nodded, her hand still resting lightly on Chiyoh’s shoulder. “I will. Wait, where are you going?!”

“Don’t wait up, don’t follow.” Mischa’s gaze softened as it passed between them. She stepped back, unfastening her coat and folding it over the back of a chair with deliberate care. Her movements were fluid, unhurried, as if shedding the last remnants of stillness.

Then she turned to the door. As she stepped outside, the moonlight caught her features—bright, solemn, and oddly serene.

In the open air, she paused only once, lifting her eyes toward the castle looming in the hills above.

A gust of wind stirred the leaves.

And then, in a blink of motion, she shifted—her form collapsing inward, limbs shrinking, feathers blooming where fingers had been. Her body became something sleek and dark, wings stretching wide, catching the night like sails.

~

When Bedelia alighted at the castle gates, her wings folding in as her form reshaped into flesh and silk and bone, the air was still and sharp with cold.

She landed lightly, boots touching stone.

And there, already waiting on the top step beneath the great iron doors, was Mischa.

She leaned against one of the pillars, calm, statuesque, a cigarette burning between her fingers. The red ember flared as she inhaled, casting her face in pale orange light. Her eyes, cool and unreadable, watched Bedelia approach with the languid ease of someone who had been waiting far too long.

Bedelia slowed, surprised—then smiled, delighted.

“Well, well,” she said, her voice lilting with amusement. “You beat me here.”

Mischa exhaled a thin trail of smoke, saying nothing.

Bedelia stepped closer, circling slightly as though unsure whether she was looking at a rival or an ally. “You’ve chosen to join us, then?”

Mischa raised one brow faintly. “I’ve chosen to come,” she replied. “What happens next depends on you.”

That only made Bedelia’s smile grow, sly and approving.

“Either way,” she said, stepping past her toward the doors, “the castle is yours, after all. Of your bloodline. You should walk through the front like you belong.”

She reached out and pushed open the heavy doors with a quiet creak, then gestured inward.

“Come in, Mischa. Come home.”

Chapter Text

The castle halls were hushed in that strange, waiting way—like the stone itself knew something had shifted.

Hannibal emerged from the shadows of the corridor, drawn by some unspoken instinct. The moment his eyes landed on the figure in his dining room, time seemed to still.

Mischa.

She stood near the long table, backlit by flickering candelabras, cigarette smoke still clinging to her hair like a ghost. Her eyes met his—and in a heartbeat, he was across the room.

He reached her, and his arms were around her before either could breathe.

He held her fiercely, his face buried in her hair, fingers gripping as if to make sure she was real. She pressed her cheek against his shoulder, and in the quiet between them, she whispered:
“Bedelia poisoned Chiyoh.”

Hannibal pulled back slightly, just enough to meet her eyes. There was a flicker of something cold and ancient in his expression—then a small, solemn nod.

“I will handle it,” he said, voice calm. Too calm.

Footsteps echoed in the hall behind them, and Will appeared in the doorway, his face shifting from confusion to something close to awe.

“Mischa?” he said, blinking as if she were a vision.

“She needs rest,” Hannibal said, not looking at him. “Take her to your room. Just for a little while.”

Will nodded slowly, moving forward. “Of course.”

Gently, he offered her his arm. Mischa leaned into him without protest, exhaustion radiating off her like heat.

They walked together through the corridors, and when they reached his room, Will opened the door, guiding her in as if afraid she might shatter.

He helped her onto the bed, drawing the covers over her with quiet care. She sank into the mattress, her eyes half-lidded, her skin pale.

“You look awful,” he said, soft and worried.

“I feel it,” she replied, closing her eyes.

“Are you thirsty?”

Mischa opened her eyes, looked at the glass, then back at him, and shook her head “No.”

“You sure?” Will asked, softly.

She hesitated. “I’m afraid I won’t know when to stop, if I start.”

Will crouched beside the bed. He studied her face—paler than before, the bruised look under her eyes darker.

“I trust you,” he said, and extended his arm, the inside of his wrist turned up toward her.

Mischa stared at it. Then at him.

“I mean it,” he said.

She sat up slowly, eyes steady on his. When she took his wrist, it was with careful hands, as if holding something holy. She bit gently, barely a wince from him—and drank only a little. Just enough.

Then she pulled away, her tongue flicking delicately across the wound to close it.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Color was already returning to her cheeks, her voice stronger, the faint tremble in her fingers gone.

“You’ve got a headache,” she said after a moment, watching him.

Will raised an eyebrow, smiling. “How’d you know that?”

She leaned back into the pillow. “I can taste it.”

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well. That’s unsettling.”

Mischa reached into her coat, still folded on the bed beside her, and retrieved a small silver tin. It clicked softly as she opened it—inside were what looked like lollies, pale and matte, like sugared lavender pastilles.

She held it out.

“Take two. I used to suffer headaches all the time. These help.”

Will took them, eyeing them curiously before popping them into his mouth.

“What’s in them?”

She smiled faintly, closing her eyes again. “Magic. And a little bit of rosemary. I came here because Bedelia poisoned Chiyoh.”

“Is Chiyoh ok?”

“Beverly fixed her but it was a warning, that Bedelia could do whatever she wanted, a taste of what’s to come.”

“So if you can’t hurt your sires, can they hurt you?” Will considered.

“No, it goes both ways.”

“So you’re protected from Hannibal and Bedelia, and they’re protected from you, and Chiyoh is protected by Hannibal, and him her, could Chiyoh kill Bedelia?”

“I don’t think she would. She’s a conflicted soul, as am I.”

“What do you know about her?”

“I know that she was once trained by Hannibal’s Aunt, a woman named Murasaki.”

“Who… killed her…?”

“She did, slept with her husband, though how willing, no one will know, she was probably one of his Harem, Hannibal was visiting, found her bleeding on the floor, turned her, and took her with him when she left. That was… hundreds of years ago.”

“Poor Chiyoh.”

“Hannibal is fiercely protective of her, despite everything, and she him.”

~

The castle was humming with unwanted life again.

The Vergers arrived at dusk, as theatrical as always—Mason in his absurd finery, Margot at his side in a long black riding coat, expression unreadable as ever. They came under the pretense of welcome, bearing rare wines and false smiles, eager to see “the great Mischa” risen from ash and memory.

Mischa, now restored and radiant in a deep garnet dress, received them with the quiet detachment of royalty humoring pilgrims.

Chiyoh returned not long after, gliding in through the servant’s entrance as though nothing had happened, the last traces of poison burned from her body. She was dressed simply, her long coat dusted with snow, her expression as impassive as always.

Mason noticed her immediately. Looking at Bedelia who gave him a pleasant nod, giving him the go ahead.

He was drawn to her like a fly to a low flame—hovering, circling, asking clumsy questions about where she’d gone, what she’d done, who she served. She answered with cold brevity, never stopping her slow pacing through the halls.

Still, Mason followed, more emboldened with each glass of wine and each ignored warning in her eyes.

In the dining room, Hannibal and Bedelia stood like dueling statues—bickering softly but with lethal precision, their words velvet-wrapped blades. They barely noticed Mason had left the room.

Chiyoh descended the grand staircase slowly, Mason trailing behind her, his tone now oily with suggestion.

“You know,” he drawled, “a woman like you really ought to consider a different kind of loyalty. Hannibal doesn’t deserve you. I would keep you warm. Worshipful, even. We could rule something together, don’t you think?”

Chiyoh stopped mid-step. Mason’s hands caught her waist, turning her to face him “You have gone so unnoticed, so unwanted, why don’t I show you what love could really be like?”

“Let go of me.” she whispered.

“Do you really want that, or? Could you take me to your chambers?”

Her eyes, dark and ancient, flashed once in the low light, she reached into her pocket “I won’t ask again, let go.”

Mason ignored, and leaned in for a kiss. Then she moved.

It was silent and sudden—the arc of her arm a thing of terrifying grace. Steel gleamed. Mason gasped.

And then his head was rolling down the staircase like a child's forgotten toy.

It bounced once, twice—then tumbled to a stop at the bottom, landing neatly at Hannibal and Bedelia’s feet.

The room fell to silence.

Bedelia blinked once, wine glass still in hand. “Well,” she said, raising her brows. “I suppose that’s one problem solved.”

Hannibal tilted his head thoughtfully, then looked up toward the staircase, where Chiyoh stood calm and expressionless, blade still in hand.

“I do hope he didn’t bleed on the rug,” he murmured.

Chiyoh watched with horror as Mason’s body turned to dust, his eyes blinking before he exhaled and turned to dust.

The knife clattered to the marble floor with a sound far louder than it should’ve been.

Chiyoh stood frozen at the top of the staircase, her breath sharp and uneven, her body trembling like a struck string. Her eyes were locked on Hannibal’s, wide with something rarely seen in them—fear. Not of Mason, not of violence. But of what she had done.

As if she'd broken an ancient vow.
As if she'd defied an unspoken command written in blood long ago.
As if she’d failed him.

Her lips parted, but no words came. Just the shaking, and the soft, horrified rasp of breath. She backed against the wall like she expected Hannibal to rise and take her head next.

Below, Hannibal remained motionless, his expression unreadable. One hand idly touched the rim of his wine glass.

Then—swift footsteps. Mischa.

She had moved before anyone else could think, her skirts whispering against the floor as she rushed up the staircase, her hands already reaching.

Chiyoh didn’t flinch when Mischa touched her—just looked at her like she didn’t believe she could be touched. Like she wasn’t sure she was still allowed.

“It’s okay,” Mischa whispered, taking her by the shoulders. “It’s okay, Chiyoh. He deserved it. You’re okay.”

Chiyoh stared at her, blinking as though trying to believe it. Her knees gave slightly, and Mischa pulled her in close, wrapping her arms around her.

“You didn’t break,” Mischa said softly. “You chose. That matters.”

Chiyoh didn’t speak, didn’t move. But after a moment, her trembling slowed, her hands coming up slowly to grip the fabric of Mischa’s dress.

And below, Hannibal finally turned back to Bedelia and sipped his wine.

“She’s more loyal than she knows,” he said.

Bedelia sipped hers in return. “Or more broken.”

“She’d kill you, if I asked her to.” Hannibal glared at Bedelia.

Chapter Text

The wind whipped Chiyoh’s coat as she ran, feet swift and sure over the damp forest floor. The castle disappeared behind her, swallowed by the trees. She didn’t look back. She couldn’t.

The church came into view like a wound on the landscape—its sharp steeple, the dark silhouette of its cross against the bruised sky. She stopped just at the edge of the grounds, chest heaving, eyes locked on the heavy wooden doors.

Inside, she could see candlelight flickering, movement—him.

Bishop Abel Gideon.

He turned as if sensing her presence, his gaze finding her through the glass. A slow smile stretched across his face as he stepped toward the fence, the iron-tipped gate between them casting long shadows.

They paced—parallel, predator and predator—like lions in separate cages, their reflections dancing over the candlelit glass.

“Ah,” Abel said, voice like velvet rubbed against rust. “You must be the loyal one. The quiet one. The watcher.”

Chiyoh didn’t speak. Her eyes blazed, locked on his every movement.

“I allow confessions,” Abel continued, approaching the gate. “Even for those who cannot set foot in the house of God. Especially for those.” He folded his hands behind his back. “What did you do, Chiyoh?”

She was silent a beat too long. Then: “I killed someone.”

Abel’s brows lifted, feigning shock. “A vampire?”

She nodded.

He chuckled, low and warm. “Then I’d say you did the Church a favor. If you hadn’t killed him, we would have. You saved us the trouble.”

He stepped closer to the fence, hands now resting on the iron bars.

“But let me guess. You don’t feel cleansed, do you? You feel guilt. Sin. Doubt.” His voice softened into something coaxing. “Come. Say the words. Pater noster, qui es in caelis…”

Chiyoh winced. Her ears began to burn, the Latin seeping like acid under her skin.

He saw the pain and smiled wider, leaning forward with quiet malice. “Sanctificetur nomen tuum…”

Chiyoh moved.

In an instant she had him by the collar, yanking him forward with supernatural force. His eyes went wide—then she slammed his head down onto the spiked spire of the iron gate.

The metal pierced clean through his skull with a wet, dull crack.

His legs kicked once, twice, twitching like a slaughtered animal before falling still. His blood spilled fast, dark and steaming.

Chiyoh didn’t move at first—just stared into his dead, flickering eyes, lips curling slowly into a grin. A quiet, satisfied grin.

The iron fence groaned as Abel’s body slumped forward, impaled like a grotesque saint.

Chiyoh stood over him, breath calm now, heart steady. The hatred still shimmered behind her eyes, but something else began to bloom beneath it—hunger.

She leaned in, slowly, reverently, like a pilgrim kissing the feet of a statue. Her lips brushed the wound on his throat, the blood still hot from his heart’s final beat. She drank.

The taste was strange. Bitter and bright, sanctified and soiled. It burned, like holy wine set aflame inside her chest. Her lips darkened with it, the corners of her mouth curling in bliss and fury alike.

Click.The unmistakable, cold sound of a pistol hammer being drawn back.

Chiyoh froze.

“I was wondering which of you would finally kill him,” came the voice from behind her. Calm. Hard. Familiar.

She didn’t turn.

Jack Crawford stood just a step away, gun leveled at the back of her skull, eyes locked on the carnage draped over the church gate.

“Congratulations,” he said. “You just became the most dangerous thing in this village.”

Chiyoh closed her eyes, licked a streak of blood from her lip. “I always was,” she whispered. And for the first time in a century, she smiled without restraint.

Jack’s voice was low, unwavering. “Turn around. Slowly.”

Chiyoh obeyed, unhurried, like a dancer finishing the last motion of a ritual. Her head turned first, then her shoulders. Her hands were still. Her eyes glinted under her long lashes—one drop of blood at the corner of her mouth caught the moonlight like a ruby.

Jack didn’t lower the pistol.

“They all keep saying Bedelia’s the dangerous one,” he said. “Bedelia’s planning a massacre. Bedelia wants to overthrow the village.” He tilted his head, one eye narrowing. “But me? I’ve been watching.” He nodded toward her, gun still firm. “You’re the dangerous one.”

Chiyoh said nothing.

“You don’t make your thoughts known. You don’t rage. You don’t monologue. You just move. Quiet. Precise. You could kill this entire village and not wake a soul. No frenzy. No screams. Same result.” Her expression didn’t change, but the street grew colder. “This gun,” he continued, “holds a silver bullet. Dipped in holy water.”

Chiyoh’s lips twitched—not a smile, not quite. “That’ll sting,” she said softly, “but not much.”

She stepped forward.
Jack took a step back.
Another step from her.
Another from him.
And then he fired.
The crack echoed through the street, birds rustling from the trees in panic.

The bullet tore through her right eye, her head snapping back. Blood sprayed across her cheek, the wound gaping, momentarily black and steaming.

But even as Jack blinked, the hole sealed shut. A slow sizzle. Then smooth, perfect flesh again. She opened her eyes. Both were whole.

Her gaze locked on his. Unblinking.

“How many bullets do you have left?” she asked, her voice almost gentle. “Do you think you can outrun me?”

She tilted her head. “You could try.”

Jack didn’t answer. He just braced the gun with both hands now, a sheen of sweat on his temple.

“Chiyoh!” Beverly’s voice, sharp and commanding, cut across the street like a whip. She stood in the doorway of her house, silhouetted by warm lamplight. “Come inside.”

Chiyoh didn’t hesitate. She turned her head—just slightly—and then began walking toward Beverly without a backward glance, blood drying on her cheek.

Jack lowered the gun, but didn’t holster it.

His hand was still shaking.

~

Beverly shut the door firmly behind Chiyoh, the click of the lock sharp in the tense quiet. She turned, arms folded, jaw tight.

“What the hell did you do?”

Chiyoh stood just inside the doorway, calm but bloodstained, her right eye still rimmed faintly red from the shot. Her voice was even.

“Bedelia baited me.”

Beverly narrowed her eyes. “Into what?”

“Killing Mason.”

Beverly’s mouth opened, then closed. She pressed her fingers to her temple, trying to collect herself. “Goddammit, Chiyoh—”

Chiyoh continued, interrupting softly, “And in return, I killed her bishop.”

Beverly froze.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of the wind whispering against the old windows.

“You—” Beverly stepped forward, her voice low, disbelieving. “You killed Abel Gideon?”

Chiyoh nodded once. “I made it count.”

“Jesus,” Beverly muttered. She dragged a hand through her hair and paced away for a second before turning back. “You have any idea what that’s going to start? The church won’t let that go. You’ve just declared war on half the continent.”

“I know.”

Beverly stared at her, searching her face for guilt, for shame—for something.
But Chiyoh’s expression remained unreadable. Calm as always. Dangerous as ever.

Beverly sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Well, congratulations. You’ve finally made it official. You’re one of us now.”

“There is no shame in exile.” Chiyoh whispered.

Chapter Text

The castle trembled faintly under the weight of raised voices.

Bedelia stood near the fireplace, her wine glass forgotten on the mantle, hands clenched at her sides. “She killed my friend, Hannibal!”

“And you baited her,” Hannibal snapped, pacing toward her. “You pushed her into killing Mason. You wanted him gone.”

Bedelia scoffed, eyes bright with fury. “Don’t twist it. I gave her the option. She took it.”

“She took it because you made her believe she had no choice. You set the board and now cry foul when the pieces move.”

“I trusted you to keep her contained!”

“And I trusted you to stop playing with fire!” he shouted, taking a step closer.

Their bodies nearly collided, heat and tension thick between them—something ancient and volatile burning just under the skin.

“You’re not angry she killed your bishop,” Hannibal growled. “You’re angry because she outmaneuvered you.”

Bedelia’s eyes flared. “You think this is a game?”

“I think,” Hannibal said, breath hot against her cheek, “that everything you do is part of a game. And sometimes—”

Before he could finish, the door creaked open.

Will stood in the doorway, arms crossed. “Hannibal.”

Both vampires turned, their rage cooling to silence.

Will gestured with his chin toward the door. “You should go. You’ve… upset Bedelia.”

But his eyes said something else. A quiet message passed between them—knowing, layered.

Hannibal inclined his head, the barest nod of understanding. He brushed past Will without another word and descended the stone steps, the echoes of his boots filling the hall like a drumbeat.

Downstairs, the castle was quiet. Cold.

Chiyoh was already there, standing in the dim light near the wall of windows. Her coat hung heavy with night air. Hannibal crossed to her, face unreadable.

“Do you feel better?” he asked, voice low.

Chiyoh shook her head. “No.”

She met his gaze. “Beverly said… I may have started the war.”

Hannibal studied her for a moment, his expression unreadable, and then slowly shook his head.
“No,” he said. “The war was already started. You just gave it a face.”

Soft footsteps approached from the stairs—barely a sound, like silk sliding over marble.

Mischa.

She crossed the threshold quietly, her long coat brushing the stone floor, her presence still and luminous as ever. Her eyes swept the room, finding Hannibal first, then Chiyoh.

Her gaze lingered on Chiyoh—bloodstained, weary, silent.

Without hesitation, she moved to her, arms open.

Chiyoh didn’t flinch as Mischa embraced her, but the tension in her shoulders gave way just slightly. Mischa held her close, fingers threading through Chiyoh’s long hair like one might soothe a frightened animal.

“You’re safe now,” she murmured softly into her ear. “You’re not alone.”

Chiyoh didn’t answer, but her head tilted, resting briefly against Mischa’s shoulder.

Then Mischa looked up, over Chiyoh’s shoulder, meeting Hannibal’s eyes.

Her brows furrowed with confusion.

“What happened?” she asked, voice gentle, but edged with concern. “I felt it… something shifted. Did she…?”

Hannibal held her gaze a moment, then gave a quiet nod. “She killed Abel Gideon.”

Mischa’s lips parted, stunned—but not in judgment. Just the gravity of it.

She looked back at Chiyoh, who still stood in silence, arms limp at her sides.

“Oh, Chiyoh…” She didn’t say more. She simply held her tighter.

~

Chiyoh descended the cold stone steps alone, the weight of her choices pressing heavy on her shoulders. The castle's grandeur faded with each level until she reached her room—less a chamber than a cell. Sparse. Stone walls, a single narrow window, a simple bed draped with furs, and a writing desk tucked in shadow. It suited her. Quiet. Contained. Far removed from the ornate halls of the Lecters above.

She lit a candle, its flicker catching in the dark, just as footsteps sounded behind her.

Margot.

Chiyoh didn’t turn, only said flatly, “I already feel bad enough. But if you’ve come to punish me, I’ll allow it. Whatever you need.”

Margot stepped inside slowly, closing the heavy door behind her with a soft click. “I didn’t come to punish you.”

Chiyoh turned then, surprised. “No?”

“No.” Margot crossed the room with purpose, calm and controlled. “I came to thank you.”

Chiyoh’s brow furrowed. “I don’t understand.”

Margot stopped in front of her, close enough to reach out, and did—her hands gentle as they undid the buttons of Chiyoh’s long coat, careful not to rush. “You did me a favor.”

Chiyoh shook her head slightly, confused. “It wasn’t a favor. It was a mistake. A break in my vows.”

Margot smiled, just faintly, not unkind. “Chiyoh… I’ve endured nearly a thousand years of mistreatment since our parents died. Mason made sure of that. And because we’re of the same bloodline, neither of us could kill the other. Not directly. That doesn’t mean we couldn’t hurt each other.” Her voice dropped, touched with something between bitterness and relief. “But now? You removed a problem I was never allowed to solve. You handed me the empire. Mason would’ve thrown it at Bedelia’s feet, let her rule through him. But I…” she tilted her head, looking Chiyoh over with new, open intent, “...I could be more empathetic to you. And Hannibal. If you wanted.”

Chiyoh said nothing.

Margot stepped closer, her hand resting lightly on Chiyoh’s chest, over her heart. Her voice softened.

“I’m not him.”

And then, gently, she leaned in and kissed her. Soft. Unhurried. No expectation, no force. Just an offering. When she pulled away, her eyes searched Chiyoh’s “I won’t hurt you. I’m not my brother.”

Margot’s fingers moved with care, reverence even, as she undressed Chiyoh—piece by piece, layer by layer, as if undoing armor rather than clothing.

Chiyoh stood still, letting her. She didn’t flinch, didn’t run. But when Margot's hands reached the final barrier between touch and revelation, Chiyoh caught her wrists.

“Don’t,” she said softly. “Not all of me is… beautiful.”

Margot tilted her head, eyes soft but steady. “I don’t believe that.”

Chiyoh hesitated… then let her hands fall.

The fabric dropped.

And the candlelight caught the scars.

Faint, but deep. Raised and ancient. Symbols burned into skin not meant to scar. Words in curling script etched with cruelty and permanence, trailing along her back, her ribs, over her hips.

Margot’s breath caught in her throat. She reached out, fingers tracing the edges of one of the symbols near Chiyoh’s spine, feather-light.

“I never learned Japanese,” Margot whispered. “What do these mean?”

Chiyoh didn’t lift her head. Her voice was low, hollow. “It’s a language no longer used. But the closest words you would know are... whore, betrayer, prostitute.”

Margot stilled.

Chiyoh went on. “One of them is from my former owners. The mark of a concubine. A woman to be used. I was property. Given, traded, passed between hands.” Her voice faltered—not with tears, but exhaustion. A truth worn so deep it became her shape “I have never quite shaken the feeling,” she said, “that I will always be property.”

The room was still for a long moment. Then Margot moved, wrapping her arms around Chiyoh’s waist from behind, pressing a soft kiss to the base of her neck where the worst of the branding lived.

“You’re not,” Margot said quietly. “Not anymore. Not here. Not with me.”

And she held her like something sacred—touched, yes, but never ruined.

~

Above, in one of the castle’s high, firelit rooms, Bedelia and Will were tangled together—lips against lips, her hands in his hair, his fingers ghosting the sharp line of her waist. The tension between them was electric, precise, always with an edge.

But Will pulled back, just slightly, his breath warm against her cheek. He studied her.

“You’re distracted,” he said, voice low, eyes flicking to hers. “Even now. Why?”

Bedelia’s lips curled, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. She looked away for a beat, composed, then returned her gaze to his with a sigh that was all too practiced.

“It’s Chiyoh,” she said smoothly. “She’s unraveling. You saw what she did. She’s volatile. Dangerous. Not like us.”

Will leaned back a little, watching her with that quiet intensity that made people confess things without meaning to. But instead of questioning, he nodded slowly.

“She’s always been… unpredictable,” he murmured, letting the words linger in the air. “There’s no telling what she’ll do next.”

Bedelia’s eyes sparkled—satisfaction blooming in them like a flame finally fed. Will’s agreement soothed something in her, stroked the vanity she cloaked beneath reason. Her hand moved to his chest again, nails lightly grazing his skin.

“She acts like she’s above it all,” Bedelia said, almost purring now. “But she’s just another beast pretending to be noble. She’s exactly the kind of thing this village needs to be protected from.”

Will hummed in agreement, slipping his hand behind her neck again, drawing her close. “Good thing they have you, then.”

Bedelia's eyes softened. She fell for it. Leaned into him again, her mind beginning to melt back into the moment—flattered, admired, trusted.

Exactly where he wanted her.

Chapter Text

Hannibal entered quietly, the way he always did—like a shadow with purpose. He held a silver tray with precision, the meal arranged with his usual elegance: duck breast glazed in blood-orange reduction, wild rice with charred sage, and a single dark fig, split like a secret.

Will looked up from the fireplace as the tray was placed before him. Hannibal sniffed the air once—discreet, but deliberate.

"You slept with her," he said without looking at Will.

Will raised an eyebrow. "Your sense of smell never ceases to impress."

Hannibal’s jaw tensed. "She wanted to bite you."

Will nodded. "She did. I didn’t let her."

"Good," Hannibal said, clipped. "I would not have forgiven you if you had."

Will chuckled softly. "Wasn’t exactly to my tastes either. But… it’s all part of the plan."

Hannibal moved to the hearth, watching the firelight dance over the room like thoughts he would not speak. He folded his hands behind his back.

Will took a bite from the plate, chewing thoughtfully before asking, “How is everyone?”

“Bedelia,” Hannibal began, “is suitably over Chiyoh’s little indiscretion. She has shifted her focus back to you, as expected.”

Will made a face, “Lucky me.”

“Chiyoh,” Hannibal continued, “is recovering in the arms of Margot—quite literally. And Margot has inherited the pig dynasty. Which, by all accounts, makes her considerably less inclined to align herself with Bedelia’s ambition.”

“So,” Will said, taking another bite, “we may all be okay?”

“For now,” Hannibal agreed. “But I imagine that won’t last.”

Will leaned back in the chair, letting the warmth of the fire soak into his bones. “Halloween’s in a few nights.”

“Yes,” Hannibal said, with a small, knowing smile. “And the dead never rest easy that night.”

Will tilted his head. “Let’s hope they stay buried a little longer.”

Hannibal’s gaze flicked to him then—soft, fond, and quietly savage “Let’s.”

Will set the empty plate aside, his fingers steepled under his chin as he stared into the fire. The flickering light made the blue of his eyes look colder.

“If the Vergers are with us,” he said, more to himself than to Hannibal, “and the bishop is dead… that just leaves the Blooms and the Chiltons.”

Hannibal raised a brow but said nothing, letting Will work it out aloud the way he liked to.

Will continued, thoughtful. “The Blooms are quiet. Too quiet. That makes them dangerous in a different way. Strategic. I’d wager they’ve already made up their minds about Bedelia’s cause—they just haven’t acted on it yet.”

Hannibal poured himself a glass of wine. “You think they need... encouragement?”

“I think they need fear,” Will murmured. “Or loyalty. Or both.”

“And the Chiltons?” Hannibal asked, swirling his glass.

Will gave a humorless smile. “The Chiltons are hard to get to. They're vain. Paranoid. Cowards. But they hide behind money and mirrors, and that makes them slippery.”

He leaned back again, sighing. “Chilton loves Bedelia. Or rather—he worships the idea of her. Thinks they’re alike, somehow. Both intellectual. Both cruel. Both underestimated.”

Hannibal looked amused. “He’s not entirely wrong.”’

“No,” Will admitted. “But he’s blinded by it. If anyone can reach him, it’s her. She wouldn’t even have to try that hard.”

Hannibal took a long sip of his wine. “So we dangle a leash, and see if she snaps it up.”

Will’s lips curled. “Something like that.”

He turned his eyes to Hannibal, serious now. “Do you think she’d do it? Use him? Or would it be too messy for her taste?”

“She delights in mess,” Hannibal said simply. “As long as it’s not hers.”

Will turned slightly in his chair, the shadows painting his face in half-light. His voice was quiet but laced with intent.

“What about Mischa?” he asked, watching Hannibal closely. “Do you think she could appeal to the Blooms? Convince them not to act?”

Hannibal paused, wine glass halfway to his lips. The idea hung in the air like smoke—dangerous, alluring, unpredictable.

“She is still beloved,” Hannibal said at last, lowering the glass. “A ghost returned. The Blooms adored her once. Alana especially.”

“But that was before,” Will pointed out. “Before her turning. Before everything changed.”

“Yes,” Hannibal agreed, a subtle sadness touching his voice. “But Mischa was never like the rest of us. She evokes… purity. Pity. Nostalgia. She could be their last thread to the world before all of this—before blood and covenants and war.”

Will tilted his head. “So she might have a chance.”

“She might,” Hannibal said slowly, “but the cost of failure is high.”

Will frowned. “You’re worried for her.”

“I’m always worried for her,” Hannibal admitted, and there was something raw in his tone that Will hadn’t heard in a while.

“She’s strong,” Will said, almost like a reassurance to both of them. “She could try. And if it works, we neutralize another threat.”

Hannibal looked into the fire. “Then we send her with care. Not as a diplomat, but as a sister asking for peace.”

“And if they refuse her?”

Hannibal’s gaze darkened “Then we make sure they regret it.”

Hannibal stood by the tall window, the fire behind him casting a long shadow across the stone floor. He seemed distant, but his voice came with clarity, deliberate and sharp.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said, “of signing the agreement with the Church.”

Will looked up from his seat, startled. “You?”

Hannibal nodded. “The terms are negotiable, so long as we offer them something… symbolic. A sacrifice.”

Will leaned forward, his brow furrowed. “Who?”

Hannibal turned, his eyes gleaming. “Bedelia.”

Will blinked, not entirely surprised, but still caught off guard by the bluntness. “You’d offer her head?”

“She’s made herself the martyr already,” Hannibal said, almost fondly. “All her manipulations, her grand plans… it would be quite poetic. The Church needs a spectacle, and she’s given them every reason.”

“And then what?” Will asked carefully.

“Then we go home,” Hannibal replied, stepping closer. “To the homeland. To Lithuania. The Church won’t pursue us there—not if we sign the covenant. We can live freely, as we once did, before all of this.”

Will was quiet for a long moment, then: “How can a vampire even broker a deal with the Church? Isn’t that antithetical to their entire doctrine?”

Hannibal smiled faintly. “They send a delegate. A mortal intermediary. It is old tradition—older than any scripture they pretend to follow.”

Will’s eyes narrowed slightly. “And who exactly do they send?”

Hannibal gave him a long look, the corner of his mouth curling upward in a private, ominous smile.

Will’s breath caught. “Me?”

“You have a gift, Will,” Hannibal said gently. “Empathy. Humanity. They’ll trust you.”

Will stood slowly. “And if I refuse?”

“Then Bedelia lives,” Hannibal said, matter-of-fact. “And the war continues.”

The silence between them swelled like a storm.

Finally, Will exhaled, low and tense. “You’re very good at this, you know.”

“Yes,” Hannibal said, stepping past him toward the door. “I am.”

Chapter Text

Beverly stood in the doorway of her cottage, arms crossed, her expression unreadable. Will and Hannibal stood before her like two petitioners seeking an audience, the late evening mist curling around their feet. The hearth crackled behind her, casting warm light over her features—but there was no warmth in her eyes.

“We need you to get Will an audience with a Vatican delegate,” Hannibal said plainly.

“No,” Beverly said, just as plainly.

Will stepped forward. “Bev—”

“No,” she repeated, firmer now. “I won’t be their pawn again. I won’t wear their seal, speak their language, or bend to their terms. I left the Church for a reason, and I’m not going back—not even for this.”

“It’s the only way,” Will said, trying to keep his voice calm. “They won’t negotiate with us unless we go through the proper channels, and that means the Church. That means you.”

“You don’t need me,” Beverly snapped. “You need a mouthpiece. A translator for their politics. Someone to sell your deal like it’s blessed by God.”

Will hesitated. Hannibal stepped in, voice smooth and cutting. “This isn’t just for us, Beverly. Bedelia is gunning for Mischa’s death. You know this.”

“She’s always been gunning for Mischa,” Beverly said. “This doesn’t change anything.”

Hannibal’s eyes narrowed. “If we don’t do this, Bedelia gets what she wants. Mischa dies, and this village falls with her. Perhaps that doesn’t matter to you anymore. But it matters to us.”

Beverly looked at Will, her resolve faltering for the first time. He met her gaze, quiet and pleading.

“If we go now,” Will said softly, “Bedelia turns the village. Every last one of them. The vampires survive it, sure. But it’s bad optics. No one wins. Not the humans, not the witches, not the Church. Not us.”

A long silence passed between them.

“You’d really hand them Bedelia?” Beverly asked at last, quietly.

“Yes,” Hannibal said.

“And you’d leave?” Her voice was softer still, almost vulnerable.

“To the old country,” Will confirmed. “Lithuania. Where the Church can’t follow.”

Beverly’s shoulders dropped, the weight of the past bearing down on her. She looked past them, out into the fog-shrouded trees, as if trying to see into the future.

“I’ll send word,” she said finally. “But I’m not doing this for the Church. I’m doing it for Mischa.”

Will nodded, gently. “We know.”

“How do you feel about being turned into a rodent?” Beverly asked.

“What?” Will looked surprised.

“The only way we can get to the vatican quick enough to get this done, is to fly, I will get into trouble for it but that is a later problem, but I can carry you as a rat, we will be there in a matter of hours.”

“Then I guess I have no choice.”

~

Mischa’s footsteps echoed softly down the cold stone steps as she descended into Chiyoh’s quarters. The dungeon-like hall was quiet, save for the faint creak of an old pipe and the soft whisper of water behind a door. She knocked lightly, then pushed it open.

Chiyoh sat curled in the claw-footed tub, knees to her chest, dark hair clinging wet to her back and shoulders. Steam filled the air, veiling her like fog on a battlefield. Her eyes flicked up lazily, neither startled nor embarrassed.

Mischa’s eyes narrowed. “Did Margot hurt you?”

Chiyoh blinked once, then shook her head. “No. She didn’t. It was…” She hesitated, as if the word might dissolve in her mouth. “Fun. It was nice. To relax.”

“Then why are you punishing yourself for it?” Mischa stepped further into the room, arms crossed. “You’re sitting in here like you did something wrong.”

Chiyoh turned her face away. “I don’t know.” Her voice cracked. “Old habits. Maybe.”

Mischa softened, leaning against the wall beside the tub. “For what it’s worth, the Vergers are on our side now. Margot said as much. That changes a lot.”

Chiyoh nodded slightly, letting her chin rest on her knees. “It is good. But…” She turned her head back to look at Mischa. “How do we get the Blooms? Or the Chiltons? They won’t be swayed by allegiances. They’ll want something in return. Or blood.”

Mischa exhaled, thoughtful. “Then we figure out what they want. Everyone has a price, even if they pretend otherwise.”

Chiyoh gave a small nod, eyes drifting back to the water. “And if their price is us?”

Mischa crouched down beside the tub, voice steady. “Then we don’t pay it. We find another way. We always do. Margot and Alana are close, maybe Margot will sway her?”

“Or she’ll get jealous like Bedelia and side further with her.”

“Let’s get you dry.” Mischa picked up a cloth and helped her stand, drying her gently “Why don’t you wear something nicer, softer on these scars, why don’t you consider your debt paid for whatever it is you punish yourself, you can borrow some of my clothes.”

~

The storm was just beginning to roll in when the five of them gathered inside Beverly’s cottage, the scent of damp earth and old wood mingling in the air. A fire crackled low in the hearth, casting flickers of light across tense, waiting faces.

Beverly stood with her hands braced on the table, gaze sweeping over Mischa, Chiyoh, Will, and finally Hannibal.

“No one makes a move,” she said sharply, “until Will and I get back.”

Will, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, nodded solemnly. “We're the only ones the Vatican will even consider hearing out.”

“You’re sure it’ll work?” Mischa asked quietly, sitting straight in the chair like it might bite her if she moved too fast.

“It has to,” Beverly replied. “But in the meantime... working the Blooms, maybe Chilton too? That’s allowed. Just be careful—it might tip Bedelia off.”

Chiyoh tilted her head. “You think she doesn’t already suspect?”

Beverly gave a half-smile. “She suspects everything. But suspicion is not confirmation. We need the seal. Without it, everything falls apart.”

Hannibal stirred, his voice like silk slipping over steel. “You intend to kill her the old way?”

Beverly met his gaze. “We have to. She’s not like the newer ones. Bedelia’s old. Powerful. You don’t just stake and wait. You behead her. Burn her. Salt the ashes.”

Chiyoh’s eyes flashed red in the firelight. “I’ll do it.”

“Not yet, and not you, it Will be Will and I,” Beverly said. “Not until we come back with the Pope’s seal. You do anything before then, and the entire village will burn with her. We need legitimacy. Otherwise, we’re no better than her.”

Will uncrossed his arms and looked to Mischa. “Can you work the Blooms? Get them to stand down, even temporarily?”

“I can try,” Mischa said, glancing toward Hannibal for support. He simply nodded.

Beverly leaned back from the table. “Good. Then we all have work to do.”

~

The sky was still dark when Beverly lifted her hands, whispering an incantation under her breath. Will barely had time to blink before the world stretched and twisted around him—his limbs shrank, fur sprouted, and in an instant, he was a rat, blinking up at her with wide, twitching eyes.

Beverly, now towering above him, gave a low, amused hum before shifting herself into a sleek, black eagle, feathers glinting like obsidian. Without hesitation, she dove down, talons brushing the earth, and scooped the small rat Will into her curved beak.

The wind howled past him in dizzying spirals as she flew, higher and faster than Will had expected. Clouds whipped by in streaks of silver and charcoal, the stars fading with the approaching dawn. He closed his eyes against the swirling cold, bracing himself for what felt like endless ascent—until, suddenly, they were descending. A warm gust of air rose from the cobbled stones of a city just waking, golden sun breaking over its rooftops.

They landed just outside the ancient walls of the Vatican as the sky blushed pink. Beverly gently dropped Will to the ground before transforming back into her human form with a rustle of feathers and a sharp gasp of breath. Then she crouched, murmured another spell, and returned Will to his human self.

He immediately keeled over and vomited onto the stones.

“Ugh—God,” he groaned, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

“That,” Beverly said, mildly amused, “is why I chose rat for the flight. No gag reflex. They physically can’t vomit. You should be grateful.”

“I am,” Will rasped, leaning on a nearby column. “Believe me, I am.”

Beverly adjusted her coat, smoothing her hair, then glanced back at him. “Be good. Say nothing until I’ve done the introductions.”

Will gave a weak thumbs-up as they approached the grand iron gates. Two guards in ceremonial garb lowered their halberds, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

Beverly stepped forward, pulling a folded paper from her coat. She exchanged rapid, fluid Italian with the guards—something diplomatic, with just the right amount of urgency and authority. The guards read the paper, glanced between her and Will, then nodded.

A priest appeared at the edge of the courtyard, somber in dark robes. “You’ll need to speak with the cardinals first,” he said in heavily accented English.

Beverly gave a slight bow of her head. “That will be fine.” She looked at Will and added quietly, “Try to look less like you threw up on the Pope’s doorstep.”

Will groaned softly. “Do you have any idea how humiliating it is to be carried in someone’s mouth?”

She smirked. “Only from the other end.”

They followed the priest into the heart of the Vatican.

Chapter Text

The chamber deep within the Vatican was dimly lit, thick with the scent of candle wax and ancient paper. Crimson-robed cardinals lined the carved wooden benches in solemn silence, their eyes heavy with centuries of judgment. Will and Beverly stood before them, a heavy scroll unrolled across the altar between them.

Will’s voice was steady, if weary. “Hannibal Lecter agrees to vacate the village and return to his ancestral home in Lithuania. He’ll adhere to the old rules—feeding only with consent or from the dying, keeping his estate sanctified, no turning, no interference in church-sanctioned lands. In return, the church leaves him in peace.”

The cardinal at the center, gaunt and stern, tapped the scroll with one long, ink-stained finger. “And Bedelia Du Maurier?”

Beverly stepped forward, eyes sharp beneath her hood. “She intends to raise the village. Turn the humans. Create a city of the dead under her rule. Hannibal seeks to prevent that. We all do.”

The cardinal’s gaze drifted to Will. “Who will carry out the execution?”

“I will,” Will said without hesitation. “I’ll cut off her head with a blessed blade. We’ll keep it separate from her body. She’ll be burned at dawn on church ground. Her ashes will be salted and buried. We’ll be gone before the sun touches the stones.”

The chamber fell into a hush, the weight of centuries pressing in.

“And the rest of the village?” the cardinal asked.

“We will ensure peace,” Beverly said. “The other families are being handled. No one else needs to die.”

The cardinal looked over the document again, then motioned to an attendant. “If the Pope agrees, the seal will be granted. You’ll have your writ.”

Will exhaled softly, but didn’t let his guard down. “We don’t have long.”

The cardinal nodded. “Then I suggest you pray he signs before sunset.”

“They’re planning the attack on Halloween, that’s less than 2 days away, we need to act now.” Will looked annoyed.

“We wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t urgent.” Beverly urged.

“I will go and asked him now.” The cardinal stood “Wait here.”

~

Orange and violet lights flickered along the cobbled streets as the village prepared for Halloween. Pumpkins carved with grins both wicked and whimsical lined stoops and windows, and paper skeletons danced in the breeze above stalls selling candied apples, roasted chestnuts, and sugared blood plums. Children darted between vendors with sticky fingers and painted faces, their laughter rising into the crisp afternoon air.

Jack Crawford moved through it all like a man in a fog, eyes scanning every face, every shadow. Something was wrong. The village looked too perfect—like a stage set for a play no one had rehearsed.

He turned the corner past the chapel and spotted Abigail in the Lecter yard, sitting on the stone wall with a wooden stake in her hand, whittling lazily. No one else was around.

Jack frowned, approaching her with slow steps. “Where’s Beverly?”

Abigail didn’t look up. “Dunno.”

“You’re a terrible liar,” Jack said flatly.

Abigail sighed through her nose and rolled her eyes. “Fine. The Vatican.”

Jack’s jaw tightened. “And they left you here? Alone?”

“I’m not helpless,” she said, finally glancing at him. “And I’m not alone.”

He studied her a moment longer, reading between her calm. “You don’t like me.”

“No,” she said plainly. “I don’t.”

“Fair enough. Just do me a favor—if you see Bedelia or Chiyoh before I do, run.”

Abigail's lips twitched into a half-smile. “You think you’ll get to her first?”

Jack didn’t answer. He just turned, eyes narrowing at the decorations as if they were traps waiting to be sprung, and walked back into the festival crowd.

~

The afternoon light filtered through the stained-glass windows of Beverly’s cottage, painting the wooden floors in hues of blue and gold. The cozy room was unusually tense—Mischa sat on the arm of a chair, idly swirling a goblet of bloodwine. Hannibal stood near the hearth, arms behind his back, eyes fixed on nothing. Chiyoh sat silently by the window, her gaze locked on the horizon, unblinking.

The hearth crackled. Somewhere outside, children’s laughter drifted in from the village—there were pumpkins on every stoop, paper bats in every window. The whole town was dressing for Halloween. Inside, though, the air was thick with waiting.

A soft whoosh of air signaled movement on the porch, and a flutter of feathers passed the window. Chiyoh stood before anyone else could react.

Outside, Beverly landed with grace, feathers shrinking into flesh as she resumed her human form mid-step. In her arms, held tightly in her talons until the last second, was a familiar squirming shape.

She knocked once with her foot, then pushed open the door with her shoulder.

Will, now human again, stumbled inside and immediately lurched toward the corner, throwing up violently into a bucket Beverly had clearly anticipated. Mischa winced. Hannibal sighed.

“I told him rats don’t vomit,” Beverly said, closing the door behind her. “He didn’t listen.”

“I was a rat,” Will managed hoarsely. “I had no say in the matter.”

“You’re welcome,” Beverly quipped, brushing dust off her jacket. She reached into her coat and pulled out a scroll bound in red ribbon, the seal of the Vatican unmistakable in its wax.

She handed it to Hannibal.

“They agreed.”

He took it reverently, unrolling it just enough to read the signature at the bottom. His expression didn’t change, but a tension in his posture eased.

“They have sanctioned the execution?” Chiyoh asked, voice soft but sharp.

Beverly nodded. “Bedelia’s head, separated and burned on consecrated ground before sunrise. They get their ashes salted. You get to leave without interference. Lithuania awaits.”

Hannibal turned to Will. “And you offered to deliver the execution.”

Will wiped his mouth, still pale, but nodded. “It’s done.”

Chiyoh stood straighter. Mischa exhaled, finally.

“Then we only have one night left,” Beverly said. “One night, and the village lives or dies.”

Hannibal closed the scroll with care. “Let us hope the night is kind.”

~

The room was dark and silent, save for the whisper of silk sheets and the faint crackle of a dying fire in the hearth. Bedelia lay sprawled across the bed, naked but for a sheer wrap of fabric over her shoulders, her head resting against Will’s chest. Will stared at the ceiling, one hand behind his head, the other loosely curled around her hip.

The quiet stretched.

“Will,” Bedelia said softly, almost gently. “You know it has to be him.”

Will didn’t answer right away.

“Hannibal,” she clarified. “You know what he’s capable of. What he’s planning. And after we give the church what they want, do you really think he’ll simply vanish to his estate and leave us be?”

Will shifted, looking down at her. Her eyes gleamed in the dim firelight.

“He won’t be satisfied,” she said. “He never is. Not with me. Not with you. Not with Mischa. And not with peace.”

Will was quiet for a long time. Then finally, he nodded. “I know.”

Bedelia exhaled, a breath she had been holding, and reached toward the nightstand. From the drawer she retrieved a small, slender blade. The handle was carved from bone, the blade itself curved, thin, and unmistakably old.

“He gave this to me centuries ago,” she said. “Said it was made to cut through anything, even blood ties. I think it poetic.”

She held it out to him. Will took it slowly, examining the strange symbols etched along the blade’s curve.

“Hide it well,” she said, fingers brushing his as she let go. “Not for the village. Not for the church. For us.”

Will slid it into the inner seam of his coat, just beneath the lining. “For us,” he echoed.

~

The castle buzzed that evening with an unnatural excitement. Candles burned in chandeliers and sconces, casting golden light over velvet and stone. The hallways were full of laughter, rustling silk, the scent of spiced wine and blood.

Tonight, they were free to be what they were—monsters dressed in finery. Masks glimmered gold and ivory, antlers and feathers, animalistic snarls and blank white visages.

Will stood before Bedelia’s vanity, adjusting his cufflinks. He caught her gaze in the mirror. She was dressed like a gothic queen, all emerald velvet and dripping garnets, her lips redder than fresh blood.

“You look beautiful,” he said, his voice low.

“And you look like a man with secrets,” she replied, rising and approaching, smoothing the shoulders of his coat.

He kissed her neck softly.

“I hear the villagers burn a fake witch in the square,” he murmured.

Bedelia’s eyes gleamed. “How quaint. I think it sounds delightful.”

A knock came at the door. Mischa stood there, cloaked in shadow, dressed in mourning black and a bone-white mask.

“Is it time?”

Will nodded, and they began their descent.

Chiyoh joined them, veiled in red, Margot trailing after like some dark fairy tale vision. Hannibal waited by the doors, sharp as a blade in his black suit and skeletal mask, lips curved with something unreadable.

Laughter and music echoed through the halls as they stepped out into the village.

For one night only, monsters walked the earth with masks on, and no one blinked an eye.

Chapter Text

The moon hung low and red over the gables, and the scent of woodsmoke and damp moss lingered. Market stalls had long since shuttered. But the streets were not empty.

They moved like shadows masquerading as people—masked, cloaked, and gliding too silently over the cobbles. Their masks were porcelain, bone-white or obsidian-black, mouths expressionless or twisted into smiles too wide. They stayed just outside the reach of lamplight, but their presence was unmistakable. If one knew how to look—the way their shoulders never rose with breath, the way their heads all turned when a bird called, the soft click of shoes too old for this century—then it was obvious. Vampires. A hoard of them.

Mischa lingered at her brother’s side as they walked, appearing as nothing more than a solemn young woman in furs. But her gaze was fixed on the creatures in the dark. She didn’t speak.

“I see them,” Hannibal said quietly, without looking at her. “But not yet.”

She nodded once.

They wandered the village as if they were ordinary—Hannibal and Mischa, silent and stately. No one stopped them. No one dared. A strange hush had fallen over everything, the kind that makes children ask what’s wrong and then get scolded for noticing.

Eventually, even the children were asleep. The fires in the hearths were banked. The only sounds left were wind and the barely audible shuffle of feet in shadows. The hoard did not leave. They waited. Expectant.

They believed they were waiting for Will.

And Will was there.

He followed Bedelia, who moved with elegant calm, her cloak sweeping across the grass as she led him toward the churchyard. The vampires did not follow closely, but their attention shifted, collective, like wolves scenting blood.

Bedelia stopped near the church’s edge. An old pyre had been built there for the spring festival—a towering thing of wood and dry brush, meant for cleansing and light. The villagers had failed to light it earlier that week. It remained dark and waiting.

Bedelia turned and gave Will a slight nod.

He drew the knife.

Hannibal watched from the other side of the square. Mischa tilted her head. Even she didn’t know what Will would do.

Will stepped toward Hannibal. Slowly. Knife gleaming faintly.

Then—he turned.

The blade flashed, and Bedelia barely had time to gasp.

The slice was clean. Her head left her shoulders in a bloom of silver hair, mouth still open in shock. Her body crumpled without grace.

Chiyoh caught the head as if she had known it would fall to her. She held it by the hair like a relic, face unreadable.

Will dragged the body onto the pyre. No ceremony—just purpose. He heaved it into the dead wood, then looked to the head. Chiyoh passed it without a word.

Beverly arrived just as the torch was lit.

She scattered salt in a wide arc around the pyre, eyes flint-hard.

Will placed the head atop the chest of the corpse. The fire caught unnaturally fast—no struggle, no coaxing. Flames whooshed upward, greedy and bright.

Then came the sound: something between a scream and a shattering bell, echoing across stone and soul. The head cracked open at the mouth, expelling a rush of silver flame.

The pyre convulsed with a small explosion, sending sparks into the sky.

The hoard hissed from the shadows.

Will stepped away from the smoldering pyre, the heat still lingering in the air, his breath slow and measured. He stood beside Hannibal, the two of them looking over the aftermath of the fire—where the head had exploded, scattering ash and smoldering remnants into the night.

The stillness of the moment was abruptly broken by a tap on Will’s shoulder.

He didn’t turn immediately. Too familiar, the weight of that touch, the kind that doesn’t belong in this world.

Then, pain. A sharp, brutal sting across his neck. Blood welled in an instant. His fingers went to the wound, but it was too late.

He turned, vision blurred, but the figure that stood before him was already gone. Only a glimpse—Chilton, face set in that eternal smirk, a glint of a blade in his hand as he vanished into the shadows.

Will gasped, reaching for the wound, but his knees buckled, the world spinning.

Chiyoh was already in motion, a blur of speed, her eyes fixed on the retreating figure, chasing after the man who had struck. But the distance between them grew too quickly, and Will’s heart drummed weakly in his chest.

He felt the warmth of life slipping away. His fingers trembled, then went cold, and his breath turned shallow.

Before he could even collapse fully into the ground, Hannibal was at his side, his movements swift, controlled. He knelt, grabbing Will’s head, pulling it back gently to expose the wound.

There was no hesitation.

Hannibal leaned down, sinking his teeth into Will’s neck. Will’s vision blurred further as the sensation of blood draining, then being replaced with something far warmer—pulsing—tugged at his fading consciousness.

He felt it before he knew what was happening. Hannibal’s wrist was brought to his lips, and Will’s senses flared with the primal urgency to feed. Will’s body convulsed, a sharp gasp breaking his lips, but it did nothing to stop the inevitable. The pain of his draining blood mixed with the sweet rush of Hannibal’s feeding, until Will’s body shook, straining between life and death, drowning in the torrent of sensations.

Beverly appeared from the darkness, her voice harsh with urgency. "Hannibal! Don't—he won't survive if you—" She was beside them now, a deep curse in her voice, eyes furious. "You have to carry him to my place—now."

Hannibal looked up, his face dark, eyes still locked on Will’s deteriorating form. But his resolve hardened. He didn’t hesitate, lifting Will’s limp body into his arms with the precision of someone who had been practicing for years. His eyes met Beverly’s.

“Then let’s go.”

Beverly quickly took the lead, and they moved with swift, silent efficiency. The village lay still around them, as if the world itself held its breath in the wake of the chaos they had wrought.

The transformation into a vampire was never a clean thing. It was a brutal, visceral process, one that gnawed at the soul even as it tore through the body. Will’s transformation was no different, only made worse by the fact that he had never intended to become one of them.

The night air around him was suffocating, thick with blood and ash from the fire. His body felt as though it were being pulled apart at the seams, every inch of his skin burning like the fire that had consumed Bedelia’s body. His throat constricted, choking on the blood Hannibal had forced into him, and yet the transformation was not a gentle healing—it was a slow, agonizing warping of his very essence.

His chest felt too tight, every heartbeat drumming with a dull, unyielding thud that made his ribs ache as though they were cracking open. The blood in his veins thickened, each pulse a tightening coil, turning into something foreign, something older than human.

The hunger clawed at him first. It started at the back of his throat, a searing ache, then spread outward, coiling in his stomach, gnawing at the edges of his consciousness. His mind tried to focus on something, anything, to quell the rage of hunger that only seemed to grow stronger, but it was useless. It was as if every fiber of his being was being rewired, reoriented, to crave blood in a way that was now primal, unstoppable.

His breath was shallow, labored, his vision flickering in and out of focus. Each time he blinked, the world seemed to distort, the darkness around him warping and shifting. His ears rang with the rush of blood, his own blood, and his mind screamed in confusion. The man he had been—sensitive, fragile—was fading.

It wasn’t just physical. The mental shift was worse. His thoughts became fragmented, the quiet hum of his empathy blurring and distorting, until he no longer felt like himself. Emotions—pain, fear, desperation—were still there, but they felt distant now, muted, as if they were happening to someone else. The predator inside him was waking up. The vampire.

He clutched at his chest, trying to hold onto the last threads of his humanity. But every touch felt like it came from a different world. His fingers trembled as they brushed against the raw skin of his neck, where Hannibal’s bite had left deep, jagged marks.

It was then that the thirst took over, the savage need to feed.

Will could feel it in the marrow of his bones, that gnawing emptiness growing, pressing him toward the edge of madness. His fangs were there now, lengthened and sharp, just beneath his gums, and his mouth watered in a way it had never done before. He was no longer the same man who had stood in this place just hours before. He was something else entirely.

The ground beneath him seemed to pulse, as though it, too, were breathing. His head spun, his body sinking deeper into the throes of the change, until a final, white-hot spike of pain drove through him—his body convulsing as if it were being torn apart. It felt like his bones were turning to fire.

The pain was all-consuming. His teeth ground together, his chest rising and falling in shallow, desperate breaths as he clawed at the earth beneath him. He could feel the life fading, like sand slipping through his fingers, but it was replaced by something far darker, more dangerous.

In the distance, he heard a voice—a soft murmur in the shadows. It was Hannibal. But there was no time for words anymore. Will’s world was shrinking into a tunnel of hunger, blood, and pain. And he could no longer remember what it had been like to be human.

Chapter Text

Will’s consciousness returned to him in stages—slow, torturous fragments, as if he were being pulled out of some deep, forgotten place. The first sensation was warmth, pressing against his skin, soothing in a way that was almost too gentle for the chaos raging in his head. Then came the distinct scent of something… human, yet foreign to him now. It was the smell of fresh linens, of the dark, polished wood of a well-kept space, of life still moving in this place that was unfamiliar.

The next thing he felt was the cool pressure of something soft against his forehead. His eyes flickered open, squinting against the dim light that filtered through the room. Everything around him seemed too still, too silent. His body was tense, like a string drawn taut, muscles aching with the unfamiliar weight of something else now, something unnatural.

His gaze moved slowly to the figure sitting beside him—Hannibal. His dark eyes were fixed on Will with a quiet, watchful intensity, but there was something else in them too. A strange mixture of concern and something darker, a hint of satisfaction, as if watching Will struggle to awaken was a part of the ritual. His hands were calm as they moved, a cloth in one hand, sponging gently at Will’s forehead, wiping away the sheen of sweat that clung there.

Will’s breath hitched as the realization hit him. He’s awake. I’m awake.

The hunger stirred again in the pit of his stomach, a low, insistent ache that made his throat burn, his skin feel too tight. Will swallowed, trying to make sense of the noise in his head, the disorientation swirling inside him. His fingers twitched, reaching for his throat instinctively. The bite mark was still there. His heart stilled for a beat as he remembered it all—the burning, the blood, the sensation of something else crawling under his skin.

"Hannibal," Will’s voice was hoarse, raw, as he tried to speak. The name tasted strange on his tongue, too foreign now. He turned his head toward the other man, meeting his gaze with an intensity that was as sharp as it was fearful.

“Will,” Hannibal said, his voice soft, almost tender. He wiped Will’s forehead again, the motion slow and careful, like he was handling something fragile. His gaze didn’t shift from Will’s face. “You’ve awakened.”

Will’s eyes narrowed, trying to clear the fog in his mind. The hunger was clawing at him now, undeniable and raw. It was worse than before, deeper, more insistent. He could feel it—the shift in his body, in his soul. His teeth felt sharp against his tongue. His senses were heightened, burning with new clarity, every detail of the room pressing on his mind. He could smell the blood in his own veins, the scent of the air, the faintest whiff of something sweet just beyond the window—something alive.

“I can feel it,” Will murmured, his voice shaky. “It’s— wrong. I can’t—”

“Control it yet,” Hannibal finished for him, his eyes flicking down to Will’s hand as it gripped the edge of the bed. “You will learn. But not now. For now, you must rest. Allow yourself time.”

Will felt a sharp pang of frustration in his chest. Rest? It was impossible to rest when his body screamed at him for blood, for something he could no longer fully understand. He fought to push the feeling down, but it only grew sharper, more insistent.

Hannibal’s eyes softened, and he set the cloth aside, reaching instead for Will’s hand. His grip was firm, grounding, as if he were holding onto Will, not just physically but in some deeper, more complicated way.

“Relax,” Hannibal whispered, his voice almost a lullaby. “You are not alone in this, Will. I will help you through it.”

Will’s breath caught. The promise echoed in his mind, but there was something else there too—something darker. Will’s thoughts raced as Hannibal’s presence wrapped around him, soothing and insidious. He couldn’t trust himself. He couldn’t trust this new body, this new hunger.

But in the silence, there was only Hannibal—his calm, his control, his understanding. And for a moment, it seemed like the weight of everything pressing against Will's chest would lift, like he could breathe again.

But just as quickly as it had come, the feeling passed. The hunger returned, fiercer than before.

Will’s chest heaved, his fingers digging into the bed, his nails scraping against the fabric. He turned his face toward Hannibal, the desperation in his eyes clear. “I can’t hold it back.”

“You don’t have to,” Hannibal answered softly, his voice dripping with something like pleasure. “Not yet.”

The room seemed to grow colder, the darkness outside pressing in, and Will could hear it now, the distant thrum of something—the call of blood. His fangs ached as they slid from his gums, sharp and unyielding. His body shook in response to the gnawing need, and he was drowning in it.

“Will,” Hannibal’s voice was a murmur, a soft thread in the air. “Look at me.”

Will’s gaze snapped up, locking onto Hannibal’s eyes. The vampire’s gaze was steady, unyielding, like the gaze of a hunter who knew exactly what his prey would become.

“There is no going back from this,” Hannibal continued. “But that does not mean you are lost. There is power in what you are now, Will. Embrace it.”

But the words only made the hunger worse. His body screamed for blood, his fangs clicking together. The need burned like a fire in his chest, making him feel as if he were being torn apart, bit by bit. He closed his eyes, struggling to hold onto the fragile thread of control that still lingered in the back of his mind.

“Please,” Will gasped, the word tasting bitter on his tongue. “Make it stop.”

Hannibal didn’t move at first. Then, slowly, he reached out, his hand gentle on Will’s neck. “You must feed.”

And as Will’s mind swam with the frenzy of it, Hannibal leaned in close, his lips brushing against Will’s ear. “It’s time, Will. Time to feed.”

Beverly as the only human left in the group offered her wrist.

~

Meanwhile, back at the village, the pyre had long since collapsed. The first light of dawn was spilling over the ruins of what had been. Chilton stood amidst the scattered ashes, his face streaked with tears. His hands were trembling as he knelt by the remnants of Bedelia’s body, her head no longer in sight, the wood of the pyre charred black.

Chilton’s sobs were broken, anguished, but the hopelessness of the situation seemed to weigh on him like an iron cloak. His fingers sifted through the ashes, as if he could piece together the destruction, as if there was any way to undo what had been done.

But there was nothing left.

A soft rustle disturbed the air. Chiyoh appeared from the shadows, moving like a ghost, her expression steely, unflinching. She had no sympathy for Chilton, not anymore. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t need to. The gleam of her blade caught the first rays of the sun, cold and sharp.

Without hesitation, she moved to him.

The blade slid across his neck with a precision that could only come from years of practice. Chilton’s breath caught in his throat, a final, strangled sound escaping his lips. He fell to the ground, his body crumpling with the weight of the inevitable. Before he could make another sound, Chiyoh lifted his head, her gaze calm, almost indifferent.

With one swift motion, she severed his head.

The body twitched, but it was too late. The sun’s rays were now climbing higher in the sky, casting the last of the darkness away. The head disintegrated almost immediately, turning to dust as it hit the ground, scattered by the wind. The ashes of a man who had been too foolish to understand the consequences of his actions.

Chiyoh didn’t wait. She was already gone, her movements a blur as she ran toward shelter—toward Beverly’s house. She pushed the door open with a quiet, fluid motion and stepped inside, her breath shallow from the chase, her mind still sharp, focused.

There, in the quiet warmth of the house, was Margot.

Margot was waiting, her eyes full of quiet relief, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips as she saw Chiyoh enter. Without a word, Chiyoh crossed the room, and they met in the middle of the floor. Margot reached up, pulling Chiyoh to her, and their lips met in a kiss that was fierce, desperate, and full of everything that had been left unspoken.

It was the only moment of peace in a night filled with death and transformation.

As they kissed, the sun continued its slow rise over the world outside, casting long shadows through the windows. The balance had shifted. The world had changed. And now, there was only the silence of what had been, and the hunger of what was yet to come.