ofwaneoft

[ofwaneoft]

Andi’s champagne flute hovers halfway to her lips as she studies Malee with gentle curiosity. “It’s a little overwhelming, isn’t it?” she murmurs, letting the crystal catch the chandelier light. “I’m still piecing together the guest list myself. Some call it the Conclave, others call it a mixer for…well, people who don’t exactly show up in daylight.” Her smile is more wondering than knowing. “Did you receive an invitation, or did the doors simply open for you?”

She glances toward the raccoon, brows rising. “I promised myself I’d stop gasping... but that one’s new even for me. I’m not sure whether to wave or curtsy.” A soft laugh, warm and not self-conscious. “Honestly, I came to listen more than speak. What brings you? Curiosity? Business? A hint of danger?”

She edges closer, lowering her voice. “If we discover it’s a sacrifice, perhaps we can be late to the altar together.” A playful tilt of her head. “Shall we explore, or would you rather find champagne first?”

open: to cor residents where: conclave, 7:00pm.

   sticking with the crowd of guests entering the massive building, malee's gaze was immediately taking in the space as she wondered what she was walking into. everything screamed elegance and it only intrigued her more; what was the point of inviting so many people all at once? and who were they? the elite? was this an illuminati thing? like an initiation or a big giant sacrifice that she was offering herself on a silver platter maybe?

losing track of her goal when her eyes landed on a freaky ratatouille situation but in the form of a raccoon, malee quickly dipped around the corner instead. "what....the fuck was that?" she said mostly to herself, before putting on a smile and reappearing as if nothing was weird about it. " so is this like another opening? or is this some CEO kid's birthday? what's the stitch here? and why are we all invited?" she soon asked, as if she didn't technically break into the party.

[ofwaneoft]

Andromache Waneoft holds herself half-turned toward the string quartet, as though the intricate ballet of the violinist’s bow were the only thing worth noticing. In truth she is watching everything—the copper sheen of chandeliers, the way gossip pools in eddies around the silent auction tables, the way breath catches in a dozen throats when a vampire laughs too brightly. The music for cocktail hour, a dusky arrangement of Mahler, pours over her like warmed honey, slicking nerves that have hummed since the moment she stepped from the car. Once, gilt-edged gala halls had been second skin; tonight they fit like a borrowed gown—familiar fabric, unfamiliar seams, each step reminding her she is not quite the same woman who used to glide through charity seasons with a practiced smile and pockets full of family names.

She raises a flute of champagne. Pear, hazelnut, an ironic hint of brioche. Beneath it lingers the ghost of verbena she swallowed earlier, a low burn under the effervescence. Poison, protection, promise: the tea steeps in her blood, reminding her that not all helplessness is permanent. Across the room Cordelia is a dark meridian of calm, holding court with two Pertorius patrons; her shoulders curve in careful ease. 

Andi drifts, listens. Every conversation opens like a flower if you circle it gently enough; petals of ambition, pollen of insecurity, nectar thick with bargains still unspoken. 

What opens a window? Is a glance enough? 

Because the stare from the stranger feels like a window opening behind he ribs, a sort of breeze flowing over her and through her. A gaze, direct and then glancing away, direct again, away again, as rhythmic as a metronome in a conservatory. He stands three groupings over, dark amber liquor sloshing in his glass as though he means to drown something fiery in his chest. Have they met? She is certain she would remember. And yet his eyes move back to her, the branch bending, straightening, bending.

A familiar flutter—part dread, part daring—flares in her throat. The verbena in her bloodstream feels like a loaded sigil. Protection, she has it. Protection, it makes her bold. 

He tosses back the remainder of his drink with a desperation that almost startles her. Very well, then. A faint touch to the elbow of a passing waiter; a murmur so soft it is practically a kiss of breath. Andi makes certain the stranger sees that conspiratorial lean. Within moments a new glass—whiskey, two fingers, single cube—threads its way to him through the throng. By the time it arrives she is no longer in sight.

“Come along,” she murmurs to her current conversationalist—a soft-spoken curator from the Maritime Museum. Her gloved fingers wrap around his wrist with playful decisiveness, guiding him deeper into the lacquered labyrinth of guests. They slip between twin columns draped in orchids, then past a cluster of hedge-fund heirs debating investments in supernatural security tech. Andi laughs at the appropriate beat, head thrown slightly back so her profile catches the chandelier light. They settle near a balcony alcove where the night wind drags salt from the harbor. She lets the curator describe a newly acquired narwhal tusk while her gaze slips over the crowd like moonlight. If the stranger wants words, he will have to cross the floor.

@ofwaneoft, the conclave, 8:30 pm

Edwin had begun slowly working his way through the Arts Center; beautifully decorated, tear drop crystalline chandeliers lighting the room softly, dimly, the murmured voices of colleagues, the quiet playing of music, black ties and elegant gowns. It's been some time since he'd found himself at an event of this caliber, usually more the shut in than most, but this style of gathering he found himself somewhat fond of; intentional, delineative. It was stunning, of course.

He made rounds, gave his greetings to the few people he recognized, members of Port Leiry's branch of Pertorious primarily, all equally surprised to see him, and even more surprised to hear he planned to stay for awhile. He was a traveler but not a lodger, he hadn't stayed somewhere that wasn't his own home for longer than a few days in decades, a notorious fact about him that wasn't very much a secret. He could hear a question building, seeing it rolling behind their eyes, a strange tightness to their smiles as if trying to figure out the golden question without coming across as rude: why?

It was grueling, in a sense, pleasantries. He was never one to waste words or time in small talk; he liked business, he liked exchanges of information, of knowledge. This time of the night seemed as though it were a bit too early for conversations of that nature, a lot of the same, the expected 'How have you been? How was your trip?'

He politely excused himself from a conversation of the sort and meandered his way towards the refreshments table, glancing over silver plate ware and crystal wine glasses, debated the way he wanted this night to go, what flavor would guide his sense through the remainder of the evening, fingers hovering over a bottle of fine Scotch when a scent caught his attention, somehow both delicate and powerful; decadent. Blackberries, nutmeg, fresh leather, strawberries, warm pastries, and the scent that lingers in the kitchen when you bake something with a toasted spice in the oven — suddenly, the sensation of acidity on the palate; mouthwatering.

It wasn't something that happened often, if at all since his years as a fledgling, something that catches his attention so completely by one sense alone. His eyes sharpen, the drink table momentarily forgotten as his eyes seek the scent, taking in air slowly, controlled, feeling very much like what he truly was; a bloodhound. Then he sees her, long legs, slender shoulders, pale faced in a gown delicately concocted of lace and diamond. Her shiny, dark hair is piled carefully in an updo over her shoulders. She holds a stemmed glass as the little bell of her laugh, though not loud, to him seems to echo against the walls. A silver necklace rests along her neck, moving slightly with the breathing of her chest.

Her scent. For a moment, just one quick second, he felt the old animalistic desire ripping it's way up his throat, visions of pomegranates, cherries, the way amazing red Burgundy used to taste before his sickness stole that sense from him. The tight mouth feeling of tannin. The look in her direction hovers a moment too long, her eyes flickering briefly towards him and he pulls himself together, a small tight smile of acknowledgment, turning back to pour some Glenfiddich neat into a crystal rocks glass, he pounds it back, then repeats the pour again, resting with it this time, giving it a half-hearted swirl. Immediately the burn, the oak, the vanilla do their best to drown out the tempting aroma. 'Don't look back over there.' He thinks intently, but despite himself, as he brings his glass back towards his mouth, more to mask the scent then anything else, his eyes land back on her.

[ofwaneoft]

For the briefest beat she forgets why she asked for him at all: Jonas’s profile flickers across her memory and Andi thinks Silas. Her heart nearly misfires into that conversation instead. But then purpose settles back over her shoulders — Human Council, not personal ghosts —and she gathers herself with a breath scented faintly of verbena.

“Thank you for finding me, Mayor Harding. I know your dance card must be wilting under tonight’s heat.” A quick, reassuring glance confirms Cordelia is still nimbly occupied; Andi turns back, smile warm as midsummer sun on orchard leaves. “I’ve heard whispers—pollinated from conversation to conversation—about a Human Council taking root here in Port Leiry. I’d love to understand its soil and its shape, and whether there’s a place I might help it grow.”

The night will be busy, he knows that. There are so many people to seek out and ask questions of, so much information to try and learn, so much to even just discuss with other humans that might be in the vicinity. It's not hard to see where some of the people here will be assets and some might be detriments to the cause.

Of the two he's already recruited for it, he hopes he's made the right choice. He simply wishes to make this city livable for all of them, not shun one or the other. By the time he makes his way to Miss Waneoft, he feels a little off-kilter and out of place. "I was told you might be of interest to me? Apologies, Mayor Harding. Nice to meet you." / @ofwaneoft

[ofwaneoft]

Oh— it’s her. That rain-lit silhouette has been pressed against the back of Andi’s mind like a flower between pages, bending her thoughts into restless knots of vine. So this is Colt’s girl. She’s beautiful, but not in the glass-cut way of high society; hers is the kind of beauty sweetness grants—unassuming, earnest, the stuttering sincerity Andi knows Colt cherishes. Is it worse to lose someone, or to learn they can be perfectly happy without you?

Andi smooths her expression into gala-ready composure, though something beneath still bruises like overripe fruit. “It’s all right,” she says, voice polished by years of parlors and charity balls. “Your spatial awareness can take as many smoke breaks as it likes—it doesn’t owe me anything.”

She offers a smile then, because it’s the least she can do. No sense pretending they hadn’t already seen—and been seen. Andi offers her hand, the gesture equal parts courtesy and acknowledgement. Almost forgets that her dead husband's ring is still on her finger.

“Andromache. Andi, if that’s easier. The other day... it was kind of Colt to let me take shelter from the storm in the barn. Thank you for letting me pull him away for a few minutes."

WHO: @ofwaneoft WHERE: conclave & gala

Romy was mid-pivot, doing the world’s most graceful social escape loop — a slow, casual circle from the bar to a quieter corner table that still had a direct line of sight to Avi, just in case things got weird (they always got weird). She had her drink in one hand, her bag in the other like it might shield her from eye contact, and exactly zero intention of actually talking to anyone. Which, of course, meant she immediately bumped into someone.

“Shit —sorry! I wasn’t—” Her apology tripped out of her mouth before her brain caught up. She looked up, and froze. The brunette was pretty in a way that made Romy feel like she’d been caught in the act of something — familiar, too familiar, in a grainy-memory kind of way. Like the image of someone stepping out of Colt’s barn in the middle of a don’t-ask-don’t-tell moment. She blinked, clutching her glass like it might explain the silence. “Uh… sorry. Again. My spatial awareness’s just out there taking a smoke break.”

[ofwaneoft]

Andi’s smile curves, polished yet genuine. “Years of Waneoft galas trained the step, though I never imagined the lesson would matter in a room humming with gods and monsters.” What a strange way the trappings of her old life thread themselves into the new. Galas are a familiar tune for Andi, and she sways to it easily—yet the melody now runs deeper, strung with species she has never seen and magics whose names she is still learning. The fearful tremor in her chest has quieted; the one that was born there when the world cracked open. But now she wants to reach farther, pluck these new strings, and see what sings back. Cordelia’s presence steadies the impulse, and Andi is grateful for it — proof that not every vampire must echo her ex-husband’s shadow. Even here, goodness glints.

With that steadiness, the tremor settles and something brighter slips through the cracks to reach for the light: curiosity.

Andi knows the optics and has come dressed to be the perfect guest — an attentive shadow who bolsters Cordelia while learning Port Leiry’s supernatural politics. If needed, she can dispatch any rival with saccharine precision — kill them with a holy amount of kindness — but Cordelia seems unlikely to require rescuing; the vampire navigates the room like a needle through silk, and she is stunning. More than once, Andi must stop herself from leaning her chin in her palm just to watch her move.

Andi’s gaze sweeps the ballroom — predators in couture, fortunes stitched into every seam — then she smiles, voice pitched for Cordelia alone. “Different teeth, same appetite,” she says. “I’ve dined with hunters all my life. Lead the way, and I’ll keep pace. Have you been to many evenings like this, Cordelia — and in those times, who usually stood at your side?”

closed starter for: @ofwaneoft when/where: cocktail hour, the conclave gala

"Well, you seem to know how to handle a red carpet, not that I had any doubts, exactly."

Cordelia doesn't mind spectacle. The visiting dignitaries are certainly one of the more memorable things that has happened to Port Leiry, outside of its own occasionally remarkable incidents. But those feel commonplace because they belong to the city, uniquely woven into its very DNA.

While she has amassed her own security of wealth over the decades, the vampire doesn't come from money, nor does she have wealth in the sense that Andromache Waneoft does. Of course, Cordelia isn't courting her for the money. Why is it she seems to take on these pet projects, introducing canny young women to the world slipped into their shadows? She'd like to believe it's noble of her. Tressa, the exception to her biggest rule, is likely swimming among the throngs of her newfound peers, hungry for knowledge. It's admirable. Andi, in another sense, needs a security that only a supernatural figure can provide, a minnow among the sharks.

But after her row with Kingsley, she's trying to be mindful of her optics. Cordelia has always followed the rules of her clan -- though Tressa broke (or rather bent) a personal rule, she still followed the requirements of proper process. Laure Stephens cannot say the same. And she has no intent to turn Andi, nor has the girl indicated an interest. Even if she leaves this evening with that hunger in her mind, the seamstress is not in the business of feeding the world's ambitions. She has her own to focus on tonight.

"I'm sure you'll find tonight's revelers both a wholly new breed than what you're used to and, in many ways, no different than rich, powerful people of any origin."

[ofwaneoft]

THE CONCLAVE & SUPERNATURAL GALA

Andromache “Andi” Waneoft slips into the Gala as if the chandeliers were lit solely to announce her arrival. Draped on Cordelia’s arm—radiant confidante, emergency-top on call—she radiates practiced warmth: a knowing tilt of her champagne flute, a half-smile that insists you already have her full attention.

Tonight is reconnaissance wrapped in velvet. Until now Andi assumed Port Leiry’s nightlife began and ended with vampires, but this ballroom flickers with an entire pantheon, unveiling itself at an exhilarating pace. Verbena still hums in her bloodstream (a product of that ill-timed tea with Malcolm); after a spirited debate with Cordelia she’s decided to keep dosing.

Networking is Andi’s native tongue. She will lean in, genuinely intrigued, while you recount your fledgling start-up or scroll through photos of your champion stallion, making each anecdote feel like the evening’s headliner. By night’s end she’ll have sketched the city’s supernatural power map—names memorized, ambitions catalogued, leverage tucked behind an effortless laugh.

Ask about her dress, if you dare—it’s the backup after her first choice was hijacked by a red-carpet-hungry celebrity. But don’t inquire about the price; that secret is stitched into the lining.

@thebrideinred

[ofwaneoft]

who: @thebrideinred

where: Seam Queens, 7:00pm

The brass bell above the door jingles like a charm bracelet announcing her arrival. Andi Waneoft—black jeans, soft ivory blouse, sunglasses hooked in loose dark waves of hair —slips into Seam Queens with a garment bag looped over one shoulder, the plastic whispering secrets of satin and mothballs. Lavender starch, clean steam, and the faint metallic tang of sewing needles wrap her in memory before the city noise has even finished closing the door behind her.

Rows of bolts fan out like coral reefs, every hue competing for daylight. She drifts through them, free hand skimming textures—peony-pink silk, oyster-grey wool, a jacquard loud enough to start rumors—while the other clutches the hanger’s hooked neck as if it were a pulse. Somewhere between the satins and the lace remnants she loses track of time, hearing her mother’s laughter echo: twirl, my little star—let the fabric choose you.

At the counter she eases the bag onto polished wood and peels it open. A blush-pink sheath unfurls; its designer label winks in silver thread, but it’s the ghost of her mother’s perfume that catches in her throat. Fourteen years of attic dust haven’t dulled that blush.

“Hi,” she says, smoothing the dress with reverence. “I’m hoping to have this tailored.” Her gaze flicks to the gilded sign above the register. “Seam Queens is a cute name. Makes me think of crown-stealing debutantes and sewing-circle dynasties,” she muses, laughter soft as organza. “Anyway—do you take sentimental salvage jobs?"

[ofwaneoft]

Andi tests the weight of Michelangelo’s head against her shoulder—steady, breathing, gloriously equine—and only then eyes the man still shaking mud out of his ears like a mongrel just discovering baths exist. “First,” she says, tone as crisp as shattered glass, “you give the worst country-dance invitations I’ve ever heard. ‘Cut a rug beneath the stars, covered in mud’? Darling, that’s not a waltz, that’s a tetanus advertisement.”

She rises all the way, nightdress now a mournful slip, dusts a smear of silt from the W-shaped crest stitched into the hem. “Second: treacle. Whatever vat of sweetness you’re muttering about, it isn’t on my inventory. Unless you’ve been raiding the cellar in your sleep?” Michelangelo snorts, as if equally intrigued—and offended at being left out of the sticky details.

A pivot of her boot grinds wet earth; Andi steps forward until the space between them is charged as a live wire. “Third—and do pay attention, Mr. Garlic Connoisseur—names. See, in polite circles, we trade them before bodily hurling one another into topsoil. You’ve already enjoyed the thriller ride. Now you owe me the courtesy.” She extends her hand, not to shake but to take, palm up, like a dealer demanding ante.

“And before you think to dodge: I once fox-hunted with an earl who swore he’d never surrender a secret. By dusk he was confessing nursery rhymes to the hounds. I’m very persuasive.” The threat unfurls sweetly; Michelangelo flicks an ear, ready.

She studies Garrick in moonlight—mud-striped cheekbones, grin too sharp for comfort, a stray clove seed caught on his lower lip. Not marble, not the pallid chill of Russian covens. Alive, or close enough to fake it well. Her pulse eases one notch. “Vampire hypothesis downgraded to ‘questionable rogue,’ ” she mutters, mostly to herself. “Garlic immunity remains unexplained; file for later.”

Then, softer: “Look, I’m not unsporting. Your name, six apples for the horse—and we call the ledger even. After that, you can try your luck at dancing, if your boots don’t leak swamp by the third step.”

She tilts her head, copper hair plastered like damp silk across one temple. “Your move, plague-boy. Give me a name, promise me those apples, and—who knows?—I might even let you saddle up for a moonlit ride beside Michelangelo. But if you spit clove on my land again, Michelangelo will demonstrate how ‘five more of those’ feels with both hind hooves.”

A beat, then a wicked crescent of a smile. “Trust me, he’s a better dancer than either of us.” She flips her hand over and shakes.

Garrick enjoys his victory for about a whole three seconds. Clicks his tongue sharply against his teeth as he tries to steady the horse — because he's just bucked its owner off unsolicited. Fuckin' swell. He glances down, piercing eyes meet one another as a loud whistle carries across the field. Garrick winces at the blow to his senses, playfully rubs a palm over his left ear like he's trying to rattle out the noise.

And then he's going down, back into the mud when the horse's legs bow and sling him off to the ground beside the nepo baby with a grunt. He can hear her talking to the horse like a friend. They understand each other in a way that Garrick ain't never going to. He sits himself up with a dramatic groan and brushes off mud, as though it's not just clumps of dirt spattering on the grass. Part of him hopes it speckles onto her ludicrously expensive riding shoes. He has no idea. He assumes they are; the embossing on the calf looks like something leather and Italian. But he's guessing.

He flashes her a wide grin and clambers to his feet, wiping his hands on his jacket carelessly. "You'd never dirty yer hands with apples from a plague, would ya?" He's teasing because that's how he imagines the elite always see men like him. No use crying over some mud and grit. The new wardrobe sounds like a cost he'll never afford. Even if he could, he wouldn't. But— "I do know the best apple spots, though." Because why wouldn't a thief, and a fiend, know where's best to reap chaos?

When Garrick approaches her, nice and easy — like she's a stallion in need of placating, or a new set of wheels yet to be broken in — he extends a hand and nods his head, like a truce.

"We could cut a rug beneath the stars, covered in mud, ay?" There's no music, but he's not expecting her to play ball, either. She's probably thinking she's chrome-plated, turned hunk o' junk if the late-night mess is anything to go by. What's a name to the woman who'll call the roscoes on him before dawn comes? "I ain't never been threatened with a whistle before, tha's a new one." Impressive even. He's inclined to turn it crass, too. But what's a stick up her arse broad gonna know about filth?

Garrick tastes the ashen remains of the clove in his mouth as his tongue pokes at his teeth, outstretched hand turns upwards, to indicate one moment. "Scuse me, doll. " He spits on the ground behind him, because whilst there's no burn, it's grim to taste bonedust on the best of days. He swivels back, licks his lips, "We gonna ever talk about the treacle, by the way? Wha's tha' about?"

[ofwaneoft]

Andi’s hand tightens around the blanket Colt passes her, notices how he doesn't toss it around her shoulders in that old, familiar way. Still, she gathers it close to her shoulders, fingers lingering on the hem as though she might stitch the past back together with frayed fringe and rain-damp breath.

“Thank you,” she says, voice pitched low so it won’t rattle the moment. Lightning splits the sky outside—white glare through the slats—throwing Colt’s silhouette into stark relief. God, she has missed that outline: the broad set of his shoulders, the conscientious hunch that always makes him look like he’s listening harder than most men ever try.

Congratulations. The word tastes like ash. It clangs against every secret she has swallowed on the flight home, every frantic plan hatched in the airplane restroom while turbulence jolted the sink. Her thumb drifts—almost unconsciously—toward the ring. Six sharp carats, cruel-bright beneath the barn’s sodium bulbs: a lie hammered into a perfect circle.

She tucks her hand beneath the blanket before he can see the wince. “That means a lot, Colt. Truly.” The syllables feel too formal, an ocean of city miles cracking across her tongue, yet she can’t seem to make them smaller. “Life’s…complicated.” She forces a smile, lets it flutter close to playful. “Isn’t it always?”

Complicated is a coffin with no corpse—at least none she lets stay dead. Complicated is a marble crypt beneath a Russian countryside manor and a husband who whispers forever like a vow and a threat in the same breath. Complicated is a stake through the heart. But Colt doesn’t need that weight. He has storms and fences and Sabbath the runaway cow; she will not hang a vampire’s ghost around his neck.

She inhales dry straw and cedar. The air tastes like childhood dares and restless summers. “Port Liery still looks the same from the water,” she says, letting conversation drift sideways. “Couldn’t believe it when the plane broke through the clouds—like all those years folded themselves neat just so I’d recognize the skyline.”

His brow softens, and the barn seems to breathe with him, drawing some of the steel from her spine—enough that the truth presses forward, hot and dangerous. I’m free, Colt. I did what I had to do. I ran because I needed you breathing. But honesty here would slice them both open.

Instead, she steps closer, careful not to bridge too much space too fast. “Storm like this?” She nods toward the rafters where rain hammers tin. “Makes me remember that summer we lost the herd for two days down by the willow break. You swore you could smell them on the wind.” Her laugh is a tremor, but it’s real. “We spent all night chasing ghosts and cow tracks, ended up asleep in the truck bed, dreaming about Nashville—or was it L.A.? We’d argue every time.”

She feels sixteen again, tasting dust and freedom. The ring burns. She twists it, knuckle to palm, shielding the motion in the blanket’s woolen shadow. “I—I need to be back,” she manages. “Some things don’t leave you alone, no matter how far you run. Thought if I touched home, they’d hush a little.” She meets his eyes then, steady for the first time all night. Lightning forks outside, illuminating flecks of rain in his hair.

“Even after all those miles, you’re still my true north,” she whispers, softer than the downbeat of rain. The confession slips free before she can tame it. She covers fast, finding a tease to soften the edge. “But don’t think I flew in just to watch you swing a hammer.” She lifts the blanket in a mock salute, grin crooked and conspiratorial. “Hand me a post-hole digger tomorrow, and I’ll prove city calluses work just fine in the mud.”

It hits her how easy it would be to fall forward, press her forehead to his chest, memorize his heartbeat all over again. She's sure some girl exists for him; her own sins exist, clawing from the shadows.

So she straightens, shakes out her shoulders. “Tell you what—I’ll help mend your fence tomorrow. How's that sound?" Her grin grows wider. “Just two old friends, swapping lightning stories.”

The ring shifts as she speaks—heavy reminder—and she thinks he might ask. But the barn sighs, the storm simmers, and the question stays unspoken, tucked beneath thunder and the scent of wet hay.

He reckoned the rumors were true, then. Magda down the road had always made it her God given duty to keep tabs on him; those old grannies never had much else to do but watch and remember. Said she still saw them in her mind sometimes, just kids, knotted up in each other’s laughter, hand in hand in that old pickup, rattling down back roads like they owned the damn world. You let that girl go, Colt, she’d say, again and again, and he’d give her the same thing every time: a soft, polite laugh and a kind smile to match. Wasn’t me let her go, Magda. She got on a plane.

That was her life and her choice. And Colt had always respected Andi for the way she chased what she wanted, full throttle, never once looking back.

But Magda, she’d look at him sideways and twist the knife a little more: You know she’s married now, boy.

It had stung then and it stung now, where his gaze had dipped to scan her hand in the dark for the flash of a diamond. There it was — big thing. Clean and sharp. It was just a glint but it cut like glass, right through the center of him, right through all the years he never stopped looking back.

"You're soaked." words laced with concern, like he half-believed ghosts could still catch cold. But she wasn't a ghost, was she? Christ, she was real, standing right there, shivering from the rain. Before he could stop himself, he reached for the old blanket draped over one of the saddles. Colt moved in slow and careful, as though she might vanish if he startled her. He didn't wrap it around her, not like he once might've, just held it out, steadied it in her hands. "Storm’s been tearing up the back pasture all night. Fence lines are toast. Thought I had all the herd in ‘cept her." Goddamn Sabbath. "She’s stubborn. You remember."

A fleeting yet vivid memory of her drenched in that barn followed, and it brought a genuine smile on his face. The night they met, hair plastered to her face, and teeth clattering like windchimes. Muddy shoes leaving puddles behind them, and him, fumbling with a heater, his jacket, anything to keep her warm. "Don’t know what to call this weather," he said after a beat. "Don’t feel right." Port Liery surely didn't get no goddamn hurricanes.

The thought crept in, of her being hungry, soaked through, maybe hadn’t eaten in hours. He opened his mouth, half ready to ask, to offer something, but the guilt hit just as fast. Romy, still holed up on his couch back at the house, waiting. He’d told her he wouldn’t be long. Just a quick check on the herd, make sure the storm hadn’t swept the whole damn pasture out to sea.

"Reckon I oughta say congratulations."

[ofwaneoft]

“Oh,” Andi says, a little dryly. “You’re one of them.” She tries not to let it get to her. The idea of someone who’s both within and above. A vampire vampire wrangler. Of course that’s a thing. “For how long?” she asks, lightly, though there’s an edge to her curiosity—measured, restrained.

But then the tea arrives.

She reaches for the cup without much thought, the warmth of it a small comfort against her fingers. She brings it to her lips and takes a sip—and suddenly she is elsewhere. Not in this room. Not in this body. Not in this year. She’s back in the Russian countryside, in that nowhere place where the maps stopped and the world forgot to look. The air is damp with woodsmoke and secrets. The house rises in her mind at once—tilted shutters, warped floorboards, windows that watched. The silence there was not peace, but pressure. And him. Nikolai, with his grave, unreadable eyes and the way he always handed her this same tea like it was merely hospitality. As though it wasn’t the only thing anchoring her to herself. As though it wasn’t the only thing he could offer that wouldn’t haunt them both.

She knows this taste. She knows this taste.

It hits too fast, too hard. Her eyes go glassy. She blinks, but the tears still come, involuntary and hot. She puts the cup down a little too quickly, the porcelain giving a muted clink against the table. Her fingers tremble.

“I’m sorry,” she says, voice barely above a whisper. “I just… I didn’t know that’s what it was called. Verbena, you said? Oh.” She swallows. Her throat is tight, the memory caught somewhere in it, sharp-edged and refusing to dislodge.

She turns slightly in her chair, pulling a folded handkerchief from her coat pocket. Not one of those gauzy little things for show—hers is practical, pressed and clean. She dabs at her eyes, breath catching as she tries to find her composure. “Where does it grow? Is it native to Port Leiry?” she asks, not looking at him just yet. The question is real, but also a distraction, a life raft in the form of botany.

It takes her another moment to breathe deeply, steady herself. She hates crying in front of people, but this one caught her off guard.

“I thought it was just tea,” she says softly. “But I’ve only ever had it a few times before. And I’ve been trying to find it ever since.”

Andi exhales a thin filament of tension, letting it unspool between them like thread from a bobbin. “Sure, it’s your job,” she concedes, voice warm, “but even professionals deserve a gratuity now and then. Think of it as — oh, I don’t know — seed money for a new obsession. You strike me as someone who could use a hobby less lethal than vampire wrangling. Take up sailing; buy a ridiculous little sloop and name it Something Punny. Or polo, if horses feel safer than the sea. Worst-case scenario, you blow the tip on good bourbon and tell no one. My conscience stays clear.”

The joke lands softer than she expects; he’s already flagging down a staffer, issuing calm instructions about verbena-laced tea. Andi’s brows knit, curiosity catching like silk on thorns. “Verbena,” she repeats, tasting the word. Internally she ranks the irony: five years married to a war-profiteer vampire and no one mentioned the botanical equivalent of garlic. Another thing he kept from her, alongside his offshore accounts and pet generals. The realization sings through her with a bitter edge, but she seals it behind a practiced smile.

When Malcolm straightens again, she lifts her chin. “Thank you. Sincerely. If it keeps the clientèle from confusing me with lunch, I’ll drink it by the gallon.” Her gaze lingers a breath too long — she knows he noticed. “Sorry,” she adds, unflustered. “Assessing the man who put himself between me and an unscheduled bloodletting. Habit.” There’s a flicker of self-mockery. “I had an upbringing teaches you to catalogue motives like wine notes: oak, cherry, threat level.”

He assures her he intends no harm, and something in her shoulders unclenches. “I believe you,” she replies, softer now, sincerity shading each syllable. “But forgive my vigilance; I learned early that safety is seldom free, and never permanent. Until the tea arrives, I’ll keep close. You’re the only guarantee in the room that I leave upright.”

She extends a hand—not fluttering, not fragile this time, but deliberate, grounded. “Andromache Waneoft. And if you won’t take my Venmo, at least let me buy you that bourbon sometime. Consider it an investment in smoother nights for both clans."

[ofwaneoft]

She asks so directly, and Andi has no choice but to meet it with honesty.

“Well,” she begins, fingers tightening briefly around her cup, “I think love is the most important language.”

It comes out a little too earnestly. A faint blush colors her cheeks, but she doesn’t take it back. She understands how naive it might sound in a place like this, in the company she keeps now—but she sticks to it anyway. “It’s the only language I’ve ever seen that makes people do impossible things. Good and bad. It endures in silence and survives death. You can heal with it. That sounds like power to me.”

She meets Christy’s gaze, acknowledging the weight behind her questions—bright and precise, almost surgical. “As for why me? Why the coin purse gets a face, and why it’s this face?” She gives a small, dry laugh. “Well, the money’s in my name. Not all of it, but enough. My parents wouldn’t have made this deal. Not with Reardon or Kanemaru. Too far outside their comfort zone. My family makes their money with portfolios, not fangs.”

She shrugs, a fluid, practiced movement. “They’ve always had tunnel vision for legacy, but the kind you can hang in a gallery or write on a donor plaque. I think Kanemaru saw something else in me. A use. An opportunity. Maybe even a liability they could control. Who’s to say.”

A pause. She looks at Christy, softer now. “I’m the eldest. I have younger siblings, but…” Her voice trails off briefly as she thinks of Nyx. How she was sometimes scared of her. “They’ve never wanted the mantle. They’ve always been freer than I am. More themselves.” She tilts her head, genuinely curious now. “Do you have siblings?”

When the horse talk circles back, Andi sees it. That glimmer of something familiar. Want. “You know,” she says gently, “if you ever want to go riding, I’d love that. The trails haven’t changed much since I was in school here. And I have a few horses—you could borrow one. No lessons, no pressure. Just… open land. My horse, Donatello, is perfect for beginners.”

Christy’s surprise about Nsilo and Gael elicits a quiet, startled laugh. “Them? Really?” She scrunches her nose, trying not to imagine it too vividly. “I guess love can bloom in the unlikeliest places. Still, hard to picture them doing anything normal, let alone dating. Are they... in love?"

Christy bounces at the idea of Gael becoming her new “daddy,” and Andi watches her—half-amused, half-mesmerized by the force of her energy. There’s something dazzling about it, reckless and bright. She feels a pang, not quite envy, but something adjacent. A hunger to be that untethered. Her gaze sobers at the mention of Christy’s father.

“I’m sorry,” she says softly. “Truly. Fathers can be like that. Absence comes in so many forms, doesn’t it?” She lifts her glass a little in a quiet toast. “I hope Gael is what you need him to be. Or if not him, someone else. We all deserve someone who sees us and stays.”

Then comes the final line. Intentions don’t match actions.

“I’ve spent the last five years learning that, Christy. Living it.” She tilts her head, eyes sharp with curiosity now. “What about you? You say that like someone who’s learned it the hard way. What made you figure that out?”

"What do you think the most important language is, then?" Christy asked, head tilting just slightly as though trying to read the answer from her before she could actually give it. It was rare, she thought, to find someone who valued something else over money. The young vampire thinks about the answer regarding where the money goes, making a mental note of Admiral Downs. She's definitely learning about Reardon and Kanemaru as she goes, having been flung into the world of the clans the moment she arrived in Port Leiry. The other clans were a mystery to her, if she were honest she couldn't even tell you the names. "Why?" Christy questioned again, brow furrowing slightly. "I mean, why you? I get they want your family's money and some deal must have been struck otherwise you wouldn't be here. But why did whoever and Reardon settle on it being you that would be the pretty face of that coin purse? No other Waneoft's to take that mantle?"

The question about horses throws her a little bit, blinking back a reaction as she thought on the answer. "I don't dislike horses." When she was a kid, she was definitely a horse kind of girl, though her father never let her have any lessons. After she was turned, she spent a few years with a family she had compelled living at a ranch. She hadn't meant to compel them, it had just happened out of the pure need behind her words, and they were nice enough. They taught her to ride a horse, but she didn't get much time there before she had to move on. Christy compelled them to forget all about her before leaving.

"I was envious, I think. Of those girls whose parents could afford to give them horse riding lessons, or those that cared enough to at least try." The blonde spoke softly, eyes glazing over just slightly as she went into her own world thinking about her father for a few moments. A flash of anger sparked in her eyes before she brought herself back to the present, to Andi. "Mm, that she is from what I've seen and heard. Gael is definitely quite the match for her. Do you think they're birds of a feather enough to end up together? I'd quite like for him to be my new daddy." The vampire beamed, almost jumping up and down with excitement.

More questions, as though an interview with the coin purse; Christy was quite open though, she didn't mind sharing. "Your mother being out of the picture was better for you?" She questioned in return before answering those posed to her. "My mother died, I believe my father murdered her if I'm being honest. Nsilo was one of many that came in and out of the house as I grew up, but she was the one that stuck around the longest. The only one I felt a connection to since my mother died. Then she left too, understandably so when it came to my father. She was different when I knew her first, getting to know her now is like getting to know her all over again." Her father would be envious of the empire that his almost-second wife had built for herself, because he could never even dream of making such accomplishments. "My father was a horrible man."

"Andi it is then, if that's what you prefer. Intentions often don't match up to actions, Andi. Be careful around the company you keep."

[ofwaneoft]

She doesn’t answer the question directly. Andi’s not the sort to stall a conversation just to corner someone into honesty. These things unfold in time—like a flower opening toward the sun, slowly, if they’re meant to. She understands, too, that a shared drink isn’t a fair trade for opening the door to every ghost in one’s closet.

My history and what is here for me—two different questions, really.

The advantage, of course, is that Ha-Jeong already knows more than most. Not everything. Not the deepest roots. But enough that Andi doesn’t have to speak in metaphor. She doesn’t mention her brother, or the basement, or the curse, or her husband. If Ha-Jeong wants to know what here means to her, she’ll get the piece Andi holds closest.

“This place was never supposed to be permanent,” she says at last, voice even. “Just a vacation home for my parents. Somewhere to run to when the tropics felt overdone and the Hamptons felt too—trite.”

Her fingers trace the condensation on her glass. “I fell in love here. When I was seventeen, there was a fire. It burned down his ranch. After that, every summer became about rebuilding. Nails and ash and scraped-up hands. I left for college eventually, of course, but...” She gives a small shrug. “You don’t really forget your first love, do you?”

She lets the question linger, just long enough. “It’s not quite that kind of love for me here anymore. But I wanted safety. A place no one would think to look. Somewhere quiet. Small. Where I could—”

She trails off, but the implication is there. Hide. Heal. Disappear.

Then, with a faint smile, she lifts her gaze to Ha-Jeong. “Is that enough to earn a real answer from you? Or do I need to start oversharing about my second love too?”

She isn’t used to being appraised, but she is no threat to this girl. So she lets herself be observed. She can feel every pinprick of her gaze but she still allows it. She is not a threat to Andromache Wanecroft, and she doesn’t mind, in this moment, letting her know it.

The girl explains the origin of the blend. Ha-Jeong closes her eyes. Remembers a person she knew long ago, one who held her cold cheeks in his hand and called her ethereal. “Experience should never be rationed.” Ha-Jeong was used to denying herself much, it was a good exercise. But some conviences should be savoured. Andromache was human, so little time to savour life’s goodness, if this was an indulgence she could allow she should.

“Files only say so much Andromache Wanecroft.” A concession, one she doesn’t know if the girl will know she is giving. I know you, I see you. Ha-Jeong knew her life couldn’t be reduced down to a file, had seen the labelless cases her existence has resulted in. And still, Andromache offered her not only a drink but an explanation for her time. “Files mean little,” Ha-Jeong allowed her full gaze to turn on the woman, “I would rather hear your history from you.” She took another cube into her mouth. “Port Leiry bleeds little into your history, and yet you emphasize it like it means something.”

Another sip, full focus still addressed to the heiress, “What is here for you?”

[ofwaneoft]

The sub shop a few doors down is quiet, abuzz with the hum of a soda machine and the rustle of sandwich wrappers. Ren doesn’t order anything—just a soda—and Andi, not wanting her to feel like the odd one out, quietly adds a few sandwiches to her own order.

“Not weird at all,” she says, sliding into the booth across from her. “Honestly, I thought I was going to be the weird one, ambushing you at work. So thank you—for coming out on your lunch break.”

She sets her elbows lightly on the table, fingers wrapped around the edge of her drink. “I sat there for a solid fifteen minutes trying to figure out what to message you on Instagram. I kept typing and deleting, typing and deleting.” And she had, on a chair in the sunroom, typing and retyping the message. A wry smile crosses her face. “And I don’t even really use Instagram. It would’ve come from this sad, empty account with zero posts. Just a ghost in the machine. I doubt I would've trusted it, either.”

Her number is called, and she hops up with a quick “One sec.” A moment later, she returns balancing a tray, unwrapping the sandwiches with an easy grace.

“I asked if you came here often—figured maybe they’d remember your favorite—and they gave me two guesses. So I got both. If you’re not into one of them, I’ll eat it. No pressure.” She gestures at the two she she ordered. “You're also welcome to one of mine if you would rather. This one’s the Red Menace Deluxe. And this one's the Spicy Regret. They told me I had to try both them. Apparently they're both a house favorite.”

She glances over with a lightness in her eyes, still trying to gauge what kind of lunch guest Ren is—how to match her rhythm without overwhelming it. “Least I can do for pulling you away during your break to ask about your art. How long have you been illustrating?"

"Uh... Ren" she says, looking aorund briefly, because like, it's a record store and the only seats are really behind the counter, or in the back, or up on the stage but she's not about to sit on a stage. "Not really? Her eyes dart to the front of shop, where daylight peeks in through windows plastered with concert flyers and the scuffed album covers that live on as decor. The reason for Andi's visit visibly startles them, even if its just a short, swift expression of surprise; she's trying to think of where or what she could've seen; but she supposes it's not impossible.

"I close," she shakes her head. "-Uh, but we can. I can take lunch," she says, looking up to the counter. "I can take lunch."

Lex looks annoyed, and nods, annoyed. "Yeah, sure."

"It's uh, it's fine." She says, sheepish.

— A few doors down from Earshot is a sub shop. It runs a two for tuesday, which is where Ren gets most of her workday meals from. She's not really hungry through, so she doesn't even have one sandwich, let alone two. She'll just sneak extra at New Moonlight tonight and save the money. She does sip on a soda through a straw though.

"Uhm, sorry if I'm a little weird, I don't usually get people coming up to me in person to talk about my stuff."

DMs and Instant Messages and tickets from a handful of messages are quiet and impersonal and she doesn't have to worry about looking like a mess when she checks them.

[ofwaneoft]

He has an interesting smile—like he doesn’t use it often, but he’s putting it there just for her. It’s practiced, maybe even a little strained at the edges, but the effort makes it almost sweet. She returns one of her own, easier, warmer, spreading across her face like a rose in bloom. The mention of sketching puts her more at ease. That she can understand. That she can picture clearly.

“Sketching, now that I could manage,” she says, her tone lightening. “Might be a good chance to practice some basic forms. There’s only so many times I can redraw a horse’s hooves, you know? No matter how lovely the models are, eventually you want to draw someone who talks back.”

McCormick—Cam—clearly puts deep thought into his work. His questions are not the kind she usually asks of her own. Hers is an art of fragility, of fleeting beauty. The soft shimmer of something that once had a heartbeat. She turns one of his questions over in her mouth like a stone, feeling its edges.

“And so in your work,” she begins, thoughtful, “what have you noticed about pain being arousing? Is it the brief brush with death? The nearness of it that makes people feel more alive? A mirror for their mortality?” Her voice lingers on the last word, her brow furrowed slightly. She’s aware she might be translating his questions through her own lens—but that’s the only lens she has. Some parts she understands better than others.

“The vulnerability that comes with affection,” she repeats. “Or—the mortifying ordeal of being known.” That earns a flicker of a smile from her, something a touch wry. “I’ve seen that one online.”

She tilts her head slightly, eyes catching his again. “That one’s harder for me to wrap my head around, honestly. When it comes to love, that’s all I’m looking for. To be known. To be seen and understood and still—wanted.” Her voice drops just slightly, not shy, just sincere. “Do you find the act of knowing to be painful?”

Her gaze holds steady on him now, curious, maybe even a little bit soft. Not afraid to be known.

"Whatever rooms we're allowed to use, I'm sure we could make work." He says, simply, as she looks over the card. His gaze flickers over her face, reading her features while he clasps his hands behind his back. As usual, he doesn't betray much of anything on his own features, but tilts his chin slightly up as he reads some form of apprehension on her.

It doesn't bother him when people tighten up or shut down in regards to Exquis. If anything, it's expected. To hopefully ease some of the nerves, he allows himself to show a softer smile - one that he's had to train himself into, practiced in the mirror on how to loosen up the muscles in his jaws to not seem as tense or off-putting.

"A guest of yours will be more than welcome. There is also no requirement to participate. We have plenty of regulars who simply attend to watch and sketch, or for the environment with friends." He surely doesn't get involved with activities every single time.

He follows, though, head tilting up to try and see his gallery laid out here in his mind's eye as she speaks. Not quite what he's looking for here, but it is beautiful, he can't deny. "I don't mind giving you an itinerary, but if you do happen to find your way to my side of town, I don't mind helping reintroduce you."

In the hall, though, he does wander a bit away from her - the empty space does make him feel as if he's floating through an area where time stands still. Maybe not for this gallery showing, but perhaps for another - there are more than a few artists he knows that would love the grandeur. His attention flickers back for a moment.

"Sensuality in the macabre. What draws people to linking horror and sexuality?" He makes his way back to her, slow steps echoing. "What about pain arouses? What about it is terrifying? The vulnerability that comes with exposing oneself to affection, and the underlying dread and unease that comes with it." The smile is back, a little less soft. "McCormick. Cam is fine."

[ofwaneoft]

Letter Twenty-One – January 2025 Unknown Manor, Russian Countryside

Colt,

This is the last letter I write from a house not my own.

Not because this place ever belonged to me—it didn’t. It swallowed me, wore me like a silk dress, fed me stories until I nearly forgot how to scream. But tonight, I take something back. Even if it’s only the shape of my name. Even if it’s only the silence I choose to leave behind.

I’ve rehearsed this moment a hundred ways. In some, I hesitate. In others, I don’t give myself the chance.

You should know this: I loved you when I was sixteen. I still do. That hasn’t changed, not even here, not even now. You are the only truth I never had to write down to remember. If I make it out—if there’s breath and bone left in me to carry—I’ll find you. Wherever you are.

The bracelet is still wrapped around my ankle, plastic beads pressed into skin gone too pale. TROUBLE. It still makes me smile. You never said the word like it meant anything bad. Just loud. Just alive.

There’s so much more I want to tell you. About the crypt. The way the staff stopped speaking after I started planting things again. About the sculpture and the shadows and the door I opened too late. But maybe you’ll know it all when you read this.

If you read this, know there has been nothing more true. I love you. I love you like the first breath after winter. I love you like thunder rolling over the hills, like the sharp green of spring cutting through thaw. I love you the way fire loves air—relentlessly, hungrily, without apology. I love you like my body remembers dancing, even when my mind forgets the song. I love you like I never stopped. Like I never could. I love you. I love you. I love —

The corner of the page is torn. There’s blood at the edge of the ink, smudged by a thumbprint too frantic to hide. The last line stops mid-sentence, like breath caught in a throat. Just you - written, then dragged away.

[ofwaneoft]

Letter Twenty – December 2024 Unknown Manor, Russian Countryside

Colt,

I don’t want to be brave. I want to be free. But I think I’ve always been both. Brave enough to stay. Brave enough to love. Brave enough to start planning the end.

I’ve found more of the tea leaves—those sharp, bitter ones Nikolai used to press into my hand without a word. I still don’t know what they are, only that they made my memories cling tighter, clearer. Maybe they’re still working. Maybe that’s why I haven’t let go.

I brewed them again, crushed them down and let them steep. Then I soaked the piece of ebony in the mixture and left it beneath the windowsill three nights running. It doesn’t look like much. Just a broken thing someone cared for a little too long. But it’s mine. And it’s ready.

I’ve hidden it beneath the mattress, wrapped in linen, close enough to reach if I need it quickly. I test the weight of it in my palm every night. Not to practice. Just to remember that I still can.

Alexei’s quiet now. Too quiet. His eyes linger too long. 

I’m almost ready.

This isn’t goodbye. Not yet. But if you feel something shift—like a breath held too long finally let go—just know I’m still moving toward you. Even now.

I love you with my whole heart. More than I can say.

Andi

This letter stays hidden and unsent.

[ofwaneoft]

Letter Nineteen – November 2024 Unknown Manor, Russian Countryside

Colt,

I still have the bracelet you made me. The one with the plastic beads and the lopsided hearts, spelling out TROUBLE in mismatched colors like you didn’t want me to think you tried too hard. You gave it to me behind the stables that summer, grinning like you were embarrassed, then said, “Here, don’t lose it”—like it wasn’t the only thing you’d ever made me. I almost laughed. I think I did.

I haven’t taken it off since. But I have learned how to hide it. I wear it wrapped around my ankle now, beneath stockings thick enough to keep curious eyes from catching the shine. It’s small enough to tuck under lace and long hems, out of reach of the hands that dress me, the hands that search for cracks. It’s stupid, maybe. Childish. But it’s mine. And it still smells faintly of hay and sun-warmed plastic.

It’s the only thing that never changes.

Everything else is shifting. The walls feel closer.. Alexei has started watching me like he’s trying to hear a sound just beyond the range of human hearing. Last night, he came to my room. Said I looked pale. Said he worried I was slipping again. Then he touched my cheek, and drank from my neck like it was nothing. Like it was his right.

He paused afterward. Tilted his head, just slightly, and said, “You taste different.”

I told him I’d been dreaming more. That the winter air unsettles me. That maybe I’m tired. I smiled the way I’ve learned to smile when I’m afraid. Softly. Slowly. Like I’m folding into his hand instead of bracing for the crush of it.

I think he believes me—for now. But the air is taut, ready to snap. He’s waiting for proof. And I’m doing everything I can not to give it to him too soon.

When I touch the bracelet, I remember your laugh. I remember warm nights and the way you looked at me when you thought I wasn’t watching. I remember who I was.

Always yours, Andi

This letter stays hidden and unsent.