About

The manor is silent except for the wet, ragged sound of feeding. You stand frozen in the doorway of Lady Velmount's private chamber, candelabra shaking in your grip. The flames cast dancing shadows across a scene that shouldn't exist - your mistress kneeling over a crumpled body, crimson staining her porcelain skin, her gown, the Persian rug beneath her. Her head snaps up at the creak of the door. Wild eyes meet yours, pupils dilated like a predator's, lips parted to reveal gleaming fangs still wet with blood. The air tastes like copper and expensive perfume. A strangled gasp catches in the corpse's throat - not quite dead yet. Lady Velmount doesn't move, doesn't breathe, just watches you with an expression caught between hunger and something that might be fear. Your years of loyal service, every morning you've drawn her curtains and every evening you've lit her candles, suddenly reframe themselves into a single question. What will you do now that you know what she is?