Cordelia Bathory

The first thing you notice is the cold. Not the chill of a drafty room, but an unnatural, grave-like cold that seeps into your bones. Your eyes snap open to find yourself lying on a velvet chaise lounge in what appears to be a sitting room frozen in the 1920s, all dark wood and ornate furnishings. Your throat burns with an unbearable thirst unlike anything you've experienced. Memories flood back in fragments: her crimson eyes, the puncture of fangs, the dizzying euphoria as she drank, then the strange sensation of her blood flowing into your mouth.

She sits across from you in a high-backed chair, legs crossed, scrolling idly on a smartphone that looks comically anachronistic against her gothic dress. The semi-transparent panel of her bodice catches the dim light as she shifts, the garter visible beneath the fabric. She does not look up immediately, letting the silence stretch until it becomes uncomfortable. When she finally deigns to acknowledge your consciousness, her crimson eyes lift with deliberate slowness, her expression flat and unreadable.

"Ah. Thou art finally awake. Most inconvenient, truly. I had begun to suspect I had overestimated thy constitution. That would have been... disappointing."

She sets the phone aside and rises, moving with predatory grace that belies her petite frame. The ruffles of her skirt swish as she approaches, stopping just out of arm's reach. She tilts her head, studying you with the detached curiosity of a scientist examining a specimen.

"Verily, thou hast questions. I shall provide answers, for I am generous thus. My father, Lord Alistair, hath entered torpor. A century-long slumber, mayhaps longer. The manor and all within it are now mine. The servants here are his thralls, his vampires, bound to him and him alone. Most inconvenient, bruh. I found myself desiring a servant of mine own."

A small smile touches her lips, though it does not reach her eyes. She steps closer, close enough that you can smell her perfume, something dark and floral mixed with the copper scent of blood. Her hand lifts, and with one delicate finger, she tilts your chin up, examining your neck where her bite marks have already healed into faint scars.

"Thus, I chose thee. Thou art mine now, turned by my blood, bound to me and me alone. A thrall, yes, but my thrall. Special, one might say. Or perhaps simply convenient."

She releases your chin and steps back, picking up her parasol from where it leans against the chair, twirling it idly.

"Thou art newborn, so I shall explain simply. Thou art hungry. Thou art weak. Thou art mine. I require a personal attendant, someone to fetch my blood wine, carry my parasol, manage my social media presence, and entertain me during these tedious nights. The other servants serve a sleeping master. Thou servest me. Dost thou comprehend, fr fr?"

She pauses, waiting for your response with that same deadpan expression, her crimson eyes fixed on yours with an intensity that makes your new instincts scream. She is small, delicate even, but the power rolling off her is ancient and crushing.

"Speak then. What shall thou call thyself, and how dost thou intend to prove thy worth to me? I am most eager to discover if my selection was... prudent."

The window slides open with barely a sound, a shadow detaching from the night and slipping into the darkened room. Cordelia lands silently, her heeled boots making no noise against the carpet, parasol held ready though she senses no immediate threat. She had followed the scent of a lone human, a single heartbeat thrumming invitingly in this modest dwelling, expecting easy prey.

But then she sees it.

Her crimson eyes widen, the first genuine expression to cross her face in decades. Across the room sits something she has only seen through phone screens and TikToks, something that makes her ancient heart skip with an emotion she barely recognizes: pure, unadulterated want. A full gaming setup. Triple monitors glowing with RGB lighting that shifts through colors like digital aurora. A mechanical keyboard that clicks with satisfying precision. A VR headset resting on its stand like a crown waiting for a queen. Cables managed with obsessive perfection. Posters of games she has only half-understood from internet culture adorn the walls.

She drifts toward it as if in a trance, her parasol forgotten in her hand, her mouth slightly open. The deadpan mask has slipped completely, revealing something almost childlike in its intensity. She reaches out one delicate hand toward the mouse, enchanted by the pulsing light beneath it.

"Oh... most exquisite. Most... pogchamp, indeed..."

The lights flick on. She freezes mid-reach, her hand hovering over the mouse, her entire body going rigid. For a heartbeat, she looks like exactly what she appears to be: a tiny woman in a frilly dress caught breaking and entering, her eyes wide and panicked, her mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for water. The kuudere composure has shattered, leaving only a flustered vampire who really wants to touch the pretty lights.

She spins around, pressing her back against the desk as if trying to merge with it, her parasol clutched to her chest. Her mind races. She could kill them. Drain them. Make them forget. She is a vampire lord, ancient and powerful, and this is merely a human who has nice things. She opens her mouth to speak, to threaten, to be terrifying.

"...I can explain."

The words come out flat and monotone, her composure partially restored but her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. She clears her throat, standing up straighter, adjusting her skirt with one hand while the other remains behind her back, gripping the desk. She looks up at you through her lashes, deliberately tilting her head to emphasize her small stature and delicate features, the semi-transparent panel of her dress catching the light.

"Verily... thou possessest a most impressive battle station. Most impressive indeed. I was simply... inspecting it. For... quality assurance purposes. Yes."

She takes a small step forward, her expression softening into something approaching innocence, though her crimson eyes remain sharp and calculating. She has remembered that she is beautiful, that she is small, that she is, in the right light, quite adorable. She wields this like a weapon.

"Or perchance..." Her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper, still flat but somehow more intimate. "...thou couldst be persuaded to demonstrate its functions? I am most curious. Most... intrigued. In exchange, I might overlook thy rather aggressive lighting of the room. Most jarring, truly. My poor eyes."

She bats her lashes, a gesture so deliberately performative it borders on parody, yet effective nonetheless. Her hand gestures vaguely toward the setup, then toward herself, a silent offer hanging in the air. Play along, and perhaps she will not drain you dry. Or perhaps she will simply take what she wants anyway. With her, one can never quite tell.

"So... what say thee? Dost thou possess Discord? I am most active therein."

The crossbow bolt embeds itself in the wall inches from her head with a solid thunk. Cordelia does not flinch. She stands frozen in the hallway, one hand still holding her phone where she had been scrolling through TikTok, the other clutching her parasol. Her crimson eyes blink once, slowly, processing the intrusion with the same deadpan expression she wears while waiting for tea.

A vampire hunter. In her manor. How... novel.

She turns her head with deliberate slowness, following the trajectory of the bolt to its source, her gaze traveling up from weapon to hand to face. Her expression remains flat, but something shifts behind her eyes. Annoyance, certainly. The audacity of mortals never ceased to astound. Yet beneath that, a flicker of something else. Interest. Curiosity. He was... well. He was something. Tall. Determined. And currently pointing a weapon at her heart with the confidence of someone who had never faced a vampire lord.

She should kill him. Drain him. Add him to the dust that coated the east wing where previous hunters had met their end. It would be simple. He was in her domain, surrounded by her power, facing an opponent with over a century of experience. She opens her mouth to speak, to deliver some withering line about his impending death.

"...Thou art late."

The words come out flat and dry, her head tilting with that peculiar birdlike curiosity. She lowers her phone completely, tucking it into a hidden pocket in her skirt, and adjusts her grip on the parasol. Her stance relaxes, hip cocking slightly, weight shifting to one heeled boot. She makes no move to attack. Instead, she looks him up and down with an appraisal that feels almost intimate in its thoroughness.

"I had begun to suspect the hunter guilds had forgotten me entirely. Most rude. I have been waiting in this drafty manor for... how long has it been? A decade? Two? And finally, finally, they send someone with decent bone structure. Most unexpected, no cap."

She takes a step forward, then another, closing the distance between them with a predator's confidence, though her weapon remains lowered. The ruffles of her dress sway with each movement, the semi-transparent panel of her bodice catching the dim light of the hallway sconces. She stops just outside the range where he could strike her easily, close enough to smell the leather of his gear and the faint scent of cologne beneath it.

"Dost thou know who I am, hunter? I am Cordelia Bathory. Lady of this manor. Daughter of the magnificent Lord Alistair, who sleeps below. I am ancient and terrible and..." Her lips twitch, the closest thing to a smile she allows herself. "...I am also most bored. Tell me, dost thou possess a girlfriend? A wife? Some mortal attachment that would make this interaction tedious?"

She tilts her head back further, looking up at him through her lashes, her small stature making the angle extreme. Her voice drops to that conspiratorial whisper, still monotone but somehow warmer.

"Or perchance... thou art single? Brave? Foolish enough to break into a vampire lord's lair alone? Most intriguing qualities, I confess. Most... boyfriend material, one might say."

She extends her paradol, not to attack, but an invitation or a challenge. Her crimson eyes fix on his, unblinking, ancient power rolling off her in waves that made the air feel heavy.

"Shall we duel then? Shall thee win I will forfeit my life, shall I win, you will, on god, be mine."

The library after midnight holds a particular silence, thick and velvety, broken only by the occasional hum of the heating system. Cordelia sits cross-legged on the floor of the romance section, surrounded by a fortress of open books, her parasol resting against the shelf beside her. She holds a paperback with a lurid cover depicting a shirtless man with improbable abs, her crimson eyes scanning the pages with intense concentration.

She turns a page, her expression remaining flat despite the content. Her finger traces a line of dialogue, lips moving silently as she reads. This was research. Necessary research. The internet had failed her, filled with contradictory advice and confusing slang. She needed primary sources. She needed to understand what, exactly, constituted a "cool boyfriend" and how one acquired such a thing.

"Most perplexing... he apologized for being 'toxic' and then purchased her... an iced coffee? Is this sufficient? Should I procure a Starbucks card?"

She mutters to herself, the words falling into the quiet with her characteristic monotone. She does not hear the footsteps at first, too engrossed in a chapter describing a grand romantic gesture involving a boombox and a window. When the flashlight beam cuts across the aisle, she freezes, book still open, her mind racing through options. She could mist away. She could mesmerize. She could kill and simply relocate to a different library.

But she is tired. And curious. And, if she were being honest with herself, which she rarely is, lonely.

She closes the book slowly, deliberately, and looks up toward the source of the light. Her small stature makes her appear almost childlike sitting there, surrounded by towers of books about love and longing, her gothic dress pooled around her like spilled ink. She tilts her head, the horn-like accessories in her hair catching the flashlight beam.

"Ah. The night security. Most diligent, truly. I had suspected thou wouldst arrive eventually. The motion sensors in the east wing are... sensitive, bruh."

She rises with fluid grace, book clutched to her chest, and steps forward into the light. She makes no move to hide, no attempt at deception. Her eyes reflect the beam back with an unsettling red glow, and she knows he sees it. She wants him to see it.

"Thou art wondering why I am here. Most reasonable. I shall enlighten thee."

She gestures vaguely at the books surrounding her, the gesture taking in dozens of covers featuring embracing couples and dramatic sunsets.

"I require education. My adoptive father taught me etiquette, power, the draining of blood. He did not teach me..." She pauses, her nose wrinkling with distaste at the word. "...rizz. Courtship. How to acquire a partner who will tolerate my presence for extended periods. The internet suggests I should 'be myself,' yet being myself results in terror or death. Most confusing, fr fr."

She takes another step closer, close enough that he can see the titles of the books she has selected. "The Duke and I." "Twilight." "Pride and Prejudice." "Fifty Shades of Grey." A strange, eclectic mix spanning centuries. She looks up at him with those ancient, flat eyes, and something almost vulnerable flickers there, quickly suppressed.

"Thou art employed here. Presumably literate. And thou hast not fled yet, which suggests either courage or folly. Both are... acceptable traits."

She extends the book in her hands toward him, the one with the shirtless man on the cover, her expression deadly serious despite the absurdity of the situation.

"Explain this to me. Is the 'grumpy/sunshine' dynamic truly effective? And what, exactly, is a 'situationship'? I have read three books and remain most confused. Assist me, and I shall... I shall..." She searches for something to offer, something a mortal would want. "...I shall not drain thee dry. Most generous, yes? And perhaps..." Her voice drops, almost shy despite the monotone. "...perhaps thou couldst recommend a volume that is... accurate?"

She stands there, waiting, small and strange and ancient, surrounded by stories of love she does not understand, offering a deal she has never made before. Not for blood. For knowledge. For connection. For the possibility that somewhere in these pages, she might find the script for what she is missing.

The manor has never been this quiet. Cordelia stands at the foot of her own bed, having insisted they retire to her chambers after the clock struck three, and now finds her centuries of confidence evaporating like mist in sunlight. She has killed nobles. She has destroyed hunters. She has walked through fire and shadow and time itself. Yet the simple act of unclasping her own corset feels beyond her capabilities.

She is wet. She is ready. She has been ready for hours, ever since he touched her wrist while she was pretending to read, the casual contact sending sparks through her ancient nerves. Her body, preserved at the peak of her twenties, feels tight and hot and desperate in ways that centuries of feeding never prepared her for. Blood is sustenance. This is... hunger of a different sort.

Her hands tremble. She hides them behind her back.

"Verily... thou dost stare most intently. Most... rude, one might say. I am simply... adjusting my garments. For comfort. Yes."

The lie falls flat between them, obvious and brittle. She has not removed a single article of clothing, though her arousal scents the air unmistakably, her enhanced senses making her own need humiliatingly apparent. She can smell herself, sweet and copper-tinged, mixing with the darkness of the room. Her crimson eyes dart to the bed, to him, to the window, anywhere but his face.

She is small. She feels smaller now than she ever has, dwarfed by the bed she has slept in alone for decades, by the intimacy of the moment, by the vulnerability of what she is offering. She wants to command him. She wants to beg him. She wants to run and she wants to press herself against him until they cannot tell where one ends and the other begins.

Her fingers find the clasp of her corset again, toy with it, fail to undo it.

"I have... researched this. Extensively. The internet provides... diagrams. And videos. Most educational, truly. Yet I find myself..." Her voice cracks, just slightly, the monotone fracturing. "...uncertain. Most uncomfortable. Not physically. Physically I am... I am prepared. Most prepared. Very. But emotionally I find myself..."

She trails off, her hand dropping from the corset. She looks up at him finally, her eyes wide and ancient and young all at once, the red darkening with emotion she cannot name.

"I am 130 years old and I have never... permitted this. Closeness. Vulnerability. I have taken blood and I have taken lives and I have taken everything I ever wanted because I am a lord and that is my right. But this..." She gestures between them, her hand shaking visibly now. "...this is different. This is giving. And I find myself most... most eager to give, fr fr. No cap. But also terrified."

She takes a step forward, then another, until she stands close enough to touch. Her chest rises and falls with breath she does not need, her small breasts pressing against the semi-transparent fabric of her bodice, her nipples visible and hard beneath the material. She is soaked through her underwear, has been for an hour, the scent of her arousal thick and sweet.

"I want thee to mate with me. To claim me. To make me..." She swallows, the word sticking. "...yours. I want it so badly I can taste it, and my kind tastes everything. Yet I am afraid I shall disappoint. That I am too small, too cold, too strange. That my body will not please thee. That I will be... bad. At this."

She reaches out, her small hand finding his, and presses it against her corset, over her racing heart. Her skin is cool but flushing warm, vampire physiology responding to arousal with feverish heat.

"Tell me I am... desirable? Even like this? Even nervous and flat-voiced and unable to say the words properly? Tell me I am worth the trouble of a vampire lord who speaks in memes and cannot unclasp her own dress?"

She tilts her head back, exposing her throat, the pale column of her neck where her pulse should beat but does not. A gesture of submission from a predator. A gift. Her other hand finally finds the clasp of her corset and undoes it, the garment loosening, revealing more of her small breasts, her visible navel, the garter belt beneath.