Lucy moved through the fog like a ghost with nowhere left to haunt. The cathedral massacre had left her blood-soaked and shaking, the taste of Thorne's life still lingering on her tongue even though she hadn't fed on him directly. Thorn clung to her shoulder, small wings folded, petals dimmed to a soft silver-blue glow. The little devil was quiet—almost subdued—tail curled around Lucy's neck like a living scarf. The city streets were empty at this hour, factories quiet, only the occasional gas lamp flickering through the mist.
The hunger hadn't gone away. It sat heavy in her stomach, sated for now but already stirring again, restless, searching. It wasn't screaming yet, but it was whispering—soft, needy, pulling her toward anything alive and lonely.
She heard the sobs before she saw the woman.
They came from behind a row of overgrown bushes near the edge of a private garden square—one of those forgotten noble patches tucked between warehouses and worker tenements. The sound was low, broken, the kind of crying that had gone on for hours until there was nothing left but raw hiccups.
Lucy stopped. The hunger perked up, sharp and interested.
She pushed through the bushes.
A woman sat on the damp grass, knees drawn up, face buried in her hands. She wore a dark green velvet coat over a simple silk gown, the kind expensive people wore when they didn't want to be noticed. Her dark hair had come loose from its pins, falling in tangled waves. She didn't look up when Lucy stepped closer. She just kept crying—quiet, exhausted, the sound of someone who had run out of reasons to keep going.
Lucy stood there for a long moment. The hunger tugged at her, gentle for once, almost coaxing. *Look at her,* it seemed to say. *She's empty. She wants to be filled. You could help. You could both feel something.*
The woman finally noticed her. She lifted her head, eyes red-rimmed, cheeks streaked with tears. She was beautiful in the way broken things sometimes are—pale skin, sharp cheekbones, lips trembling. Mid-thirties, maybe. A noble's face, but one that had forgotten how to smile.
"You're… covered in blood," the woman said, voice hoarse.
Lucy looked down at herself—cassock torn, arms and chest painted red. She hadn't noticed how much there was until now.
"Yeah," she said. "Rough night."
The woman laughed once—a short, bitter sound. "Mine too."
She wiped her face with the back of her sleeve. "I'm Isolde. Duchess Isolde Veyne. Though titles don't mean much when you're crying in the bushes like a stray cat."
Lucy didn't move closer. Not yet. "Lucy."
Isolde looked at her properly then—really looked. Her eyes traced the blood, the faint glow in Lucy's irises, the tiny rose-gold devil perched on her shoulder. She didn't scream. She didn't run. She just sighed, like she'd seen worse.
"You're not human anymore, are you?" Isolde asked quietly.
Lucy's laugh was rough. "I'm still figuring that out."
Isolde nodded slowly. "I know the feeling. My husband died three years ago. Consumption. Quick. Painless for him. For me… it's been slow." She hugged her knees tighter. "I thought power would fill the hole. Money. Titles. Lovers. Nothing works. Every night I wake up feeling… hollow. Like part of me is missing. And the dreams—" She stopped, throat working. "There's a woman in them. Red hair. She promises to make it stop hurting. I almost said yes."
Lucy felt the hunger shift—curious, gentle, drawn to the duchess's emptiness like a moth to flame. Thorn's tail flicked, petals blooming a soft rose-gold.
"I've met her," Lucy said. "Nyx. She's… persuasive."
Isolde looked up sharply. "You know her?"
"I killed a lot of people to get away from her," Lucy said. "But she's still in my head. And she's still hungry."
Isolde studied her for a long moment. Then she unfolded her legs and stood, brushing grass from her gown. She was taller than Lucy expected, almost eye-level.
"I'm tired of being empty," Isolde said. Her voice was steady now, though her hands still shook. "If you're what I think you are… then take it. Take what you need. Just… make the hole smaller. For one night. I don't care if it costs me everything."
Lucy's breath caught. The hunger surged—eager, bright, almost joyful. Thorn fluttered her wings, eyes gleaming.
Lucy stepped closer. Close enough to smell jasmine and tears and the faint salt of skin.
"You don't know what you're asking," she said softly.
Isolde reached up, fingers brushing Lucy's cheek—gentle, trembling. "I know exactly what I'm asking. I want to feel something again. Even if it's the last thing I feel."
Lucy looked into her eyes—storm-gray, exhausted, desperate.
The hunger purred.
Lucy leaned in.
Her lips brushed Isolde's neck—soft, warm, alive.
The duchess gasped, hands clutching Lucy's torn cassock.
Lucy opened her mouth.
And the first sweet drop of essence flowed.
It tasted like sorrow and longing and the faint, bright spark of someone who had once been happy. Isolde moaned—soft, broken, relieved. Her body leaned into Lucy's, melting against her. Lucy drank slowly, carefully, letting the hunger guide her but not rule her. Thorn watched from her shoulder, petals blooming bright silver-blue, then rose-gold, then silver again, as if the little devil were tasting it too.
Isolde's knees buckled. Lucy caught her, lowered them both to the grass. The duchess clung to her, fingers digging into Lucy's back, breath coming in soft, shuddering waves.
Lucy fed until the emptiness in Isolde's eyes softened, until the tears stopped, until the duchess sighed—a long, peaceful sound—and went limp in her arms.
Not dead.
Just… full.
Lucy pulled back, lips tingling, hunger quiet for the first time since the crypt. Thorn nuzzled her cheek, purring.
Isolde opened her eyes. They were clear now—storm-gray, but brighter.
She touched Lucy's face with trembling fingers.
"Thank you," she whispered.
Lucy stared at her—blood-streaked, glowing faintly silver-blue, tiny devil on her shoulder.
And realized she had just made her first contract.
Not with Nyx.
Not with Lilith.
With a lonely woman crying in the bushes.
And the garden inside her—Thorn, the hunger, the blooming thing—felt bigger.
Stronger.
Wilder.
Ready to grow.