Chapter 1: Goodbye Kiss, Crimson Omen
The scars on Dale’s chest were pale rivers in the violet gloom. Vivian traced them with a fingertip, her touch lighter than the predawn light seeping through the curtains. The air in her apartment always smelled like burnt sage and old books, but here, in the tangled sheets, it was just them—salt skin and quiet breath.
“Four months is nothing,” she whispered, her face buried against his neck. Her voice was thick. “It’s a few client fittings. A handful of supply runs. It’s nothing.”
He kissed the crown of her fiery hair, his arms tightening around her. His body was a solid, warm anchor against the restless hunger that always swam just beneath her skin. With him, it wasn’t hunger. It was just… fullness. A quiet, humming satisfaction that required no taking, only sharing.
“You’ll be busy,” he murmured. “The shop. Your… practices.” He never said ‘feeding.’ He was careful like that.
“I’ll be fine. Jan checks in. The techniques work.” She pulled back to look at him, forcing a grin that felt wobbly. “I haven’t put anyone in the hospital in over a year. That’s a personal best.”
His clear blue eyes searched hers. He saw the fear she tried to hide. The constant, low-grade panic of a half-starved thing trying to pass for human. He saw it, and he didn’t flinch. That was the miracle.
“You’re not a monster, Viv.”
“I’m a vintage lingerie retailer with a motorcycle,” she said, the line well-rehearsed. “Monsters don’t do inventory spreadsheets.”
The kiss that followed was slow and deep, a goodbye and a promise. She let herself fall into it, into him, drawing in the clean, bright energy of his genuine affection. It wasn’t the desperate, scorching pull she used on others. This was diffuse, sustaining, like sunlight. It wouldn’t last four months, but it would cushion the first few weeks.
When she finally slipped out of bed, the apartment felt colder. She dressed quietly—black jeans, a soft emerald blouse—and glanced at the walls lined with her mother’s old occult tomes. They seemed to watch her, humming that faint, electric pulse. A reminder of what she was, where she came from.
“Call when you’re in port?” she said, not looking back.
“Always.”
The door clicked shut behind her, and the hunger yawned.
Ye Olde Unmentionables was her sanctuary. It smelled of lavender sachets, aged silk, and the faint, ozone-tinge of her own carefully leashed power. Racks of lace and satin from decades past glowed under warm, delicate lighting. It was beautiful, and it was a perfect hunting ground.
“So then I said, ‘Honey, if the strapless isn’t staying up, it’s not a strapless issue, it’s an engineering issue.’ And we found her a gorgeous Balenciaga-inspired longline with boning that could survive a tornado.”
Abbie Normal—name tag proudly stating the fact—was in her element. A blushing bride-to-be and her two giggling friends hung on her every word. Abbie’s hands fluttered over garments, her bubbly energy a tangible thing. Vivian leaned against the polished oak counter, a soft smile on her face.
This was safe feeding. The ambient arousal in the air, the thrilled anticipation, the playful vanity—it was a buffet of low-calorie, ethically-sourced emotions. Vivian gently skimmed the surface, pulling tiny, harmless threads of energy. It was like breathing. It kept the shadows inside her still and quiet.
“You’re a lifesaver, Abbie,” the bride sighed, clutching a delicate peach negligee.
“Just doing my job! Which is, officially, ‘Purveyor of Confidence and Secret Sexy.’” Abbie winked, her freckled face alight. She spotted Vivian. “Boss! The new shipment of French lace camisoles is here. They’re so delicate I’m afraid to look at them too hard.”
“I’ll be gentle,” Vivian said, pushing off the counter. The pleasant hum from the bridal party was already fading, a small meal digested. She felt… okay. Stable.
Then a cold, sharp pain seared against her sternum.
She gasped, fumbling under her blouse. Her fingers closed around Jan’s pendant—a simple silver disc inscribed with Green Moon sigils. It was burning with a fierce, icy cold. A warning.
“Viv? You alright?” Abbie called, concern cutting through her sales-pitch cheer.
“Fine! Just… a chill,” Vivian stammered. But her eyes were darting around the serene shop. Nothing was out of place.
The vintage phonograph in the corner, a beautiful 1920s horn model she used for playing period jazz, was off. It had no record on the platter.
With a grinding shriek of static, it turned itself on.
The horn blasted noise—a distorted, warbling cacophony that made Abbie and the customers clap their hands over their ears. Vivian stared, frozen.
The static resolved, twisted, and became a voice. It was played backwards, a garbled, demonic echo, but Vivian knew it. She’d heard it in lullabies and lessons. Cordelia.
The reversed syllables sharpened, clarified by some malignant magic. The voice snapped into clear, agonized English.
“...hedge wizard... binding circle... they’re using the resonance... Vivian, don’t come home...”
Then a sound of tearing fabric, a choked scream, and a final, metallic clang.
Silence.
The phonograph arm lifted and settled back with a soft click. The normal sounds of the city filtered back in. A car horn. A distant siren.
The bride-to-be was pale. “What... was that? A prank? Some weird art installation?”
Abbie was already moving, her cheer replaced by a fierce, practical energy. “Must be a radio frequency interference! Happens sometimes with old wiring. So sorry about that!” She herded the bewildered women toward the changing rooms. “Let’s get you that matching robe, on the house for the scare!”
Abbie’s eyes met Vivian’s over the customer’s head. They were wide with a question she couldn’t ask.
Vivian’s hand was still clenched around the pendant. The icy burn was gone, replaced by a dull, throbbing ache. The comforting, lavender-scented air of the shop now felt thin, insubstantial.
Her mother was back. Or her message was. And it wasn’t a welcome home.
It was a scream in reverse, a warning from somewhere else. The shadows inside Vivian stirred, not with hunger, but with a deep, primal dread. The walls of her beautiful sanctuary felt like paper. The hum of the city outside wasn’t life—it was static, masking a signal she was now, terribly, aware of.
She had to call Jan. She had to understand the message. Hedge wizard. Binding circle.
Four months suddenly felt like a lifetime he wouldn’t be here. And the careful, peaceful life she’d built felt like a dress two sizes too small, splitting at the seams.
And the careful, peaceful life she’d built felt like a dress two sizes too small, splitting at the seams.
Her hands shook as she pulled out her phone. The screen blurred. She stabbed at Jan’s contact.
“Red. Talk to me.” Jan’s voice was crisp, no greeting. The pendant’s burn would have echoed in her own awareness.
“Something’s wrong. At the shop. You need to come. Now.”
“On our way.”
They arrived in a gust of city air fifteen minutes later. Jan led the pack, a whirlwind in a patched denim jacket, her short red hair a beacon. Godfrey II trotted at her heel, his service vest askew. Fatima followed, elegant and sharp-eyed in a tailored coat, and Hank brought up the rear, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else, his hands shoved deep in his pockets.
“Viv!” Abbie called from where she was restocking a shelf. “Your crew’s here!” Her gaze swept over them, assigning silent labels Vivian could almost hear: the chaotic girl with the puppy, the classy girl, and… oh, hello.
Her eyes landed on Hank. A wicked smile spread across her freckled face.
“Hank! You brave soul. Did you get lost on your way to a hardware store?” She sashayed over, ignoring the palpable tension Jan and Fatima were radiating. “All this lace giving you hives?”
Hank shifted his weight, his neck flushing. “It’s a store, Abbie. It’s fine.”
“It’s a lingerie store. You’re sweating. Look.” She poked his arm. “You know these are just clothes, right? They don’t bite. Unless you’re into that. Are you into that?”
“Abbie, for God’s sake,” Hank muttered, staring desperately at a ceiling beam.
Jan and Fatima exchanged a look. Fatima gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
“Jan,” Vivian whispered, her voice strained. “The phonograph. It… my mother.”
“We need to talk. Magic stuff,” Jan said, her usual mischief gone, replaced by a focused intensity. She glanced at Abbie, who was now hypothesizing about Hank’s preferred boxer-brief fabric. “Privately.”
Fatima smoothly stepped into Hank’s space. She placed a hand on his shoulder, leaned up, and whispered in his ear. Her words were low, but Vivian’s succubus senses caught them. “…keep her busy. Any way you see fit. She’s clearly got a crush. Use it. The fitting room in the back is soundproofed. I had Viv install it for… private consultations.”
Hank’s eyes went wide, then darted to Abbie, who was now admiring a particularly scandalous chemise. A complex war played out on his face—discomfort, duty, and a sudden, pragmatic realization. This was a sanctioned exit from a conversation he was losing and a magical crisis he didn’t understand.
“Abbie,” he said, his voice a gruff octave lower. “You got a minute? I, uh… I could use a second opinion on something. In the back.”
Abbie’s teasing smirk softened into genuine surprise, then a delighted curiosity. “A second opinion? From me? On what, big guy?”
“Just… come on.” He took her hand, his calloused mechanic’s fingers swallowing hers, and gently pulled her toward the curtained-off fitting area.
Abbie went, shooting a look of utter bewilderment back at Vivian over her shoulder.
The heavy velvet curtain swished shut behind them.
Fatima watched them go, a small, knowing smile touching her lips. “He is very good at keeping women distracted,” she said to no one in particular.
A moment of silence followed, broken only by Godfrey sniffing at a box of silk scarves. Then, a muffled, high-pitched gasp came from behind the curtain. Then a low, masculine rumble. A thump against the wall.
Jan’s eyebrows raised. Fatima’s smile widened.
Vivian tried to block it out, but the sounds intensified—sharp, rhythmic creaking of the reinforced privacy bench, Abbie’s breathless, profane encouragements, Hank’s guttural groans. The raw, physical noise of it. Abbie’s cry, when it came, was a sharp, shattered thing of pure, unadulterated release, followed by a long, trembling moan that seeped through the soundproofing.
Fatima listened, nodded once in satisfaction, and turned back to Vivian. “They will be occupied. Talk.”
The sounds provided a bizarre, obscene soundtrack as Vivian led them to the counter. She told them everything. The pendant’s ice-burn. The phonograph screeching to life. The reversed, then clear, message. Her mother’s voice, screaming a warning.
“Hedge wizard. Binding circle. ‘Don’t come home,’” Jan repeated, her face grave. She pulled the compact from her bag, flipping it open. She passed it over the phonograph. In the mirror, the device was haloed in a sickly, phosphorescent green residue, shot through with veins of violent black. “Backwash from a forced inter-dimensional communication. Nasty. Powerful.”
“I haven’t been to the house since the exorcism,” Vivian said, her arms wrapped around herself. “Five years. I couldn’t. The memories… and what if whatever banished her was still there? What if it wanted me too?” The hunger stirred, not with desire, but with a terrified, child-like need for the mother who’d been torn away.
“The message was a beacon and a warning,” Fatima said, analytical. “The ‘hedge wizard’ is likely an amateur, all brute force and stolen rituals. Using a ‘binding circle’ suggests they are trying to trap or anchor something. Or someone.”
A particularly loud groan from Hank echoed, followed by Abbie’s laughter, breathless and sated.
“Focus,” Jan said, though her lips quirked. “This isn’t just a message. It’s a trail of breadcrumbs made of pain. We need experts.” She snapped the compact shut. “Aaron understands portals and dimensional trade. Annie’s connection to life-force could tell us if the binding is leaching power from a living thing. And Rainbor… he hears everything in the markets, supernatural and mundane. If someone’s buying components for a major working, he’ll know.”
“You think my mother is… trying to come back? And someone is trying to stop her? Or trap her?” Vivian’s heart was a frantic bird against her ribs.
“I think we have a distorted SOS from a demonic plane and a living phonograph,” Jan said. “We need more data. We go to the source. We see Aaron, Annie, and Rainbor. Tonight.”
From the fitting room, the sounds had settled into a quiet murmur, the occasional soft laugh. Hank was, indeed, very good at keeping someone distracted.
Vivian looked at the phonograph, silent now. It looked innocuous, beautiful. It had just screamed her mother’s terror into her safe place. The seams of her life weren’t just splitting. They were being pulled apart by forces in realms she couldn’t see.
“Okay,” she breathed, the word tasting like ashes and resolve. “Let’s go ask the experts.”