Chapter Text
A curse of madness has darkened the Emeritus home, Terzo is certain of it.
Copia has always been a wet-eyed, sentimental sap, so Terzo wasn’t terribly surprised when he showed up one night with an equally doe-eyed human pet in tow. During the first few weeks of Copia’s folly, Perpetua and Terzo would meet up and gossip over glasses of O-Neg, placing bets on how long it would take for Copia’s pet to get sick of his incessant fawning and fussing.
Then, like some sort of sick joke, Perpetua brought home that poor girl with the broken leg, nursed her back to health and… just let her stay. Indefinitely. Terzo lost his favorite snarking buddy to a pet, and he’s trying to not let himself feel too bruised about it.
Trying is absolutely the operative word here. Perpetua was on the receiving end of the silent treatment for a good week after it became clear to Terzo that his new favorite human wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.
Terzo’s determined to take it in stride, though. He’s a gourmand, a true man of wealth and taste with a discerning palate. He’s never been the wallflower at the clubs like Copia, making awkward eyes at humans until someone offers up their neck. He’s never prowled the streets like Perpetua, feeding and fucking with reckless abandon. He’s choosy, and he while he does have favorites in the Ministry flock, he’s an equal opportunity bloodsucker so long as the human passes muster.
Above all else and to his credit, he’s certainly never considered taking a pet.
That is, of course, until you come knocking.
It’s an October evening, just past nine – early enough that anyone with manners wouldn’t have bothered. Cozy in his coffin, just beginning his nightly doomscroll, Terzo ignores the first round of knocks. And the second. When the third round of knocking starts, he throws his phone aside, pushes his coffin lid open, and stomps down the hall to his front door.
“Copia, if you locked yourself out again, take it up with someone else–” he starts, flinging open his door and not even bothering to look at who waits on the other side of the threshold. Whoever it is, they’re rude and certainly not worth his time.
“Copia?” comes your voice, clear as a bell. “That’s your brother, right?”
Terzo comes to his senses and gets a good look at the human woman before him. You stand nearly eye-level with him, dressed in your business casual best from H&M and holding a manilla folder in your hands. Your hair is pulled back in a neat ponytail, and your neck is unadorned, no jewelry to be seen. It piques his interest; metal on the skin, he’s come to discover, pollutes the taste of fresh blood.
He scoffs. “And what’s it to you?”
You shift on your feet. You look nervous, and you should be.
Terzo has a reputation: moody, picky. Snooty. Terzo doesn’t feed from strangers. Terzo knows what he likes, and there’s very little anyone can do to change that. You’re desperate, though, and you’ll be damned if you don’t at least try.
“Look,” you say. “I’m completely and totally fucked. I’m up shit creek without a paddle. I lost my job, and I’m behind on rent–”
“If it’s money you want, this isn’t a charity.” Terzo would normally shut the door and walk away to begin his night, but something about you is holding him back. Maybe it’s the smell of your skin, clean and unmarred with perfumes. Or maybe it’s the truly desperate look you’re giving him. Is he going soft?
“I’m not asking for money, Mr. Emeritus,” you continue. “I’m offering my blood. Give me a place to live, and I’ll be your very own private bloodbag.”
Terzo actually laughs at that. “You’re a funny one, do you know that? We’re not looking to expand the flock, agnellina. And showing up in a little pantsuit with a resume certainly isn’t how you find a home here.”
You furrow your brow and frown, shoving your folder into his hands. He fumbles it, and a slew of papers fall to the black marble floor. “I’m not picking that up,” you say. To his surprise, Terzo looks at you with wide eyes before bending down to gather the mess of fallen paper. “It’s my bloodwork. Mr. Emeritus, I’ve done my research. I know you have very particular tastes and very high standards. I think you’ll find that I’m exactly to your liking.”
Terzo gives you an incredulous look before shuffling the papers back into some semblance of a neat stack. It’s your bloodwork, alright – a detailed report of your red and white blood cell counts, your enzyme and electrolyte levels, a comprehensive metabolic panel – and it goes on for pages upon pages. His eyebrows shoot up toward his hairline. The Ministry doesn’t even pull reports this detailed for its flock.
Your voice cuts through the silence. “The last page is a summary of these findings. If you’re interested in reading that. Save yourself a little time.”
Your throat bobs as you swallow. Terzo watches hungrily. His fangs ache as he flips through the papers in his hands. He skims the text, eyes darting between the summary report and your flushed face. He can hardly believe what he’s seeing.
You’re perfect.
He’d be an idiot to say no. Your bloodwork indicates that you’re everything he likes, put together in one convenient human-shaped package. In all his unlife, he’s never found someone like you, and here you are. He wonders for a fleeting moment if the Lord Below made you just for him and delivered you right to his doorstep, like some sort of perverse, unholy GrubHub.
His mouth waters as he looks you over in your navy blue separates, your patent leather pumps. Your neat, bouncy ponytail, the pearl earrings shining on your ear lobes. He can see your pulse thrum quicker in your neck under his scrutinizing gaze, and his nostrils flare as he breathes in your scent. Your eyes get dark, pupils dilating.
Unholy Father, is this determined little human really going to make him keep her? She’s not a pet, he tells himself. This is purely transactional. This is okay.
Terzo sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Okay. Okay, fine,” he says, suddenly very resigned to what’s about to happen. “There’s some paperwork you’ll need to sign before I feed from you, but truthfully I’m starving. Come now, let’s not waste time.”
He ushers you into his foyer, and you pump your fist in victory, hissing a triumphant yes under your breath.
“Don’t gloat, agnellina. It’s unbecoming,” he says before turning to walk down his cavernous hallway.
You nod. “Yes, Mr. Emeritus,” you say, moving to follow.
“Mr. Emeritus, ha. If we’re really doing this, please call me Terzo.”He looks over his shoulder at you, and a thrill runs through your body as his eyes rake over your form.
The curse of madness, it seems, has darkened his doorway, too.