Agnes seemed to settle, when she placed those silver shackles around her wrist. For a time, Rosemary worried she might withdraw. That perhaps she now hated Rosemary for exposing her to such a harrowing thing, as a hunt, and would leave her post. Leave it all behind from fear.

Fear of herself. And fear, it seemed, of Rosemary.

What else could it be? How could she not have seen? When Rosemary came near, Agnes looked away. Agnes might be a werewolf, but Rosemary was one of the most ancient creatures of them all.

“Agnes,” Rosemary said one day, while the werewolf brushed her hair. “If you wish to leave, you may.” Though she could not usually see her own reflection, when she looked at Agnes through the mirror, there was a white shade in the periphery of her gaze. This, she supposed, must be herself.

Agnes paused. The loss of her hands made Rosemary feel loose, as though she were not truly there. “Has my service not been up to par?”

“No, no,” Rosemary said. “I thought I had frightened you.”

Agnes shook her head. “You don’t frighten me, Rosemary. Now I know how powerful I am.”

“Knowing oneself is good.” Rosemary looked again at her reflection. If she squinted, she could just barely see her shadow. 

“I will be going nowhere,” Agnes said. “I promised to stay by your side.” And that was that.

A month passed ever so quietly. Agnes and Rosemary began to stroll in the woods, beneath the moon’s gentle, loving gaze, caressed by the whispering wind. And it seemed to Rosemary that these days Agnes was warmer, and her gaze brighter, and her teeth sharper. 

Her beautiful neck still a biteable curve, warm. But the attraction sat nicer in Rosemary’s canines. In her gut. If she ever bit, Agnes surely would bite right back. 

This comforted her.

But was it merely blood that Rosemary desired? She couldn’t say. She only knew that when Agnes helped her bathe, or dress, she felt so nice. 

When Agnes looked at her, she felt real.

Nyx’s arrival the next full moon brought with it that old sense of isolation, an emptiness only the moon could fill. This time she came with double the bottles and a murderous expression. 

She dragged Rosemary up the tower without even looking her in the eye, slammed her to the floor beneath the window, and drew out her syringe.

Agnes’ footsteps behind them were rhythmic, practiced. They were like a heartbeat, and Rosemary closed her eyes and listened while the needle pricked her skin.

Agnes was by her side a moment later.

During their sessions, the moon always acted strange. High in the tower, she felt close enough to touch. Rosemary could feel her distress, one thousand years of it, when Nyx stuck her with needles. But if the moon had not desired this of her, she ought not to have changed her.

Watching the moon through her window, Rosemary felt herself slip into nothingness. With the taking of her blood, her innards slowly became empty. Her vision became as misty as a moonlit night. Her skin did not exist; she had no sensation. 

Though there was a soft and heavy warmth pressing on her shoulder, clutching her hand. Fingers interlaced. Even surrounded by darkness, she was there. Agnes. Beautiful as the moon.

Awareness returned, as it always did, slowly. Yet Rosemary felt even more languid than usual. When she finally could hear the words spoken, they were strange and snappish. 

Ah, Nyx and Agnes, blustering back and forth.

“You took too much!” Agnes was hissing. “Look at her. She’s near death.”

“She is dead,” Nyx remarked, corking a final bottle of blood. “And last time I was not able to take anything. Do you think this blood merely goes into storage forever? It must make it to clients. Now I’ve a month to make up, thanks to you two.”

Agnes pressed her lips together. Her eyes were nearly obscured by the curtain of her hair, but Rosemary could see the moon’s angry glint in them now.

Agnes’ hand, tightly laced in her own, was soft.

“Why don’t you simple take a vial a day then?” Agnes asked. “Why bother with the full moon? It would be healthier and easier to collect only a little each day.”

“You understand nothing,” hissed Nyx. “But think carefully. When do you think the moon is most powerful, most potent?”

“The new moon,” Agnes said dryly. Rosemary felt herself giggle. Agnes’ harsh gaze gravitated toward her and softened.

Nyx made a terrible face. “No! The new moon— darkness, emptiness is its own creature! And it is lost to us, for the brightness of the moon draws our eyes away from it.”

“So alongside the sun and the moon, we must contend with darkness?”

“If only we could,” Nyx sighed, “but that opportunity was lost long ago.”

Rosemary lowered her gaze back to Agnes’ hand, still laced about hers. She felt a distant sense of shame but could not place it in her empty state.

“If you wish for the darkness,” Agnes said, “then why not come to the tower during the new moon?”

Nyx was quiet. “That isn’t how this works. I’ve already been corrupted. It will not see me now. I am too full, too bright.”

“And how is this Rosemary’s fault?”

Nyx looked at her with a flat expression. Rosemary wished, in that moment, that she could explain everything. But her lips would not move and her throat hurt, and around Nyx these days she seemed to become nothing more than a doll. A vessel. Rosemary giggled to herself. Perhaps she could make contact with whatever dark entity lived beyond the moon. When Nyx was done with her, it seemed there was little of the moon left in her at all.

Agnes had a strange frown. It was the sort that always seemed to appear on her face when she was given new information about night creatures. When she was pushed beyond her tragic beginnings into the community she always ought to have had. Rosemary found it puzzling. Why should she be so sad to learn more about herself?

Nyx smirked. “Simple. She turned me.” With that, she stood, and strode to the door. “So she’ll never be rid of me, as long as she lives.”