Lilith shifted Elias in her arms, brushing a fingertip over his cheek. “Your mom called earlier,” she said softly.
I looked up. “Mom?”
“She got married. Andy Sousa.”
I let that settle. Mom had always moved through life in chapters — some chaotic, some bright, some painful, some hopeful. But hearing she’d remarried… it hit me in a way I didn’t expect. Not bad. Just… big.
“And she moved,” Lilith added. “Out of the Spice Market. She and the girls are in the Fashion District now. Nice apartment. Big windows. She sounded proud of it.”
I pictured it easily: my teenage sisters unpacking boxes, arguing over closet space, laughing the way they always did. And the little one, Aileen, toddling around underfoot, probably getting into everything she shouldn’t.
Aileen.
The baby who arrived right as everything in our family was falling apart.
Mom had held all of that together the best she could.
Now she was building something new.
“Good for her,” I said quietly. “She deserves something steady.”
Lilith nodded. “She does.”
The house creaked as the wind shifted outside. One of the toddlers murmured in her sleep. Elias fussed, then settled again, his tiny breath warm against Lilith’s collarbone.
Lilith shifted Elias again, and he made that tiny newborn sound — half sigh, half complaint — before settling back into her shoulder. His little fingers flexed against her collarbone like he was testing out being a person.
“He’s getting heavier,” she murmured.
“He’s getting bossier,” I said, because it was true. The kid had opinions already. Mostly about being held, and being held now, and being held by Lilith specifically.
She smiled down at him, brushing her thumb across his cheek. “He’s almost ready.”
I knew what she meant before she said it. The bond had changed — not dimmed, not weakened, just… shifted. Less fragile. Less newborn‑bright. More there. More him.
“Yeah,” I said quietly. “He is.”
Elias fussed again, a soft, breathy whine, and this time he didn’t settle. He squirmed, pushing his face into Lilith’s shoulder like he was trying to burrow inside her.
Lilith huffed a laugh. “He’s wiggly.”
“That’s the technical term,” I said. “Very advanced developmental milestone.”
She gave me a look, but she was smiling. “He’s ready for the crib.”
The words hit me in that strange, bittersweet way only parenting can — pride and ache tangled together. He’d only been here for a short time, and already he was moving to the next stage. Already growing. Already changing.
Lilith stood, shifting him carefully in her arms. “Come on. Let’s get him settled.”
I followed her down the hall, listening to the soft creak of the steps, the quiet hum of the house, the tiny sounds Elias made as he wriggled and protested and tried to decide whether he approved of this plan.
The nursery was warm, dim, peaceful. The crib — his crib — waited in the corner, soft blankets and gentle light and space for him to stretch out.
Lilith lowered him in, and he immediately kicked one leg free of the blanket like he was claiming territory.
“See?” I whispered. “Bossy.”
But my chest felt full — warm, steady, anchored. Watching him there, small and wiggly and perfect, felt like watching the world expand in real time.
Lilith slipped her hand into mine.
“He’s really here,” she said softly.
“Yeah,” I breathed. “He really is.”
Nova had been eyeing the stairs for days — that calculating toddler stare that meant she was either about to master a new skill or attempt a crime. Today, thankfully, it was the first one.
“Okay, sunshine,” I said, crouching beside her. “One step at a time. Literally.”
She put one foot on the bottom step, wobbled, grabbed my knee for dramatic effect, then climbed it like she’d been doing it her whole life. At the top she turned, grinning like she’d just conquered Everest.
“Down too,” I reminded her.
She turned around and backed down one step at a time, proud as anything.
By the third run she didn’t even look back at me.
My heart did a weird, melty thing. “Look at you,” I whispered. “Independent. Terrifying.”
She giggled and immediately went back up again.
The twins had apparently decided they were done with chaos. Overnight, they transformed from tiny bathroom gremlins into responsible, civilized toddlers who used the potty like pros.
No puddles.
No accidents.
No dramatic shrieking because the potty was “looking at them funny.”
Just… competence.
“You two,” I said, hands on my hips, “are officially potty champions.”
Thalia beamed. Selene nodded like she’d expected nothing less.
I was standing out on the front sidewalk talking to a stranger who’d stopped to ask about the house — something polite and forgettable — when the school bus hissed to a stop at the end of the street.
Lucian came down the sidewalk alone, backpack bouncing, homework folder clutched tight to his chest. He slowed when he saw me, like he wasn’t sure if he should interrupt.
The stranger moved on, and Lucian stepped closer.
He didn’t say anything. Just held out the folder with both hands.
Inside was a bright, clean B.
A real one.
A worked‑for one.
Not luck. Not scraping by. Not chaos.
His cheeks were pink, and he kept his eyes on the ground. “I practiced every night with Lionel,” he said quickly. “And I did the extra credit. And I didn’t forget my homework this time. And—”
“Lucian,” I said softly.
He went still.
“I’m proud of you.”
He blinked up at me, startled — like he hadn’t expected that to be the answer.
“A B is good,” I said. “A B is really good.”
He swallowed. “I want an A.”
“I know you do. And you’ll get there. But this? This is a win.”
His shoulders loosened, just a little. Enough to tell me he’d heard me.
I ruffled his hair. “Go on inside. Start today’s homework before the chaos wakes up.”
He nodded, a small, shy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, and headed up the steps.
I watched him disappear into the house, the door clicking softly behind him.
Word travels fast in Forgotten Hollow — faster than gossip, faster than bats, faster than I ever expect it to. I hadn’t made any announcements, hadn’t posted anything. But somehow, people knew.
The House of Mateo was back in business.
I didn’t realize how true that was until the first knock came at the door.
A young woman stood on the porch, nervous but determined. “Are you… taking initiates again?”
I blinked. “I didn’t know I’d stopped.”
She laughed, shaky but sincere. “My name’s Randi Benjamin. I want to be turned.”
The pull wasn’t there — no instinct, no bond, no supernatural tug — but I knew what she was asking. And I knew what it meant to ask it.
We talked for a long time. I asked the questions Lilith drilled into me years ago: Are you sure? Do you understand the hunger? The strength? The responsibility? The permanence?
She answered every one with clarity. No hesitation. No fantasy. Just certainty.
So I agreed.
When the turning was done and she left with her new senses buzzing, I thought that would be the biggest surprise of the week.
I was wrong.
The second knock came two nights later.
I opened the door and froze.
“Nathalie?”
She looked older — of course she did — but still unmistakably her. Same sharp eyes. Same restless energy. Same way of standing like she was ready to bolt or fight or both.
“Can we talk?” she asked.
We sat on the porch steps, the night air cool around us. She told me about the dreams — the hazy, half‑remembered flashes of the night she wandered into the Hollow years ago. The night I fed on her. The night she forgot.
“I thought I imagined it,” she said. “But then I heard people talking. Rumors. About you. About vampires. And suddenly the dreams made sense.”
She looked at me then — really looked.
“I think this is what I’ve been missing,” she said quietly. “I think this is who I’m supposed to be.”
As she spoke, something clicked into place. Not a bond — not that — but a recognition. A knowing. Nathalie had always been sharp, fierce, hungry for something bigger than the life she’d been handed. She’d always been on the edge of belonging somewhere.
And suddenly I could see it clearly: she’d be a great addition to the House.
When she finally asked, “Will you turn me?” I didn’t hesitate.
“Yes.”
She became my fifth.
With Randi and Nathalie both newly turned, I suggested they move into the fledglings’ house until their transformations were complete. It was safer there — quiet, contained, structured. No toddlers. No distractions. No risk of accidentally biting a mailman.
They both agreed immediately.
Randi was excited, buzzing with anticipation. Nathalie was steady, focused, already slipping into the rhythm of the House like she’d been born for it.
Once they were settled, I invited Marina over to check on her progress. She arrived just after sunset, hood up, eyes bright in that way fledglings get when the transformation is almost finished.
“You’re close,” I said as soon as I saw her.
She nodded, shifting her weight like her bones were buzzing. “I can feel it. Everything’s sharper. Louder. Brighter.”
“Any trouble with hunger?”
“Manageable,” she said. “Annoying. But manageable.”
We talked for a while — about the process, about the House, about what she wanted once the transformation was complete. She was still in the middle of it, still changing, but she was steady. Focused. Ready.
“You’ll finish soon,” I told her. “A night or two, maybe.”
She smiled — small, proud, a little nervous. “I’m ready.”
Once Randi and Nathalie were settled in the fledglings’ house, the next few sims who came asking about vampirism ended up with Lilith. She’d always been better at the early conversations — calm, direct, no nonsense. People trusted her. Or feared her. Sometimes both.
One afternoon, Solomon Pancakes showed up.
I recognized him immediately — the posture, the nervous energy, the way he kept glancing at Lilith like he wasn’t sure if he should bow or run.
Lilith raised an eyebrow. “You remember me.”
He swallowed. “I… think so.”
He did. He’d seen her feed once, years ago — a quick, efficient bite in an alley, the kind she barely remembered because it had been necessary, not personal. He’d been a teenager then, old enough to understand what he saw, young enough to be terrified.
Now he stood on our porch, hands shaking, but eyes bright with something else.
Curiosity.
Hunger.
Possibility.
Lilith took him out back to talk. I watched from the window as she paced slowly, explaining the hunger, the strength, the responsibility, the permanence. Solomon listened, nodding, frowning, asking questions that were sharper than I expected.
When she came back inside, she shook her head. “He’s not ready.”
He didn’t argue. He just left quietly.
But he came back the next night. And the next. And the next.
Each time, Lilith talked to him again — patient, steady, making sure he understood what he was asking for. Each time, he left with more certainty in his eyes.
One evening, after their latest conversation, she came inside looking conflicted.
“I’m not sure,” she said. “He wants it. But I can’t tell if he wants this… or if he wants to escape something else.”
“Both can be true,” I said.
She didn’t answer.
The next night, Solomon returned. He stood straighter this time. No shaking hands. No darting eyes. Just quiet resolve.
“I’m sure,” he told her. “I want this. I want to be part of something. I want to belong.”
Lilith studied him for a long moment — long enough that he shifted his weight, nervous again.
Then she nodded.
“Alright.”
She turned him that night.
When it was done, she came inside and sat beside me on the couch, silent for a moment before saying, “He’ll be good. Better than he thinks.”
Solomon wasn’t even out the door for an hour before the next knock came.
Thiago Dale.
Unlike most sims who showed up curious or nervous or trying to talk themselves into bravery, Thiago walked in with the kind of certainty that made Lilith pause. He didn’t hover. He didn’t fidget. He didn’t circle the subject.
“I know what I want,” he said simply. “And I want you to turn me.”
Lilith studied him — really studied him — the way she always did when someone asked for something permanent. But Thiago didn’t flinch under her gaze. He didn’t second‑guess himself. He didn’t ask for reassurance.
He just waited.
And that, more than anything, told her he meant it.
She nodded once. “Alright.”
The turning was quick, clean, and quiet — nothing like Solomon’s long, winding path to certainty. When it was done, Thiago thanked her with a calmness that almost felt out of place in our house.
Solomon returned just as Thiago was stepping off the porch, still pale from his own transformation but steadier than he’d been earlier. The two exchanged a look — not quite camaraderie, not quite competition, something in between.
Lilith crossed her arms. “Both of you will need supervision for the next couple of days.”
They nodded in unison.
“And you’ll be moving into the fledgling house until the transformation finishes.”
Another pair of nods.
Solomon glanced at Thiago. “Guess we’re roommates.”
Thiago shrugged. “Could be worse.”
Lilith snorted. “You have no idea.”
They headed down the path together, two brand‑new vampires with wildly different beginnings but the same destination.
While Lilith and I handled the new vampire business, Lionel had taken over house duty — which meant everyone was in good hands. He sat cross‑legged on the living room rug, reading something on his tablet while whichever toddler wandered into his orbit plopped down beside him.
Selene was upstairs, happily narrating an entire imaginary saga to her toys. Elias was making a determined beeline for the dollhouse, wiggly legs pumping like he had urgent business with the tiny furniture.
A few minutes later, the front door opened and Gaiah came in after school, backpack thudding to the floor as she kicked off her shoes. The second the toddlers saw her, they swarmed — Elias abandoning the dollhouse mid‑mission, the twins toddling over with delighted squeals.
They adored their cousin. Absolutely worshipped her.
Gaiah dropped to her knees without missing a beat, and the four of them settled around the dollhouse like a tiny committee deciding the fate of the miniature world inside it.
The twins eventually graduated from their toddler beds into a shared double bed, suddenly long‑limbed and opinionated and getting ready to start school. Selene woke up gloomy, already sighing about the injustice of homework, while Thalia practically glowed with the determination to be good at everything.
Lionel set them both at the table with their very first homework packet, smoothing the pages like it was a sacred ritual. Selene slumped dramatically. Thalia sat up straight, pencil poised like she was about to take the entrance exam for university.
With all the focus on the birthdays, though, we missed one small detail.
Nova didn’t make it upstairs in time.
The aftermath was… catastrophic.
Not just her diaper — herself, the floor, the chair, and possibly the air around her. A hazard team might be required. Lionel froze mid‑step. Lilith backed out of the room like she’d walked into a crime scene. Even the toddlers gave the mess a wide berth.
The rug had to be replaced. Again.
With the kids growing up and Lilith not pregnant every other week, the house had settled into a rhythm that felt almost… normal. Or as normal as life gets when you’re raising five children ranging from nine years to six months old.
And with that calm came something we hadn’t had in a long time:
Time for each other.
Real time.
Uninterrupted time.
Time where no one was crying or transforming or asking for a snack.
Lilith would brush past me in the hallway, give me that look — the one that said she remembered we were still us underneath all the parenting — and suddenly the night would tilt in a familiar direction.
We’d end up in the coffin, laughing as we tried to fit the way we used to. Or we’d dissolve into bats and disappear into the shadows for a few stolen minutes of chaos and closeness.
Never a bed, though.
We had standards.
And as ridiculous as it was, as messy and loud and unpredictable as our life had become, I felt good. Steady. Like the future wasn’t something to fear anymore.
Like we were finally building something that would last
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