Chapter Text
Adapt or die is the motto of survival. For the living, for predator and prey, and even for a Coven born of ancient powers and fueled by a divinity beyond human comprehension. The cycles of sacrifice and service had started to burn through the meager offerings from the Valley, and if they couldn’t adapt, well, Alcina Dimitrescu has lived through enough lifetimes to understand the purging fires and witch hunts that toppled empires.
So she had fallen back on the one constant truth.
Power begets money. Money begets power.
And there is always a taste for wine.
With the outside world now at their fingertips, House Dimitrescu embraces every idea of innovation and expansion and through the efforts of herself and her daughters, the Dimitrescu name easily climbs the ranks of reputable vintners and with a new revenue stream secured, a new corporate empire takes to the global stage.
Deus Nero Ventures & Holdings echoes the sprawling lattice of the Black God it honored by sinking hooks into the biomedical frontier, the battlefields of finance and trade, and the exclusive decadence of the art world. Where the empires of her past were now all but dust, hers flourished. Though the price to keep it isn’t one that sat well in the gullet.
Gone are the days of constant companionship. Her daughters, each of them, had seized opportunities for themselves now that there was room to spread their wings.
And while Alcina misses their company, watching them conquer in her name does soothe the bitter taste of loneliness.
While watching her heir through the feed of a Zoom meeting as Bela maneuvers another board into conceding company rights that should never be given over to a despot isn’t as satisfying as being there in person, it is still reaffirming to see that the woman affectionately called ‘Drakeling’ had enough of the Dragon about her to seize territory.
It helps, too, that the media eat Bela right up, and soon she’s gracing the cover of several magazines, sitting on the panels of many entrepreneurial conferences, and the subject of far too much social media commentary. Bela fits the aesthetic of a universal vision of tradition; the grace of Old Money, the antipodal allure of Madonna and the whor*. Her eldest daughter ensnares the world around a finger; the icon of a cult within the cult.
Alcina knows it must please Mother Miranda to have such a mirror of herself. Hell, it tickles Alcina senseless; especially thanks to the nature of her own predilections.
After all, she prefers the shadows; allowing the mystery of her silhouette to entice all the while a nostalgic melody spins away on a phonograph. She delights in inspiring the imagination. Her favorite stories are the more lurid ones where her castle has always been attended by women so unnaturally ethereal; the connection to another infamous serial killer, who bathed in the blood of virgins.
The boldest of these voyeurs bring back tales that incite a frenzy of speculation. More than one tabloid headline has read: Dimitrescu: Bathory Reborn?
The repeat offenders, the ones that come a little too close to the truth? Well, when they disappear, Alcina knows it’s the work of her middle daughter. Cassandra might not be the poster child for filial duty and tradition, but that’s never bothered the young woman. Her huntress thrives instead by stalking the dark, gritty underbelly of the world. Any threat on the horizon is dealt with swiftly and without mercy.
If Alcina does allow herself to worry (and she does), it is when she watches her youngest daughter take to the media for her darling. Daniela’s blurring of reality and fantasy lends well to the public relations that keep their family and businesses on the favorable side of public opinion, but it’s also her daughter’s fatal flaw.
All of her daughters’ fatal flaws, if she's being honest with herself. They see the light at the edge and chase after it.
Adapting. Just as she taught them.
The humid heat of a Spanish summer is a welcome reprieve from the bitter cold of the mountains. She indulges in the warmth, a furnace that makes the Dragon within her purr in contentment. She watches the bustle of tourists below her hotel room’s window and admires the beauty in the twirling flourish of a woman’s flowing skirt.
She can almost hear the excited chatter of her girls: Daniela adoring the crowds, Cassandra itching to explore the mountains in the distance, and Bela content to soak in the warmth without a stitch of worry. Her heart pangs at their absence, and how they’d love it here.
A throat clears pointedly from the desk. "Well? Has our reconnaissance produced results?"
Alcina turns back to the woman perched regally on the plush twin seats. "Yes, Mother Miranda."
"And?"
"The locals have been talking about livestock disappearances, missing tourists, and strange behavior in the native wildlife. I narrowed down the rumors to several of the outlying provinces. Within the most promising, Heisenberg managed to trace a surge of electrical activity to an abandoned airstrip.”
She sets herself down on the opulent chair and pours herself a glass of merlot.
Mother Miranda's face is pinched, pale brows furrowed in disapproval. "Which means that we have competition, and we’re playing catch up. We don’t have the luxury of time. Pull Cassandra from her assignment in Rome. Send her in. There’s a chance that the Las Plagas strain survived. I don’t care if Cassandra raids the outpost itself—we will have a sample in hand.”
“With respect, Mother Miranda… Cassandra requires time to be briefed, and to prepare—"
"I am not interested in hearing excuses," Miranda snaps. "Let her drain the peasants if she must. Do not disappoint me."
Alcina's jaw snaps with a click as she dips her head reverently. “As you will it, Mother Miranda.”
At least Cassandra will thrive in this weather, basking in the sunlight and enjoying the variety she’ll find among the local cultures. Perhaps she might even cross Alcina’s path should they both remain in the area long enough—the few months of Wintering isn’t enough time to spend with the Swarm, and any brief encounters outside that have been too fleeting to really ease the ache.
Mother Miranda beckons for Alcina to pour her a glass as well. She takes it, letting it breathe while she sets her gaze on the horizon. “I know that it seems like I request too much from the Swarm, but you must understand Alcina… we serve a such a demanding god. I try to shoulder the brunt of the commands as best I can to prevent the weight from crushing them, and from falling to you… you know this, don’t you?”
“I…of course, Mother Miranda. House Dimitrescu has always honored your sacrifice.”
Mother Miranda peers at her, tapping her fingers against the surface of the desk before she finally picks up her glass. She takes a deliberate sip. “I understand that I may come across as overly… harsh, but we have reached a pivotal crossroads in our work that if successful will ensure our legacy for eternity. Your daughters are a prime example. Imagine what we could achieve—what they could achieve if only we could…fine-tune their genetics.”
Alcina smothers her scowl with a longer pull of the wine. It’s true, Mother Miranda has never hidden her disappointment with the limitations of the Swarm. How they depended too much on blood and human flesh, and the crippling impact of a sudden temperature drop. How they fell short of whatever expectation she’d expected of the Swarm, and how that lingered poignantly in the space between her and Alcina still.
“That was a compliment, Alcina.”
“Of course.” Alcina forces a smile. “You are… too kind, Mother Miranda. My daughters flourish because of your generosity and your mercy.”
Mother Miranda leans back in her seat with a pleased smile. “Indeed they have.” She idly swirls a finger over the rim of her glass and the fraught silence fills with the eerie ring of singing crystal. “And they shall continue to do so.”
Alcina nods obligingly. “Of course.” She glances down at the buzz of her phone on the desk between them. Her fingers twitch to answer it—Mother Miranda’s intense stare warns her against doing so.
“Speaking of the Swarm, how is Daniela faring? I haven’t had the opportunity of debriefing her since the extraction.”
The memory of the encounter leaves a strange ache in the tips of her fingertips. Alcina curls her hands against her lap and does what she can to maintain a neutral expression. “She is…well. Though I believe she holds herself responsible still for the lack of progress.”
“She will have time to compensate for the falter. Has she experienced anything unusual recently?”
“Nothing that I have noticed. Not since her last visit home.”
She watches Mother Miranda’s pale brow arch faintly. “Hmm.” She waits; expectant, but receives nothing more than a thoughtful sip of wine.
“I believe she feels like she let us down—let you down.”
“Mm. On the contrary. Her little detour revealed much about our competitors. The cycle begins anew," Mother Miranda murmurs curiously, focusing her attention behind Alcina's head. "Spencer's ambitions were always so infectious, I’m impressed they held onto their flimsy ethics for as long as they have.”
"Spencer?"
Mother Miranda waves the question aside with a dismissive hand. "An old colleague. But back to Daniela—beyond her guilty conscience, she is well?”
Alcina hesitates. The sudden concern for Daniela’s welfare leaves her wary. Yes, she remembers Bela calling in a panic. Yes, she remembers Daniela’s wan, pallid features and the glassy look in her eyes. Yes, she remembers… far more than she’d like of the nightmares that now plague her youngest.
These things, though, she keeps for herself, and nods her head when Mother Miranda prods once more.
Mother Miranda watches her from beneath a hooded gaze, then sets her empty glass down. “I know that you think I’ve pushed them all this year—Cassandra most of all, but she is the best at what she does and I can hardly deny her the thrill of a challenge now, can I?” Her eyes gleam with something malicious and sharp, like it’s a joke shared between them. “What sort of mother does that?”
It’s a well-placed barb, and one Alcina bristles against. “I don’t doubt that she…appreciates the encouragement. I’m merely… concerned that she’s pushing herself a bit too far.”
Mother Miranda arches a brow, but remains still; an ethereal being carved of stone. Then her mouth curves slightly, into a smile that is nothing friendly. The predatory show of teeth that lures prey in with a sweet smile belying poison. "Should I concern myself with you pushing yourself... too far ?" she asks, as her pale eyes bore into Alcina's face with a deadly gleam.
"I'm simply ensuring that the state of our... assets remains at optimum levels." The words leave an ashen, bitter taste on her tongue.
Mother Miranda hums, a dubious sound, but she does not press. She turns her gaze away dismissively, peering out the window instead. "Terribly warm this time of year, isn't it? Your daughters would certainly enjoy the weather."
"It is...pleasant."
The smile on Mother Miranda's face never quite reaches her eyes. "Good. I expect Cassandra to be informed by sundown.” She rises from her seat smoothly, striding in all her omniscient grace towards the door. As her gilded talons close around the handle, she glances sidelong over her shoulder.
"Alcina?"
"Yes, Mother Miranda?"
"...remember from whence you came." Her eyes meet Alcina's golden gaze coldly. "I will not be patient the next time I need to remind you."
Alcina remembers to drop her gaze first. "Yes, Mother Miranda." She looks at the Merlot and lipstick-rimmed glasses instead. She thinks of the mountains of her home and the laughter of her daughters.
She doesn’t look back up until the dark weight of divinity is gone from the threshold, and the room becomes that much lighter for the absence.
She needs a drink. She needs a smoke. She needs —
A gentle 'buzz' , three-toned, rumbling across the desk.
Her lips curve into a responding smile as she reaches for her phone. There's a missed call, and then a follow-up message.
Daniela wants to redecorate the front hall when we get back
Inspired by the Capitoline Museum trip. Will try to dissuade her.
Boarding now. Will call when landed ❤️
Alcina’s smile blossoms, then fades. Text is well and lovely but there’s something about watching someone’s eyes light up while you speak.
Bela and Daniela were scheduled to fly out over the Atlantic to check on the newest acquired vineyards in America. Aside from ensuring global prominence and domination of the world’s wine market, Napa Valley’s proximity to the large fault lines and abandoned research facilities made for an excellent Western American outpost.
Daniela’s tastes ran the gauntlet from inspired elegance to… Alcina can’t even finish that thought without shuddering.
What exactly inspired Daniela?
Have a safe flight, my darlings
Piazza de Campidoglio
She wants to have someone commissioned for a giant dragon statue to put with the others.
And the three of us at your teats.
Are the maidens in the chamber hallway insufficient?
She can’t stand knowing Castle Dimitrescu isn’t a tourist feature or a heritage site yet.
taking off now ttyl 😘
Alcina's smile turns into an actual laugh. Daniela must have stolen the phone last minute. Bela? Using shorthand? Impossible.
She touches the screen fondly and takes in Bela's smiling profile picture until she feels the tension bleed away from her. She allows herself that indulgence before she moves deeper into the apartment for her cigarettes. She knows the conversation she's about to have and dreads asking Cassandra.
That's all it seems to have been recently between them. Mission statements, updates, briefs and debriefs. The occasional mention of a new flame being chased down somewhere between New York's finest and London's elite.
Cassandra says she enjoys the freedom that comes with being Mother Miranda's personal envoy of divine-meted justice— Alcina knows her huntress better; the wan smile and exhausted eyes give away what Cassandra’s boundless pride cannot.
One cigarette and an infused bottle of red later, Alcina's sitting on the balcony, half-watching the pedestrians amble beneath her, and composing her preliminary text Cassandra's way.
Your presence is required at a company gathering.
After a near-miss with a tech-crafty reporter, Daniela had taken it upon herself to develop various coded phrases and euphemisms for their clandestine activities. This season, everything circled around parties and get-togethers.
Alcina hasn’t hosted a gala for half a century. She wonders if she’d even remember how to.
One cigarette turns into two as the night sky blankets the main square. The crowd has only doubled in number and spirit, and though Alcina is not one to mingle quite so, she can appreciate the laughter and lights. Cassandra's reply is straight to the point; it always is with missions.
Special Occasion™️?
Among other things. Your sisters are heading out to America, so you’re the belle of the ball, dearest.
dress code?
Your choice.
owo rebellious. i love it
I still don’t know what ‘owo’ means. Is that like OMG?
🤦🏻♀️
While Cassandra refrains from shorthand, Alcina finds her blatant disregard and disrespect of capitalization are only a slight step above Daniela's texting habits.
She’s used to it by now. The contemporary slang might as well be a cryptic tongue, but Alcina’s been studying their ciphers and code words. Alcina takes the facepalm emoji as the 'duh' it represents and prides herself on sussing out yet one more piece of the millennial puzzle. Not that her daughters were this turn-of-the-century millennials, of course.
She merely wishes they’d take a little more of a leisurely pace when it came to the world. Daniela’s picking up current trends like bad habits, and while Cassandra’s a little bit more resistant, she’s just as terrible once she’s found something that amuses her (or drives her sisters mad). Thankfully, Bela seems to have kept to the same preferences for actual, genuine conversation and interactions instead of slang, shortcuts, and captioned photographs.
I will take that as a yes.
Alcina sends along the address for the nearest safe house, and then imbibes in a bit of sentimental affection just to spite Mother Miranda.
Do not break laws trying to get here because I am not bailing you out of jail. I love you, little Wolf 🐺 .
That prompts an actual 'Oh. My. God. staahhhhppp’
She banters with Cassandra for a little while longer; no, apparently abbreviations of text and shorthand are not indicators of rapidly depleting human intelligence, but rather — patience.
who has time for spellchecker anyway. lame.
One's education is exemplified through your letters and speeches, dear.
Egyptians made the first emoji, change my mind 🐸🍵
Alcina wrinkles her nose in bewilderment at the emoticons but she saves herself the indignity of asking.
It continues until the spool of tension is unwound completely from her gullet and she finds laughter bubbling unexpectedly from her.
Her phone pings once more. Cassandra.
stole the cessna for a joyride
don’t tell bela
Alcina frowns. She's tired of tapping on the screen now; leaning against the pillows on the bed and tucked beneath the covers. She has to get up to dress down for the night, but she'll do that after a call. She taps the little video icon on the top of Cassandra's name.
"Mother? Mo — pull the phone further away so I can see you."
She holds the phone at arm's length obligingly. "I assume you’ve commandeered the pilot as well, or else I’d have to be very concerned with your flight path.”
Cassandra shrugs. The screen jostles a bit, a clatter following as she moves from one end of the jet to another. Sprawls out on one of the lounges. "It’s not like it’ll kill me,” she drawls. “And what’s 15 million dollars crashing into the ocean? Bela spends that much every time she even thinks of Paris. Remember when she got Uncle Karl the Duesenberg?”
“Don’t remind me,” Alcina mutters. She recalls the last bold dip into the accounts and the almost indignant rebuttal when she questioned Bela's choice.
But he’s so talented , Mother. I couldn't bear for it to languish in some roadside trinket shop.
“You know the only reason why she got away with that was ‘cause I rigged the revenue report for Mother Miranda, right?”
“And I am so proud of you for watching out for each other,” Alcina replies.
“What? No—”
“Have you spoken with Mother Miranda to confirm the details of this little…soiree?”
“She called me after I confirmed LatLong coordinates for the Party." A scowl graces Cassandra’s angular face. "Apparently she has some extra 'party favors' I need to pick up along the way."
Alcina smothers back a sigh of disappointment and anger. "I'll speak with her about this —"
Cassandra waves her off idly. "No, don't. It's fine. The sooner I get sh*t done, the better."
"I wish you'd stop pushing yourself so hard, dear." Alcina tucks her legs beneath her as she sits further upright. Damn, she should've grabbed that lovely little robe from the bathroom…
Cassandra shrugs.
"Well," Alcina shifts to better support her arm, tucking her head onto her forearm as she offers her sympathy as best she can. "I have complete faith that you’ll simply dazzle when you perform, little Wolf."
The quality of Cassandra's connection makes it hard to see details, but the exasperated groan and pointed lack of eye contact with the screen lets Alcina know her nickname has struck gold. " Mooooother . God, what if someone hears you?"
She puts on an impressive show of maternal hurt. “Is it so terrible for me to reassure you, darling? Have you outgrown your mother’s love, my pup?”
“That one’s even worse!” Cassandra squawks. “I’m not a pup! I’m a stud!”
Alcina eyes her dubiously. “Do you really want me to call you that?”
"I mean, if the shoe fits…”
“I think Pup suits you just fine. Daniela did teach me how to change your names in my phone...”
“NO !" Cassandra's laughing now and it prompts a chuckle from Alcina as well. "Anyways, look— let me go show up to this shindig, make my appearance because I am a badass wolf..." Cassandra looks around, but Alcina doesn’t imagine there are many other passengers to be mindful of on a private jet. "I'll be fine, Mother. I do have some tricks up my sleeve still."
"I hope these 'tricks' aren't going to wind you up in a Spanish prison. No bail, remember?"
"Ughhhh." Cassandra makes a show of rolling her eyes and blowing out a raspberry. "Spoilsport. Now I have to cancel the strippers and party bus."
Alcina gives her a fond, long-suffering smile. "I can never tell with you if you're being serious. But yes. No strippers or party buses, please. Though, I suppose there is no harm in enjoying yourself with a pretty face or two."
"I'm going to take that as permission and charge a gangb*ng to the company card."
Alcina rolls her eyes hard enough that she knows it'll come through the connection. Sure enough, Cassandra's sh*t-eating grin widens as Alcina speaks. “I wonder if that’s a better alternative to the way you’ve been sleeping your way through the call sheet of every runway in Europe.”
“Listen, is it my fault that supermodels fall head over heels for me?” Cassandra shrugs, leaning back in her seat with a decidedly pleased smirk. “I’m just taking a page out of your book, Mother. You f*cked your way through the bourgeoisie before the bourgeois were even a thing.”
“I’m not that old,” Alcina huffs. “And I certainly didn’t leave a string of broken hearts in plain view of the tabloids.” She fixes her daughter with a needling look. “Or anyone else, for that matter.”
As she expects, Cassandra’s smirk fades into a scowl. “It’s fair game! She’s with Bela right now having the time of her life anyway.”
“You’re not the one having to sit through her Mozart and window-mooning,” Alcina drawls. “I’ve gotten complaints from the staff. They’re going to riot if she makes them hold the hose to the window one more time.”
Cassandra grumbles out a huff. “Fine,” she says, with a great long-suffering heave. “For the sake of our employment rate. You win.”
"You'll bring me something wonderful as my prize, I’m sure.”
"Is that ‘wonderful something’ me?" Cassandra gives her a fair impression of Bela's doe eyes, emphasized by exaggerated lash-batting and a pout to put Angelina Jolie to shame. "Am I your prize?"
Alcina chuckles. Bantering with Cassandra is second nature. They are, as they say, simpatico. "You will always be my treasure, my little wolf," she says warmly.
Cassandra groans again. “Motherrrrrr.” She shoves a travel pillow over her face. "So embarrassing."
"Don't you want to be my treasure, dear?"
"Well, yeah," the reply comes, muffled as it is. "But nobody else needs to know that."
Alcina's smile lingers. She takes the initiative to leave the bed’s cocoon of sheets and covers to dress down for the night. She carries the phone with her into the other room, sets it up near the vanity. First to go is her jewelry; the earrings and necklace, the rose pin for her girls last.
"Mother?" Cassandra's voice is still muffled. She's peeking over the edge of the travel pillow, more than ready to dive back under it should she have to. "Do you think, after I’m done, we might spend a few more nights where you’re at?”
Alcina stops in the middle of removing her gloves. She devotes a warm, understanding look towards her wolf's shy visage. "I don’t see why we couldn’t." she resumes doffing the gloves, flexing her hands when they're finally free of constricting leather.
"Yes!" Cassandra's head is now mostly free of the travel pillow's protection. "A wolf and a dragon tearing up the countryside? sh*t will be epic."
"Language, darling," Alcina says out of habit. "But yes, I suppose that would be, as you say, 'epic'."
Cassandra abandons the travel pillow before long; the appeal of watching Alcina bed down for the night has always been there. It is a fascination that’s captivated the Swarm since the earliest nights together. "How do you make wiping makeup off your face so f*cking elegant, it's not fair."
"It comes with the territory, dear," she drawls, dabbing her cold cream over her cheeks. "I'll be more than happy to show you when you get here."
"Should make an IG account," Cassandra says. "Become a beauty guru."
"I think the Instant Gram world is best suited for your sisters, dear."
There is a rumble of static on the other end; or perhaps the violent ripple of a hundred thousand wings fluttering at once. Alcina pauses. “What did you say, dear?”
“Nothing.”
The stroke of bitterness in Cassandra's voice draws Alcina’s full attention. She collects her thoughts as she finishes smoothing the cream into her hands, then takes a moment between that and the next step to fixate on the brunette on her phone screen. "Did something happen?"
"No." Cassandra's voice is monotone, so yes. Alcina waits. Cassandra does better when she doesn't pry. "Maybe. I don’t know. It’s hard watching them, knowing that they’re having the time of their lives without…me."
Alcina’s attention focuses entirely on her phone. She sets her things down and frowns when she spies the furrow in Cassandra's brow and the distant, hardened mask building behind those lupine eyes. Gently, she asks, "Have you spoken to them about how you feel, dear?"
Cassandra snorts, then, begrudgingly, "No. And don’t you tell them either. I don’t need them worrying about me.”
"Your sisters know that you do this for the Coven," Alcina soothes. Then, to cajole her Wolf slightly, she says, "Unless you want to be the center of a night of politics and superfluous gossip. I’m sure Bela would love delegating some of the more simpering conversationalists your way.”
“I’d honestly rather have my nails ripped from my fingers.”
“Then I digress.”
Cassandra sighs quietly. “It’s nice to be asked sometimes, though. I want to be able to have the option to tell Bela where exactly she can go shove her delegations.”
Alcina goes quiet. Worries at a sudden thought that's taken root in her mind. Cassandra sounds so… despondent and there's really nothing of importance left here. She'd been planning to fly home within the week as it was.
"Would you mind some company at your Party, dear? I feel as if I haven't indulged myself in a gig in a while."
The term makes Cassandra's lip twitch. " Gig ?"
"Don't kill my vibe, dear."
"Vibe?" Cassandra's lip twitches harder but no smile yet. Well, that just means she'll have to try harder then, won't she?
"Oh, you're right, my darling. I am a little behind the times as it is with the new colloquialisms—"
"No one calls them that—"
"So, what do you say to your lovely Mother showing up to, ah, the term is 'get down', is it not?"
"Oh my god." Cassandra's head dives down to the cushion. However, she's still not laughing so Alcina just doubles down on her deliberately terrible commentary.
"Yes, that was it I believe! I shall arrive at this party because Miranda never implied this was a solo shindig. Once I’m there you and I can get lit."
"Oh my god ." Now Cassandra's shoulders are shaking. Her voice is broken by giggles. Alcina grins, so pleased that listening in on Daniela's conversations has finally paid off. She dusts off an imaginary piece of lint from her shoulder, proud that she’s still able to pluck out trends like fine evening wear. However, there is still the matter of the killing blow:
"Oh, I'm sorry, dear...am I being... cringe ?"
That does it. Cassandra throws back her head and howls. She cackles uncontrollably, a laugh that shakes her frame and tears brimming her eyes. She curls down over the seat, clutching her middle as she groans and laughs in between gasping breaths. "Oh — f*ck — no!!! "
Alcina gives her an innocent, doe-eyed look. "So I'm not being cringe?"
"Ahh stop!" Cassandra wheezes. "Stop, I'm gonna—my appendix is gonna blow."
Cassandra's laughter is contagious and Alcina finds herself chuckling just a little bit as her daughter writhes in the agony of trying to breathe and laugh and protest all at the same time.
"Darling, you don't have an appendix to blow, and even if you did—I am quite certain that your mother being ‘hip’ with modern slang is not an established root cause for such an event."
Cassandra cracks an eye at the screen because she knows Alcina. Knows her the way she knows herself.
Alcina marks that in her mental tally of victories. She caps the next cream in her nightly routine, half-focused on the throw-away of joining Cassandra becoming an actual possibility. Speaking it aloud has intrigued her, and why shouldn’t she spend some time with her daughter? She’s not had the time to…properly unleash her temper recently and after the revelations earlier in the night, she might just need the release of a hunt to get her mind well and truly settled.
"Are you quite finished laughing at your poor mother, yet?" She inquires.
"Never."
Nighttime skincare routine complete; she sets them neatly back into her toiletry bag and picks up the phone again. She wanders into the wardrobe, sets the phone onto a shelf as she skims through her nightwear. "When you're quite done, dear, we can start talking about some real plans to have me 'collab' at this party."
"Mother ," Cassandra groans. "Mother, stop, I can't breathe."
"Then take a breath." She shoots Cassandra a grin.
"I can't. No air left. Lungs broken, ribs shattered. Appendix? Blown wide open." Cassandra perks her head up at some noise that doesn't come through the headphones down to Alcina. "Ugh— we're going into some turbulence so I have to go on airplane mode so we don't die or something." Cassandra looks back at the screen, head canted adoringly. “Is that actually a real thing?”
"I wouldn’t know. The last aeroplane pilot I dated disappeared somewhere over the Atlantic. However, do comply with them, would you? I appreciate your companionship in my life far too much just to lose you to something as trivial as not pressing a button, little Wolf.” Alcina pulls out the dressing robe she'd been thinking about since first settling into bed, then it's onto the nightgowns themselves.
"Yeah — well — I like your companionship too, or whatever," Cassandra mumbles as she sits up. Her mask is lowered and Alcina can't see the steel of her defenses any longer. Good.
"So sentimental. Now, go buckle in and text me those coordinates. We will talk later." Alcina decides on a cream mid-thigh gown, the cotton perfect for humid Spanish nights.
"..." There's noise as Cassandra moves back to the other side of the plane. "You really...you really want to come along?" Her voice is the soft probe where she's unsure of herself or the conversation. "You don't have to—"
"Cassandra," Alcina turns her full attention on the screen. "I want to. Did we not just agree that you are my precious treasure?"
"I — well — yeah — but—"
"But nothing. Call me when you're settled."
Cassandra’s smile is the widest she’s seen in a long time and it illuminates her eyes like nothing else. "Yes, Mother."
The screen goes dark. She only barely sets the phone down before it pings again, with a photo.
It’s Cassandra, as she expects. A selfie taken not a moment before; dramatically sprawled like a corpse over the seats of the jet. Head hanging limp over the armrest, legs twisted over the windows.
when the mile high hits 🥴
"That woman..." Alcina shakes her head. She puts a little ❤️ on the picture anyway, and settles back against the pillows with a quiet sigh. The suite is as lavish as her station demands; lavish, and large, and so painfully hollow. She is accustomed to the vast and winding hallways of their home—they lived within a castle , after all. And yet…
A faint ache festers in her chest; a heaviness of melancholy that makes her ache for the treacherous dungeons and stone-walled mazes of home. For the sound of insistent buzzing—of Daniela’s high giggles and squeals that were often followed by the exasperated alto of her eldest. Cassandra’s cackle—unruly thing—that almost always came at the heels of a terrified shriek from the maids.
Alcina heaves another sigh, skimming her fingers restlessly over the home screen of her phone.
Daniela had seen it fit to equip her mobile with an assortment of bewildering applications—Tweeter, Friendbook, Instant Gram. Something called Fling Finder, which Alcina can only assume to be meant for seeking things far-flung.
The thought of her youngest daughter pulls Alcina’s attention to Instant Gram. It's not really that hard to navigate. Honestly, the lecture she sat through from Daniela (complete with PowerPoint) made her feel as if they assume she's as dreadful with modern technology as Mother Miranda. Which— she's not.
It’s not wrong to prefer the tactile comfort of physical connection— be it letters or the intimacy of a conversation. She takes solace that at the very least, this allows her to still be involved in the Swarm’s antics— even tangentially.
She browses the accounts that Daniela had told her to follow, such as the required public accounts for Deus Nero and for the winery’s business, along with other affiliated companies. Beyond those, there are the ‘family’ accounts. Even Heisenberg had one—filled with progress reports of his personal project to tear down and rebuild every piece of machinery since the advent of the steam engine.
She can’t scroll past his latest updates without leaving an appropriately scathing commentary about his roughshod mannerisms, then swipes on to a refreshing change of scenery with Daniela’s personal account.
The girl has taken to the glitz and glamour of the modern world of instant gratification like a swan to water. Her account is a moment-by-moment photographic stream-of-consciousness of her life, sprinkled with additions of obviously-posed photographs that she says are 'just something that inspired me!' and yet always somehow coordinates with an inspirational quote and a current trending topic.
"If you'd only applied that to your texting skills..." Alcina murmurs while admiring an image of Daniela dangling over the edge of a balcony with the caption of 'Every adventure starts with a leap! #LiveYourLife#ChasingDreams#LookMaNoHands!'
She catches a comment from Cassandra, then Daniela's reply.
BigVHuntress: those hashtags are so #cringe
Dannibelle: ur getting blockt
"Blockt ," she repeats, shaking her head with a sigh. Children. She continues scrolling, adding a few more Likes to things that she finds particularly pleasing (anything with all three of them in it, or any of them in it, honestly). Pictures of Daniela's or Bela's back walking through an airport, luggage in hand. Beachside shots of Daniela's mid-jump. Gratuitous collages of their travels and their bikini wear. It's a perfectly innocent scroll through; she's barely paying attention to what she's swiping through — until her eyes catch sight of something entirely different.
Now, Alcina knows of the highlight campaign for the new vintage. She is also aware that said idea is risque enough to prompt an eyebrow raise across the dining room table. Bela's instincts, however, are rarely wrong when it comes to the brand marketing, not to mention that out of all of the Swarm—Bela typically has the Coven’s interests most in mind... but it is a little bemusing that it’s a marketing strategy that Bela's actively avoiding direct discussions with her; most conversations are done through brief emails, or weekly updates. That's fine— the Swarm are grown women in their own rights. Their lives and choices didn't need her meddling in them.
So Alcina almost skims over the photograph as a pandering to the theme of Milan’s fashion week. It catches her eye at the last minute. She knows that model far too well. She knows the curve of those shoulders, the scar from an errant bolt, the freckles that dot Bela's collarbone like constellations.
She, however, does not know the set of lacy lingerie that Bela's wearing, nor why she's pouring wine over herself. She checks the comments, all way too many of them, really - the entire world does not need to be ogling Bela, until a thread between the Swarm catches her notice.
BigVHuntress: so when you dropping the rest? peons want to know
Bellassima: Send that credit card over and we'll talk. 💳
BigVHuntress: are you serious? i have to pay?
Dannibelle: extra up front 4u2. bugtax. 🦋💵
BigVHuntress: wow rude. next time you ask to borrow my sh*t i'm gonna start charging per hour. this is fly-by discrimination!
Dannibelle: #blockt
Alcina doesn't bother following the thread the rest of the way down. She scrolls back up, staring intently at the image of Bela; kneeling, face tilted up to the heavens, mouth parted as wine pours down her throat like blood. Anointed in their latest vintage. Daniela's picked up quite the skill in 'shopping photos', which she understands purely as photo editing, and it shows. There's the family crest and their brand logo emblazoned on the bottom of the image, but she's not quite looking for those things.
She clicks onto the caption, finds herself focusing instead on a particular line of text:
For exclusive Behind the Scenes, go here 👀 :
Attached is a link.
Of course she clicks the link. It opens into a webpage on her phone; baby blue and white. Unassuming. A log-in page.
Alcina has enough sense to go through the sign-up process in a manner that will not immediately flag her as, well, her because she has the sneaking suspicion that she's stumbling onto something that she wasn't really meant to find. The main profile page is about as unassuming as the Tweeter app. Blue and white. A generic (though rather suggestive) banner image of a photoshoot that seems to have involved yet more lingerie she's never seen before and some sort of glitter body lotion.
It seems fairly superficial, all things considered...
And then she scrolls down to the unlocked tiers and…
There are photos, and videos, and... all of them are more explicit than the others. Photos taken on a beach, the white sands and perfect azure water barely noticeable beyond the fact that Bela's draped over a rock.
Head tossed back, body bare and a delicious buttery-gold beneath the afternoon sun. She's got only a gold pendant with her trademark garnet teardrop posed right at her breasts.
Breasts that are tipped in piercings; sleek steel bars that only seem to serve as a tantalizing bracket for flushed nipples.
Alcina’s grip on the phone almost shatters the device to pieces, her knuckles whitening around the edges before the faint creak of the screen shakes her from her reverie. That simply won’t do; it would be the third phone Cassandra would have to replace for her in six months.
As if she'd never seen her daughters in all states of impropriety. With maidens, with themselves, with hapless travelers. During a ritual night, or the aftermath of a hunt.
This is…merely that. Only in a new context.
A context that she plunders hungrily, skimming the thumbnails with a gaze sharpened on the critiques of masterpieces until she finds a looping teaser that catches her eye again, and then again.
Despite her better judgement…she clicks on the video.
The room is familiar. The sound of shuffling limbs against soft, silken sheets; breathy sighs. The movement of the camera along one pale thigh, like the hungry gaze of their audience, roving along one leg, over a flat, smooth stomach. The jut of hip bones that are tastefully draped in lingerie that Alcina certainly has never seen (and never dared dream of seeing) on her daughter. Blood-red, accented in black. Garters, hoses, trimmed in rose motifs in lace.
Bela's face, kept in shadow, but Alcina knows those amber eyes. The wide-eyed look of something between nerves and arousal.
Daniela's voice comes in a whisper from behind the camera with a confidence and assertiveness Alcina has never heard before. "Don't be shy, baby. Let them see."
Bela's face is tinted pink, high over her cheekbones, and the black and white of the video (night vision, almost) emphasises the hidden spread of freckles there. She bites her lip, lowering her lashes demurely as her hand begins to move. Daniela is quick to follow with the camera, angling further down, down, down...
Alcina's breath hitches. She feels as if her heart stops beating entirely, even if she has no need for it — it feels like she's dying all over again.
There's a thin cord leading from between Bela's thighs, bright pink, attached to a little remote tucked sweetly into the inside of her garter. It's then that Alcina realises that the buzzing she's been hearing hasn't just been her daughters' Swarm, or even the ringing in her ears. The vibrator is powerful, if she can hear it so clearly, and judging by the tremble in Bela's lean thighs and the glistening wetness pooling on the sheets...it is...effective.
"Does that feel good?" Daniela asks. Again, her hand stroking over Bela's gasping mouth, thumbing dipping just inside her sister's lips.
Bela whimpers — Mother Miranda grant her strength — and closes her lips around Daniela's thumb.
"Tell me, baby," Daniela purrs. "Have you been a good girl? Do you want to come?"
Bela makes a little whine, nodding as Daniela slips her thumb free. "C-can I—"
Daniela tuts; it's an eerily identical sound to the one she makes. "Remember your graces, baby." The camera slides down over Bela's heaving chest, lingering on the outline of nipples stiff and before sliding further south.
Alcina doesn't know if she wants to murder Daniela (or herself) when the camera pauses between Bela's legs, zooming in on the wet mess of her eldest daughter's c*nt and cl*t.
"So wet," Daniela coos, stroking her hand along Bela's thigh. Her fingers brush along the remote; it's a subtle movement, but the vibrator sparks with yet more strength, and Bela's melodic voice erupts in a breathless, keening sound. "Oh, my darling, you're so f*cking wet for me, aren't you?"
"Y-yes," Bela gasps, arching against the sheets. "Y-yes, m-may I —"
"What do you want, baby?"
"M-Mother, please—"
The hairs on the back of her neck rise.
"You're too kind to me, baby, " Daniela's fingers trail through the slick as she praises Bela. When she reaches Bela's labia, Bela's answer is a pitchy, desperate mewl that shoots straight through the lens to Alcina's core.
"Yes, y-es, I'm your g-g-oooh f*ck—good girl."
Bela's back is arching high, her hips gyrating and rocking against the vibrator's power as she struggles for friction, pressure, anything that will send her straight over that final edge. Her skin is slick, not just with arousal, but sweat. She's been edged for a while.
"Yes you are," the camera's moving again, memorizing the little ways that Bela's falling apart. "My good girl."
"Yo-yours, ple-ease, please please," Bela struggles to lift her head, send a pleading look down her body to where Daniela's kneeling between her legs. "Please, please..."
Daniela's voice drops another octave, a disconcerting replica of Alcina's own voice. It sends chills down her spine, but she's not sure if the tension building in her gut is from the realisation or the envy. "Come for Mother, my sweet girl. Come for me."
Bela's entire body comes alive as if electrified on a livewire, her voice shatters in tandem with her body. She writhes, nails tearing into the sheets as she sobs and wails against the vibrator's merciless onslaught on her c*nt. The camera almost can't keep up, but Dani's always had a steady hand.
The camera zooms out, as if Daniela's taken a step off the bed as it comes into full view.
"On your belly," Dani commands, husky enough to growl. "On your belly and your knees, good girl."
Bela rolls—it doesn't seem as if she has much choice, but it's a struggle to force the strength back into her trembling thighs. She moans against the sheets; she's all but glistening on camera, sweat and come and drool as she mouths the pillows under her face in a wordless plea. "Oh, f-f*ck—I-I—I n-need—"
"I'll decide what you need," Daniela tells her, swatting Bela over a thigh. "You're gonna come for me until I say you can stop, aren't you, draga mea?"
"Y-yes, Mother," Bela tucks her cheek to the sheets, her eyes shining in the dark, "So-sorry, Mother."
"It's all right," Daniela's voice—her voice, because Alcina's good at denial but she's not stupid—pitches soft. "It's all right. You're still learning, darling." The camera dips down and ... that's ...
Alcina's hips involuntary rock as if it's her co*ck that Daniela's hand is stroking down. It shouldn't affect her, but in the light the strap is luminescent white and how long has this been going on?
"However, good girls don't backtalk Mother and I think we'll have to remedy that insolence, don't you?" Alcina can hear the lust dripping from Daniela, and she can't blame her. Play or not, the sight of Bela presenting herself could bring a saint to sin.
Bela nods, and the flush is visible even in the dark, even at the distance. Her eyes drop to the strap and, Mother Miranda above, they seem to grow wider and darker.
"We'll start with a refresher then," and the video fades into dark.
Alcina taps it. Waits until the dark returns to the soft, familiar shuffling, the harsh buzzing—the beginning.
Then with a dark buzzing underneath her skin, she settles in to watch it again. And then again.
