Chapter 22:
— Morgana —
Morgana le Fay woke at three in the morning, as she often did. Centuries of sleeping with one eye open—metaphorically and sometimes literally—had trained her body to surface from unconsciousness at irregular intervals. A survival mechanism. Merlin had hunters. The Church had inquisitors. Even in the modern age, with its superheroes and surveillance satellites, old habits refused to die.
She turned her head on the silk pillow, and there was Amara.
Her apprentice lay sprawled across the black sheets in shameless abandon, one arm flung above her head, the other curled loosely against her stomach. She was so beautiful it made Morgana's chest ache.
Mine, she thought.
The baby phoenix—they really needed to name the creature—slept on the nightstand in a nest it had constructed from a stolen silk handkerchief.
Morgana watched Amara breathe for several long moments, cataloging the gentle rise and fall of those perfect breasts, the slight parting of her lips. She looked peaceful. Almost innocent, if you could ignore the demon horns and the fact that she'd burned down an ancestral manor and slaughtered dozens of people in the past week alone.
Morgana slipped from the bed with the silence of long practice, her naked feet finding the cold floor without a sound. The chill didn't bother her—she'd endured far worse than a bit of cold stone in her endless centuries. She summoned a silk robe from the nearby chair with a thought, the fabric wrapping around her body of its own accord, and allowed herself one final look at her sleeping apprentice.
Amara mumbled something in her sleep, her tail twitching, and Morgana's heart did something complicated and uncomfortable.
I have issues, she acknowledged to herself as she padded toward the door. Significant, probably diagnosable issues. Loneliness that spans centuries. Abandonment trauma from Merlin's betrayal, from losing Mordred, from watching everyone I've ever cared about turn to dust or turn against me. An obsessive need for control that borders on pathological. She paused at the threshold, fingers resting on the ancient wood. Who cares?
She was a villain. An evil witch. The most feared dark sorceress in recorded history. She had committed atrocities that would make demons weep and angels vomit. Her hands were stained with so much blood that the concept of redemption had become genuinely laughable. If she wanted to indulge her psychological damage by manufacturing a family around herself and her beloved apprentice, that was her prerogative.
The hallway stretched before her. The Penguin's former hideout had become something approaching a home, which was itself a strange thought. Morgana hadn't had a home in... she couldn't remember how long. Not since Camelot?
But it was still only temporary until they got themselves their own proper mansion now that they had the time and plenty of disposable money.
She passed the door to Daphne and Astoria's shared room and noted the faint sounds of breathing from within.
Good little witches, Morgana thought with something approaching fondness. Eager to learn. Eager to please. They'll serve nicely once they're properly trained.
But they weren't why she'd left her bed tonight.
Bellatrix Lestrange's door loomed at the end of the corridor, slightly ajar because the woman apparently had no sense of personal security. Then again, who would be foolish enough to attack Voldemort's once most faithful servant in her sleep?
Me, Morgana thought with grim amusement. Though attack isn't quite the right word.
She pushed the door open with a whisper of magic, the hinges silenced before they could creak. The room beyond was dark but Morgana's eyes adjusted instantly.
Bellatrix lay sprawled across the bed in a manner startlingly similar to Amara's position down the hall. The family resemblance was impossible to miss—the same dark curls fanned across the pillow, the same sharp cheekbones, the same full lips parted slightly in sleep. Where Amara's features carried an otherworldly perfection courtesy of her succubus heritage, Bellatrix's beauty was more natural but still there all the same.
The woman wore lingerie to bed. Black lace that left little to the imagination, clinging to curves that had somehow survived over a decade in the magical equivalent of a maximum security prison. Morgana allowed her gaze to travel appreciatively over pale skin and toned muscle before returning to Bellatrix's face.
She truly believes she's Amara's mother, Morgana mused, moving closer without a sound. Somewhere in that fractured mind, she's convinced herself that she bore a child with the Dark Lord and lost her to circumstance. The conspiracy theory that Amara encouraged has taken root so deeply that Bellatrix has built her entire current identity around it.
Morgana understood that kind of desperate need for connection. She understood clinging to something—anything—that made the loneliness bearable.
She stood at Bellatrix's bedside, looking down at the sleeping witch with an expression that would have shocked anyone who knew her reputation. There was no malice in her gaze. No calculation beyond the obvious.
Just a strange, tired acceptance.
The things I do for love, she thought, and the sentiment felt less like melodrama and more like simple truth. The things I will continue to do.
If Bellatrix believing herself Amara's mother brought her apprentice happiness, and it clearly did, in some twisted way, then Morgana would support that delusion.
She would nurture it. She would make it unshakeable.
But there was a problem.
Bellatrix kept calling Morgana "future Amara" or "Amara's twin sister" or "Amara's secret time-traveling duplicate." The woman's damaged mind couldn't quite reconcile how two people could look so identical without being related.
Morgana had been thinking about solutions before she took Amara to bed earlier, and there was really only one solution to be found. And she'd reached a decision. A probably embarrassing decision that she would never admit to anyone for as long as she lived.
Maybe I could use a mother too…? The thought crystallized in her mind with startling clarity. Morgana le Fay, ancient sorceress, destroyer of empires, most feared witch in human history... had been alone for so long. Her own mother had died when she was young. Merlin had been a mentor of sorts before he betrayed her.
Morgana raised her hand, fingers spreading in a gesture she'd performed thousands of times before. Memory magic was delicate work, one of the most difficult branches of mind arts, but she'd had centuries to master it. The Ministry of Magic's crude Obliviation spells were sledgehammers compared to her surgical precision.
She pressed her fingertips to Bellatrix's temple, and began to work.
The first spell was the most invasive. Morgana crafted memories with the care of a sculptor shaping clay, building them from scratch in the empty spaces of Bellatrix's already fractured psyche.
Two girls, Morgana whispered into the woman's subconscious. You bore two perfect daughters. Amara and Morgana. Twins with raven hair and green eyes, beautiful from their first breath.
She constructed the memory of Bellatrix holding those infants. The rush of overwhelming love. The desperate terror of what the Dark Lord might do if he discovered their existence. The agonizing decision to give them up, to hide them away where they'd be safe from his cruelty and his control.
You obliviated yourself afterward, Morgana continued, weaving the false history into Bellatrix's mind like thread through fabric. You couldn't bear the pain of remembering, so you locked the memories away. You only found out the truth recently—when you saw Amara and recognized your own face staring back at you.
The second layer of spells was protective. Morgana wove compulsions so subtle they were nearly undetectable, barriers that would activate if anyone tried to convince Bellatrix that her new memories were false. Presented with evidence—logical arguments, contradictory timelines, even magical proof—Bellatrix would simply... not believe it. Her mind would slide away from the truth like water off glass, rejecting anything that threatened the narrative Morgana had constructed.
Amara and Morgana are your daughters. You are their mother. This is absolute truth, and nothing in any realm can convince you otherwise.
The final spell was the most delicate. Morgana adjusted certain instincts, certain emotional responses. Bellatrix would feel protective of both her "daughters" now. She would feel maternal pride in their accomplishments, maternal concern for their wellbeing. The obsessive devotion she'd once reserved for Voldemort would transfer to her newfound family and coven above all else.
Morgana withdrew her fingers from Bellatrix's temple and stepped back.
The sleeping witch's expression had changed subtly. There was a softness to her features now, a relaxation that hadn't been there before. Her lips curved into a small smile, as though she were having pleasant dreams.
Dreams of her daughters, Morgana thought. Her beautiful, powerful, terrifying daughters who she will love and protect with all the savage devotion of her broken heart.
It was manipulation of the highest order, but it had to be done.
– Amara –
I woke to golden morning light filtering through the heavy curtains and the lingering ache of muscles well-used.
For a long moment, I simply lay there in Morgana's bed, staring at the ceiling with what I suspected was a thoroughly stupid smile plastered across my face. My body hummed with the pleasant afterglow of... well. Last night had been intense.
Maybe too intense, actually.
I shifted experimentally, cataloging the various points of soreness. My ritually enhanced healing had already dealt with the worst of it—my ass felt perfectly fine despite Morgana's enthusiastic efforts to reshape it with her magical cock.
Three times, I thought with a mixture of pride and slight alarm. She made me cum three times just from anal alone, and then she used her mouth, and then she wanted to go again, and—
Yeah. We might need to discuss boundaries at some point. Establish some kind of... safe word, maybe? Not that I hadn't enjoyed every second, because I absolutely had, but there was a fine line between "passionate reunion sex" and "Morgana treating me like a stress toy for all her pent-up feelings about the cruise."
The space beside me was empty, the sheets long since cooled. Morgana had apparently risen hours ago, which wasn't unusual—the woman seemed to require approximately four hours of sleep per night, a side effect of being ancient and paranoid. I reached out and ran my hand over the impression her body had left in the mattress, feeling oddly sentimental about a slight dip in expensive bedding.
The baby phoenix chirped from its nest on the nightstand. It had constructed quite the cozy setup for itself using a stolen silk handkerchief, some loose threads from the curtains, and what appeared to be a few strands of my own black hair. The tiny creature regarded me with eyes like pools of liquid shadow, its dark, but not yet capable of flight, wings tucked neatly against its body.
"Morning," I told it, my voice rough with sleep. "Did Mommy's loud noises keep you up?"
It chirped again, sounding distinctly unimpressed.
"Fair enough." I hauled myself out of bed with a groan that was only partially theatrical. My naked body protested the movement—not from injury, just from the bone-deep satisfaction of having been thoroughly fucked—and I padded across the cold floor toward the en-suite bathroom. The stone was freezing against my bare feet, but I kind of liked it.
The shower was blissfully hot, steam filling the marble-tiled space within moments. I stood under the spray with my eyes closed, letting the water cascade over my body. My succubus features had all been retracted back inside me at some point.
Twenty minutes of scrubbing later, I felt almost human again. Well. Half-human. Quarter-human? Meh…
I shook the thought away and reached for my wand on the bathroom counter. A quick drying charm handled my hair, leaving it falling in soft black waves around my shoulders rather than the dripping mess it had been. I examined myself in the mirror—green eyes bright, skin flushed with health, lips still slightly swollen from Morgana's kisses—and felt a surge of something that might have been contentment.
I looked good. I looked like someone who had been well-loved and wasn't ashamed of it.
The walk-in closet that Morgana had designated as "mine" was frankly excessive for someone who'd spent eighteen years wearing hand-me-downs and thrift store rejects. Racks of expensive clothes in blacks and deep jewel tones, drawers full of lingerie that ranged from "practical" to "what's even the point of fabric at this quantity," shoes I didn't know how to walk in properly.
I kept it simple today. A black tank top that hugged my curves just right, a pair of skinny jeans that made my ass look fantastic, and bare feet because I was home and I could.
The baby phoenix had relocated to my shoulder by the time I left the bedroom, its tiny talons pricking slightly through the thin fabric of my tank top. It weighed almost nothing, lighter than seemed physically possible for something with actual mass, and radiated a gentle warmth that was surprisingly comforting for a dark creature.
"Ready for breakfast?" I asked it.
It chirped in what I chose to interpret as agreement.
I could hear voices drifting up from downstairs—multiple voices, actually, which meant the whole household was already awake. The smell hit me halfway down the stairs, and I actually stopped in my tracks.
Bacon. Fresh, sizzling, perfectly-cooked bacon. And... were those pancakes? Eggs? Something sweet and warm that made my stomach growl with sudden hunger.
I descended the rest of the stairs at an undignified speed, following my nose toward the kitchen like a cartoon character being pulled along by visible scent trails. Our kitchen was gorgeous, but I'd never seen it actually used for cooking before.
We usually ordered delivery like civilized villains.
What I found when I rounded the corner made me stop dead in my tracks.
Bellatrix Lestrange stood at the stove.
Bellatrix Lestrange—former Death Eater, Azkaban escapee, torturer of the Longbottoms, Voldemort's most faithful servant, the most feared witch in Britain—was wearing a frilly pink apron over her usual black dress and wielding a spatula with the same intensity she probably applied to her wand.
She was cooking.
The spread on the counter was frankly absurd. Towers of fluffy pancakes drizzled with what looked like fresh maple syrup. Mountains of crispy bacon piled on a serving platter. Scrambled eggs that somehow looked restaurant-quality. A bowl of fresh fruit that had definitely been conjured because there was no way we had strawberries that perfect in the fridge. Toast, butter, jam, orange juice, coffee—
"Holy shit," I breathed.
Bellatrix spun around at my voice, her face lighting up with genuine joy. "Amara! Darling! You're finally awake!" She gestured expansively at the feast she'd prepared. "I made breakfast for my amazing girls. Come, come, sit down before it gets cold!"
Seated at the kitchen table was the rest of my bizarre little family/coven of witches.
Morgana occupied the head of the table, looking entirely too composed for someone who'd been fucking me senseless mere hours ago. Her black dress was perfectly arranged, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders in waves that matched my own, her green eyes bright with amusement as she watched my reaction. A cup of tea steamed in front of her.
Daphne and Astoria sat on either side of the table, both of them in matching silk robes. Their blonde hair was sleep-mussed, their cheeks flushed, and they were both trying—and failing—to hide their grins behind their own coffee cups.
"Good morning, Amara," Daphne said, her voice dripping with false innocence. "Did you sleep well?"
"We certainly heard you sleeping," Astoria added, her blue eyes sparkling with mischief. "Very... enthusiastically. Multiple times."
"The walls in this place are quite thin," Daphne continued. "One might even say concerningly thin."
"One might say that one heard every single sound that one's mentor was making while one's mentor was being—"
"Okay!" I interrupted, feeling heat flood my cheeks. "I get it. I was loud. Moving on."
The sisters dissolved into giggles, leaning against each other like they were sharing the world's best inside joke.
I made my way to the side of the table on slightly unsteady legs, pointedly ignoring their continued snickering. The baby phoenix hopped from my shoulder to the table, investigating the feast with tiny chirps of interest before settling near my plate.
"Don't feed it bacon," Morgana advised without looking up from the ancient tome she'd apparently been reading. "Phoenix digestion is surprisingly delicate despite their association with fire."
"Noted."
Bellatrix bustled over with a pan of freshly scrambled eggs, her movements almost domestic despite the wild curl of her hair and the gleam of something not-quite-sane in her dark eyes. She scooped a generous portion onto the plate in front of me, then moved around the table to do the same for everyone else.
When she reached Morgana, she paused.
And then Bellatrix Lestrange leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to Morgana's cheek.
I felt my brain short-circuit.
What the actual fuck..?
Morgana, instead of hexing Bellatrix into oblivion or at least responding with her usual cold disdain for unwanted physical contact from anyone that was not ME—actually blushed. A delicate pink flush spread across her cheekbones, visible even against her pale skin, and she ducked her head in what could only be described as bashful pleasure.
"Thank you, Mother," Morgana said softly.
MOTHER?!
I must have made some kind of noise—a strangled squawk, perhaps, or possibly a full-body convulsion—because suddenly everyone was looking at me. Daphne and Astoria had identical expressions of confusion.
Bellatrix was beaming like she'd just received the highest possible compliment. And Morgana...
Morgana was giving me a look. That particular look she got when she'd done something she found terribly clever and was waiting for me to catch up.
"I'm sorry," I said slowly, my voice coming out roughly an octave higher than normal, "did you just call Bellatrix Mum?"
"Mother," Morgana corrected primly. "It's more dignified."
"Did you just call her MOTHER?"
"Is that a problem?" Bellatrix asked, and there was a dangerous edge beneath her cheerful tone. "Are you ashamed of me being your mother too, Amara?"
"What? No! I mean—that's not—I'm just confused about—"
"Sit down and eat, Amara," Morgana interrupted smoothly, gesturing to the empty chair beside her. "All will be explained. Eventually." She paused, her lips curving into that infuriating smirk I loved and hated in equal measure. "Probably…"
I sat.
What else could I do?
Bellatrix returned to the stove, humming something that sounded suspiciously like a lullaby as she flipped more pancakes. The sisters were watching me with barely contained glee, clearly enjoying my confusion. Morgana had returned to her book as if nothing unusual had happened at all.
The baby phoenix chirped and stole a blueberry from my plate.
"Right," I said to no one in particular. "This is fine. Everything is completely normal."
Morgana reached under the table and squeezed my thigh, her touch warm and grounding despite my spiraling confusion. When I looked at her, she leaned in close enough that her lips brushed my ear.
"Trust me," she whispered. "I'll explain everything later. But for now... just enjoy having a family and coven that wants to take care of you. Even if the circumstances are somewhat... manufactured."
Manufactured?
What the hell did that mean?
But Morgana had already pulled back. Daphne was asking Astoria to pass the syrup, and somehow the moment for demanding answers had passed.
I looked around the kitchen and couldn't help but smile a bit.
This was my family now.
My weird, broken, probably-a-little-bit-evil family.
I picked up my fork and started eating. The eggs were perfect—fluffy and seasoned with herbs I couldn't identify but definitely wanted more of. The bacon was crispy without being burnt. The pancakes practically melted on my tongue.
"Holy shit," I said around a mouthful of food, my manners temporarily abandoned. "Bellatrix, where did you learn to cook like this?"
She preened visibly at the compliment, her dark eyes brightening with pleasure. "The Blacks insisted all their daughters learn domestic magic, regardless of blood status politics. Something about being able to manage a proper household." She sniffed disdainfully. "Personally, I always thought it was rather beneath me, but it does come in handy when one wishes to feed one's daughters a proper breakfast."
"One's daughters," I repeated faintly.
Morgana's hand found my thigh again, squeezing in what I interpreted as both reassurance and a warning to just go with it.
"We're very grateful, Mother," Morgana said, and if there was something performative in the words, Bellatrix either didn't notice or didn't care. She just beamed at both of us like we'd given her the moon and stars.
Daphne caught my eye across the table, raising one perfectly sculpted eyebrow in a clear what the fuck is happening expression.
I shrugged helplessly.
And then I went back to eating my surprisingly delicious breakfast while my newly-expanded family chattered around me about plans for the day and whether we should go mansion-hunting and if Bellatrix could be convinced to make dinner as well.
Normal family stuff. Totally, completely normal.
…Morgana and Bellatrix left our safehouse that morning to go mansion shopping. I'd thought they were joking at breakfast when Morgana mentioned it between bites of toast—something about "proper accommodations befitting our station" and Bellatrix shrieking with delight about finding somewhere with "adequate dungeon space."
Apparently they'd been completely serious.
Which left me alone with Daphne and Astoria, and after the stunt they'd pulled at breakfast, I had plans for them.
It had been over a week since I'd properly trained my own sort-of apprentices in dark magic.
"This is ridiculous," Daphne panted, pressing her back against the basement's stone wall. Her chest heaved with exertion, pale skin flushed pink from our exercises. "You can't seriously expect us to—"
I flicked my wand lazily, and a stinging hex caught her right on the curve of her left breast.
"Ow! Amara!"
"Less talking," I said sweetly, "more dodging."
The basement beneath our warehouse safehouse was still a great training space. And in the center of that space, the Greengrass sisters stood completely naked.
Was the nudity strictly necessary for dodge training? No. Absolutely not. But they'd been far too cheeky with me at breakfast, and I was in a punishing mood.
It had started innocently enough. Astoria had made some comment about how I'd been "too tired" lately to give them proper attention—complete with an exaggerated pout that made her look like an affronted kitten. Then Daphne had chimed in, mentioning how Morgana had been "monopolizing" and wasn't it unfair that they'd been left to themselves?
The final straw had been Astoria leaning across the table to steal bacon off my plate, her negligee gaping open to reveal the curve of her breast, and whispering, "If you won't feed us attention, we'll just have to take what we can get."
So now they were running around my basement naked while I fired stinging hexes at their cute asses and lovely tits. The hexes weren't strong enough to leave marks on their pale, supple skin—I wasn't cruel—but they were certainly strong enough to make them yelp and curse at me.
Which they did. Frequently.
"This isn't training!" Astoria complained, dancing sideways to avoid a hex that would have caught her right nipple. Her smaller breasts bounced with the movement, and I tracked them with my eyes before sending another hex at her hip. "This is—ah!—this is torture!"
"This is necessary though," I corrected, advancing slowly across the basement floor. "I was attacked by over a dozen Aurors when I was in Britain. I fought off an army of cannibal mermaids! Fought for my life multiple times while you two were here lounging in lingerie and complaining about being bored…"
I punctuated the statement with a rapid-fire trio of hexes. Daphne managed to dodge the first two—her reflexes were genuinely improving—but the third caught her square on her right ass cheek.
"Fuck!" She stumbled forward, one hand flying back to rub the stinging flesh. "That one actually hurt!"
"Good. Maybe you'll remember to keep moving."
The rules I'd established were simple. No shield charms—those were a crutch that would fail them against anyone with real power. The best they were allowed to do was reflect the spells back at me, but that required immense precision and coordination. Deflecting a hex traveling over a hundred miles per hour with nothing but the tip of your wand was a skill that took months to master.
Neither sister had managed it yet. But they were getting closer.
"The enemies you face one day aren't going to politely wait while you cast Protego," I continued, circling around them like a predator. My tail swayed behind me. I'd manifested my succubus features for this session, wings folded against my back, horns catching the torchlight. Partly because it intimidated them. Partly because I liked how they looked at me when I wore my true form. "If someone is trying to kill you and you are outclassed magically and physically, then you need to learn to dodge!"
Astoria had recovered enough to glare at me, her blue eyes bright with indignation even as she kept her body moving, never staying still long enough to be an easy target. Smart girl. "And the nudity?" she demanded. "How exactly does being naked help us learn to dodge?"
I smiled, slow and dangerous. "Call it motivation. You're far less likely to let a hex hit you when there's no clothing to absorb even a fraction of the impact."
That was partially true. The other part—the part I didn't mention—was that my [Passionate Teacher] perk made me exponentially more effective at instruction the less clothing was involved.
"Besides," I added, firing another hex that Astoria barely twisted away from, "you seemed very eager to show off your bodies last night and today at breakfast. I'm simply giving you the opportunity to do so in a more productive context! And then maybe later we can be productive together in other ways…"
Daphne's cheeks flushed darker—and not just from exertion.
…The training session had left all three of us flushed and breathing hard, though for very different reasons.
I'd finally called an end to it when Astoria managed to deflect one of my hexes back at me—the spell had gone wide, missing me entirely and scorching a black mark into the basement wall, but the achievement was real. She'd actually done it. The grin on her face had been so genuinely proud that I'd nearly kissed her right there.
Instead, I'd told them both they could get dressed.
They'd refused.
"We're comfortable like this," Daphne had said, her voice carrying that aristocratic certainty that made my stomach flutter. "Unless you're uncomfortable with us?"
Astoria had pressed closer, her smaller body warm against my side. "You did say we could be productive together later. It's later now."
So that was how I ended up on the living room couch with two naked blonde witches draped over me like particularly affectionate cats.
Daphne was on my left, her generous curves molded against my side, one long leg thrown possessively over my thigh. Her larger breasts pressed against my arm through my tank top, soft and warm, her dusty pink nipples still hard from the adrenaline of training. She'd tucked her head against my shoulder, blonde hair spilling across my collarbone like silk.
Astoria had claimed my right side with equal determination. Where her sister was languid and composed, Astoria was restless—constantly shifting, adjusting, finding new ways to press more of her skin against mine. Her breasts were smaller but perfectly shaped, perky in that way that made my hands itch to cup them properly. She'd hooked her chin over my shoulder, her breath warm against my neck.
I was struggling.
My succubus instincts were screaming at me. Two beautiful, willing, naked women pressed against me, their arousal thick in the air—I could smell it, could practically taste it. Every brush of skin against skin sent sparks through my nervous system. My tail had manifested without my permission and was currently wrapped loosely around Astoria's bare thigh, the tip twitching with barely contained need.
But I'd actually wanted to go outside today. If I started something with the sisters now, I knew exactly where it would lead. Hours in bed. Taking their virginities. Probably not leaving this warehouse until tomorrow morning.
So instead of doing what every fiber of my demonic nature demanded, I compromised.
My hands found their breasts.
Daphne let out a soft gasp as my left hand cupped her fully, my palm fitting perfectly against the generous swell of her chest. Her nipple pressed against my palm like a hard little pebble, and I rubbed slow circles around it with my thumb.
"Amara," she breathed, her composed facade cracking slightly.
"Shh." I squeezed gently, then released, then squeezed again, establishing a rhythm that had her pressing harder against my side. "Let me take care of you."
Astoria whimpered when my right hand found her breast. She was more sensitive than her sister—she always had been—and the first touch of my fingers against her nipple made her whole body jerk. I rolled the hard peak between my thumb and forefinger, not quite pinching, just applying enough pressure to make her gasp.
"That's—oh, Merlin—that's not fair," she managed. "You can't just—"
"Can't just what?" I asked innocently, tugging lightly on her nipple while my other hand continued its slow massage of Daphne's larger breast. "Can't just touch you? You're the ones who refused to get dressed."
"We wanted—" Astoria's voice hitched as I twisted her nipple slightly. "We wanted more than touching."
"I know what you wanted." My voice came out rougher than I'd intended. "But this is what you're getting. For now."
Both sisters made sounds of frustration that went straight to my core. Gods, they were beautiful like this—flushed and needy, pressing against me, wanting more than I was giving them. The power of it was intoxicating.
But there was something I needed to address first.
"I'm sorry," I said, my hands never stopping their ministrations. "About your parents. I tried to find information while I was in Britain, but everything happened so fast—the Potters, the Aurors, escaping with Bellatrix—I didn't have time to investigate properly."
Daphne's breath caught, and not just from what my fingers were doing to her nipple. Her blue eyes found mine, and there was something complicated in them—pain and acceptance and a resignation that made my chest ache.
"It's okay," she said softly. "Bellatrix told us last night."
My hand stilled on her breast. "Told you what?"
"About our parents." Astoria's voice was quieter now, some of the playful neediness replaced by something heavier. She shifted against my side, pressing closer as if seeking comfort. "They joined the Dark Lord."
The Greengrass parents—the ones who'd sent their daughters to Gotham for safety, who'd been trying to find a cure for Astoria's bloodline curse, who'd seemed like genuinely decent people by pureblood standards—had joined Voldemort.
"Not willingly," Daphne added quickly, reading something in my expression. "He... persuaded them. After we left. Made it clear that neutrality was no longer an option for any pureblood family."
"Then why haven't they tried to escape?" The question came out sharper than I intended. "Why haven't they contacted you, tried to flee Britain, done anything—"
"Because they'd rather live as nobles under his rule than give everything up." Astoria's voice was bitter now. "Our family has held our lands for six hundred years, Amara. Six hundred years of history, of tradition, of legacy. And our parents have decided that preserving that matters more than..." She trailed off, unable to finish.
"More than their daughters," Daphne completed, her tone flat. "More than us."
I pulled them both closer, my hands abandoning their breasts to wrap around their shoulders instead. They melted against me immediately, and I felt the wetness of tears against my neck—Astoria's, I thought, though Daphne's breathing had gone suspiciously uneven.
"Fuck them," I said, the words rough with sudden anger. "Fuck your parents, fuck their legacy, fuck their six hundred years of tradition. You have us now. You have me, and Morgana, and yes, even Bellatrix apparently. You have a coven that actually wants you."
"It still hurts," Astoria whispered.
"I know." I pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "It always hurts when the people who should love you choose something else instead."
The Potter Manor burning flashed through my mind. James Senior's face when he'd tried to sell me. Lily's false kindness hiding her true intentions.
"I wish Voldemort and Dumbledore would just kill each other already," I growled, returning my hands to their breasts almost absently. The fondling was gentler now, more comforting than arousing, though my succubus nature couldn't help but notice how both sisters responded. "Then I could swoop in and slaughter whichever one was left standing while they were still weakened."
Daphne laughed wetly against my shoulder. "That's remarkably pragmatic of you."
"It's remarkably unlikely is what it is." My thumb traced circles around Astoria's nipple, and I felt her shiver. "They're both cowards at heart. They'll throw their followers at each other until one side runs out of disposable pawns. Neither of them would risk their own precious lives in direct confrontation."
"The great Albus Dumbledore," Astoria said, her voice gaining some of its usual spark as my ministrations continued, "hiding behind teenagers that he brainwashes in his school for seven years while the real threats to Brtain go unchallenged."
"The terrifying Dark Lord," Daphne added, arching slightly into my touch, "sending his servants to die in his name while he lurks in shadows like a common coward."
"See?" I pinched both their nipples simultaneously, drawing twin gasps. "You understand. They're the same."
And now... now I could give them something else to focus on. My hands grew more insistent, kneading and squeezing and teasing. Daphne's larger breasts filled my palm perfectly, soft and heavy, her nipples like hard diamonds against my skin. Astoria's smaller chest was no less responsive, her breath coming faster as I rolled her nipples between my fingers.
"Amara," Daphne gasped, her hips shifting restlessly. "If you're not going to—if we're not going to—you can't just—"
"Can't just what?" I squeezed harder, twisting slightly. "Can't just make you feel good without taking it further? Watch me."
My tail unwound from Astoria's thigh and began tracing patterns up her side instead, the sensitive tip brushing against the underside of her breast. She practically keened at the sensation, her back arching, pressing more of herself into my hand.
I was good at this now. Morgana had trained me well—not just in magic, but in the art of giving pleasure. I knew exactly how much pressure to apply, exactly where to touch, exactly how to vary my rhythm to build sensation without allowing release.
And then, when I felt them both trembling on the edge, I pushed them over.
A surge of my [Lewd Touch] ability—just a pulse, barely any magic at all, and both sisters came apart in my arms.
Daphne's orgasm was quiet, intense, her whole body going rigid as waves of pleasure crashed through her. Her teeth sank into her bottom lip to muffle her moan, her blue eyes squeezed shut, her fingers digging into my thigh hard enough to leave marks.
Astoria was the opposite. Loud and unashamed, crying out my name as she shook and trembled against me. Her smaller body practically vibrated with the force of her orgasm, her back arching so hard I thought she might hurt herself.
I held them through it, murmuring soft praise, letting them ride out the aftershocks against my body. My own arousal was a pounding ache between my thighs, but I breathed through it.
Controlled it. Didn't let it control me…
When they finally came down, both sisters were flushed and panting, their eyes glazed with satisfaction and lingering desire.
"That was..." Astoria started.
"Mean," Daphne finished, though there was no real heat in her voice. "You got us off with just your hands and then you're going to leave, aren't you?"
I pressed kisses to both their cheeks—Daphne first, then Astoria—and gently began to extract myself from their tangled limbs.
"I want to go out," I said, not quite apologetically. "Explore Gotham a bit. Maybe find some criminals to terrorize." I shot them both a look filled with lust and promise. "We can spend more time together later. Much more time. I have plans for both of you that require more energy than I currently have."
Astoria's eyes went dark with anticipation. "What kind of plans?"
"The kind that involve taking things you've been saving." I let my gaze travel meaningfully down both their naked bodies. "If you still want to give them to me."
Daphne's breath caught. "You mean—"
"I mean exactly what you think I mean." I stood, leaving them sprawled on the couch like debauched angels. "But not today. Today I need to remember what fresh air smells like. Well not fresh-fresh considering we live in Gotham, but you two get what I mean…"
Both sisters looked utterly wrecked—flushed, satisfied, disappointed, and desperately wanting more all at once. It was a heady combination. Part of me wanted to say fuck it and drag them both upstairs.
"Stay out of trouble while I'm gone," I told them, already heading for the stairs to find proper clothes for wandering Gotham. "And maybe put something on before Morgana and Bellatrix get back from mansion shopping…"
…Sometimes you just had to get back to your roots.
I stood in the mouth of the alley, watching the flames lick up from the dumpster with a satisfaction that probably said something unflattering about my psychological state. The screaming had stopped about thirty seconds ago—human vocal cords could only sustain that kind of desperate shrieking for so long before the smoke and heat did their work.
Three of them. There had been three of them.
The first one had grabbed my arm as I passed the alley mouth, his grip bruising-tight, his breath reeking of cheap whiskey and cheaper decisions. "Hey pretty lady," he'd slurred, already dragging me toward the shadows where his friends waited. "Why don't you come hang out with us for a while?"
I'd let him pull me into the alley. I'd even smiled.
That had been his first mistake. His second mistake was not recognizing the particular quality of that smile—the one that showed too many teeth, that didn't quite reach my eyes, that made me look less like a woman being assaulted and more like a predator who'd just been handed exactly what she wanted.
His third and final mistake was existing in Gotham City on the same day I decided to go shopping.
The other two had emerged from behind a stack of rotting pallets, one brandishing a knife that had clearly never been cleaned, the other cracking his knuckles like this was some kind of movie and he was the intimidating muscle. They'd been wearing matching grins—the kind of grins that said they'd done this before, that they'd gotten away with it before, that they expected to get away with it again.
"Well, well," Knife Guy had said, his eyes crawling over my body with the kind of hungry appreciation that made my skin want to crawl right off my bones. "Looks like we caught ourselves a real looker today, boys."
"Please," I'd said, pitching my voice high and scared. "Please don't hurt me. I'll give you whatever you want, just—"
The first fireball had caught Grabby Hands right in the chest.
He'd gone down screaming, flames spreading across his torso faster than he could process what was happening. Knife Guy had actually frozen in shock—his brain couldn't reconcile the terrified woman he'd been planning to assault with the creature now standing before him, wand in hand, green eyes glowing with something that definitely wasn't fear.
Knuckle Cracker had been smarter. He'd tried to run.
I'd let him get almost to the alley mouth before I hit him with a blood-boiling curse. He'd made it three more steps on pure momentum before collapsing, his veins blackening beneath his skin as his internal temperature skyrocketed past anything compatible with human life.
Knife Guy had charged me then, desperation making him brave or stupid or both. His blade had actually grazed my arm—a thin line of red that healed almost instantly, my enhanced regeneration knitting the flesh back together before the blood could even properly flow.
I'd caught his wrist, twisted until something snapped, and then I'd shown him exactly what my claws could do when I bothered to extend them.
Now all three of them were in the dumpster, and the dumpster was on fire, and I was standing at the mouth of the alley with a small smirk. "Cathartic," I murmured to myself, brushing some ash off my black tank top. "That's the word. This was cathartic."
A woman across the street had stopped walking, her shopping bags clutched to her chest, her eyes wide as she stared at the smoke rising from the alley behind me. Our gazes met for a brief moment.
I winked at her.
She practically sprinted in the opposite direction.
Good old Gotham. Never change.
I emerged from the alley with my chin held high, my hips swaying in a walk that was part strut and part fuck-you to anyone watching. And people were watching—they always watched when I walked through this city. Part of it was the way I looked, because let's be honest, my succubus heritage had blessed me with a body that turned heads regardless of context. The tight jeans that hugged my curves, the tank top that showed just enough cleavage to be interesting, the cascade of raven hair that caught the light like liquid shadow.
But part of it was also the fact that I'd just emerged from an alley where men had been screaming for mercy and received none.
The civilians on the street did that particular Gotham shuffle I'd grown to recognize—the one where they desperately wanted to pretend they hadn't seen anything while simultaneously trying to put as much distance between themselves and the obvious source of danger as possible. A businessman in a rumpled suit suddenly became very interested in his phone. A mother with a stroller executed an impressive U-turn. A group of teenagers who'd been loitering on the corner scattered like startled pigeons.
"Nice day for a walk," I said to no one in particular, letting my voice carry just enough to make the nearest pedestrians flinch.
The sun was actually shining for once—a rarity in Gotham, where the perpetual smog and the city's general aura of despair tended to blot out anything as optimistic as natural light. I tilted my face up toward the warmth, enjoying the contrast between the pleasant weather and the acrid smell of burning criminal still clinging to my clothes.
I had a mission today. A purpose. A quest, if you wanted to get dramatic about it.
I was going to buy Raven a gift.
I had a genuine desire to find something that would make Raven smile. Or at least make her do that thing where she tried not to smile and failed, her pale cheeks flushing purple with embarrassed pleasure.
Gods, she was cute when she blushed.
Focus, Amara. Gift shopping. Right.
The problem was that I had no idea what to actually get her. What did you buy for a half-demon empath who dressed exclusively in shades of purple and grey, who'd grown up in an interdimensional nightmare realm, who'd just had her first sexual experience with your tail and probably had some complicated feelings about that?
Hallmark didn't exactly make cards for this situation.
I wandered through the Gotham shopping district, passing storefronts that ranged from depressingly mundane to actively suspicious. A jewelry store with bars on the windows. A pawn shop that probably fenced stolen goods. A café that looked like it hadn't been cleaned in the past 6 months—where was the health code people when you needed them. There was also a boutique selling designer clothes at prices that made even my newly-wealthy self wince.
None of it felt right.
Raven wasn't a jewelry person—or if she was, it would have to be something dark and meaningful, not the generic diamond crap displayed in these windows. She wasn't going to appreciate designer clothes or overpriced coffee or any of the normal gifts that normal people gave to their normal romantic interests.
Which left me with two options.
Option one—Hot Topic.
I actually paused outside the store, examining the window display with a critical eye. Band t-shirts for groups I vaguely recognized. Chokers with spikes and chains. Funko Pops of various pop culture characters staring out at me with their soulless black eyes. Enough black clothing to outfit an entire goth army.
It was... fine. Basic, maybe. The kind of place where suburban teenagers went to buy their first pentagram necklace and feel edgy about it. Raven probably wouldn't hate anything from here, but she also probably wouldn't be particularly impressed.
I wanted to impress her.
Option two—Find somewhere that sold actually magical objects.
Gotham had to have something like that, right? Every major city had its supernatural underbelly, its hidden shops catering to practitioners and creatures and anyone else who operated outside the bounds of mundane reality. London had Diagon Alley and Knockturn Alley. New York apparently had some kind of sanctum run by a sorcerer with a supremely punchable goatee. Gotham...
My feet made the decision before my brain caught up, turning down a side street that looked significantly less maintained than the main thoroughfare. The buildings here were older, the storefronts dustier, the pedestrian traffic nearly nonexistent. Perfect hunting grounds for hidden magical establishments.
I was letting Jesus take the wheel, so to speak.
Mostly because the thought of the actual Christ guiding my steps would probably piss off Lucifer, and I was still simmering with resentment toward him after that stunt he'd pulled with Mordred. Mazikeen too, for that matter—standing there looking guilty while her boss traumatized me for his own entertainment.
Fuck them both, I thought cheerfully, turning another corner at random. If divine intervention wants to help me find the perfect gift for my demon girlfriend out of sheer spite toward the Devil, who am I to argue?
The alley I found myself in was narrow and dim, the kind of place that would have made a normal person nervous. Shadows pooled in corners that shouldn't have been dark enough to hold them. The air tasted different here—thicker, charged with something that made my succubus senses prick up with interest.
And there, wedged between a condemned building and what appeared to be an abandoned pawn shop, was a door that definitely hadn't been there a moment ago.
The sign above it was hand-painted in silver script that seemed to shift when I looked at it directly. Madame Xanadu's Emporium of the Extraordinary.
I smiled.
"Thank you, Jesus," I said aloud, just in case Lucifer was somehow listening. Then I pushed open the door and stepped inside.
The shop hit my senses like a physical wave the moment I crossed the threshold.
The air itself felt different here, thicker and more alive, charged with the kind of ambient magic that made my succubus instincts purr with recognition. This wasn't some hedge witch's hobby shop or a New Age boutique selling crystals to gullible tourists.
This was the real thing.
The interior defied the narrow exterior I'd entered through. The space stretched back impossibly far, shelves climbing toward a ceiling lost in shadow, every surface cluttered with objects that practically hummed with enchantment. Glass cases displayed jewelry that seemed to shift when I wasn't looking directly at it. Bottles of luminescent liquids lined one wall in a rainbow of impossible colors. Books were stacked in precarious towers, their spines bearing titles in languages I couldn't identify and a few I suspected hadn't been spoken aloud in centuries.
A smile spread across my face before I could stop it. This place felt like magic given physical form—chaotic and beautiful and slightly dangerous, exactly the kind of establishment I would have killed to discover during my years as a supposedly powerless squib.
"Oh," I breathed, running my fingers along a shelf of carved figurines that seemed to watch me pass. "This is wonderful."
Movement at the back of the shop drew my attention. A beaded curtain parted, and a woman emerged from whatever space lay beyond.
She was beautiful in that timeless way that made age impossible to determine—she could have been thirty or three hundred, her features carrying the kind of ageless elegance that spoke to either exceptional genetics or magical preservation. Her skin was a warm brown, her hair falling in dark waves past her shoulders, adorned with thin silver chains that caught the ambient light. She wore layers of flowing fabric in deep jewel tones—burgundy and gold and midnight blue—that draped over her figure like water.
But it was her eyes that made me pause mid-step.
Green. Bright, vivid green, almost as striking as my own. Almost as striking as Morgana's. Those remarkable eyes found me across the shop, and the woman went absolutely still.
The color drained from her face. Her hand shot out to grip the counter beside her, knuckles going white with the force of her grip. For a moment—just a heartbeat—I saw genuine terror flash across her features, the kind of primal fear that bypassed rational thought entirely.
"Morgana," she breathed, and the word came out like a curse and a prayer combined.
I stopped walking, suddenly very aware of my wand tucked into my waistband and the fire magic coiled beneath my skin. If this woman decided to attack first and ask questions never, I needed to be ready.
But the fear in her eyes was already shifting, morphing into something else as she studied me more carefully. Her head tilted slightly, those green eyes narrowing with professional assessment. I watched her gaze travel over my features—cataloging, comparing, analyzing.
"No," she said slowly, and some of the tension bled from her shoulders. "No, you're not her. The resemblance is... remarkable, but you're younger. Different energy entirely." Her hand released its death grip on the counter, though she didn't fully relax. "You must be the apprentice. The one the magical community has been whispering about."
"Guilty as charged." I resumed my approach, keeping my movements deliberately casual. Non-threatening. The last thing I needed was to spook a clearly powerful practitioner in her own territory. "Amara Black, at your service. And you must be Madame Xanadu? I saw that name on the sign…"
"I am." She watched me come closer with wary fascination, like someone observing a beautiful but potentially venomous snake. "The stories don't do justice to the resemblance. You could be her daughter." A pause, something flickering in those perceptive eyes. "Or a clone, perhaps? Such things are not unheard of in certain magical traditions."
I thought of Bellatrix in her frilly pink apron, calling Morgana "future Amara" and shrieking with delight about having two perfect daughters. I thought of Morgana's inexplicable blush when Bellatrix kissed her cheek. I thought of the word "Mother" falling from my ancient mentor's lips like it belonged there.
"According to the weird shit that happened at breakfast this morning," I said, letting my lips curve into a smirk, "we're going with twin sisters."
Madame Xanadu blinked.
"What?"
"What?" I replied, keeping my expression perfectly innocent.
A beat of silence stretched between us. I could practically see the questions forming behind her eyes—questions about how Morgana le Fay could possibly have a twin sister when she'd been born over a thousand years ago, questions about what kind of breakfast conversation could lead to such an absurd conclusion, questions about whether I was being deliberately obtuse or genuinely unhinged.
I offered no clarification. Some things were simply too complicated to explain, and others were too entertaining to spoil with context.
"I see," Xanadu said finally, in the tone of someone who absolutely did not see but had decided not to pursue the matter further. Wise woman. "Well then, Miss Black. Twin sister and apprentice of Morgana le Fay." The words came out slightly strangled, as if her tongue couldn't quite believe what it was saying. "What brings you to my humble establishment…?"
I glanced around the shop again, taking in the impossible depth and the humming artifacts and the general aura of concentrated magical chaos. "Humble seems like a stretch, but I'll let it slide." My attention returned to her, and I let some of the playfulness drain from my expression. "I'm looking for a gift. For someone... important to me."
"A gift." Xanadu's posture shifted subtly, professional interest overtaking wariness. This was apparently more comfortable territory—a customer with needs. "I see. And this important someone—what can you tell me about them? The more I understand about the recipient, the better I can guide you toward an appropriate selection."
I hesitated, which probably told her more than any words could have.
"Her name is Raven," I said finally. "Of the Titans."
Whatever Xanadu had been expecting, it clearly wasn't that. Her eyebrows climbed toward her hairline, and something that might have been disbelief flickered across her features. "Raven," she repeated. "The well known superheroine who is associated with the Justice League? She is the lover of the apprentice of Morgana le Fay?"
"We haven't exactly labeled anything yet," I admitted, feeling heat creep into my cheeks despite
"If you say so," she paused. "...Come. Let me show you some options for a woman of her known tastes."
I fell into step behind her, marveling at how the shop seemed to shift around us as we walked. Shelves rearranged themselves when I wasn't looking directly at them. Display cases rotated to present different contents.
"Also, you wouldn't happen to sell any magical perches would you? Cuz I recently got a bird…" I added.
– Alfred –
The doorbell chimed through Wayne Manor.
Alfred Pennyworth set down the silver he'd been polishing, removed his work gloves with practiced efficiency, and began the journey from the east wing to the front entrance.
It was, as always, a considerable walk.
Sixty-three rooms, seventeen bathrooms, a ballroom that hadn't seen an actual ball in decades.
His footsteps echoed against marble floors as he passed through the grand foyer, past portraits of Waynes long dead, past suits of armor that Master Bruce insisted were "period appropriate" and not at all influenced by his obsession with costumes and secret identities. The afternoon light streamed through tall windows, casting long shadows across Persian rugs that cost more than most people's homes.
We really must hire additional staff, Alfred thought, not for the first time. His knees weren't what they'd once been, and crossing the manor for every delivery and visitor was becoming rather tedious. But Master Bruce's paranoia about his nocturnal activities made such hiring practically impossible. One couldn't exactly put "must be comfortable with secret underground lairs and an employer who regularly comes home bleeding" in a job listing.
The doorbell chimed again, more insistently this time.
"Coming," Alfred murmured to no one in particular, quickening his pace as much as dignity would allow.
He paused at the entrance hall mirror—a habit of decades—to ensure his appearance was appropriately presentable. Jacket straight, tie properly knotted, not a silver hair out of place. Whatever waited on the other side of that door would be greeted by Alfred Pennyworth at his most impeccable.
He was, after all, a professional.
Alfred opened the door. His mind went completely, catastrophically blank.
Standing on the front porch of Wayne Manor, bathed in pleasant afternoon sunlight that had no business illuminating such figures, were two women.
The first he recognized immediately.
Morgana le Fay. Ancient sorceress. Destroyer of empires. The most feared dark witch in recorded human history. She was wearing a perfectly tailored black dress.. She looked like she'd stepped off the cover of a fashion magazine, if that magazine catered exclusively to beautiful women who could unmake reality with a thought.
The second woman was less immediately identifiable. Wild dark curls framed a face that might have been beautiful if not for the manic gleam in her eyes—the particular gleam Alfred had learned to associate with individuals who had committed atrocities and felt no remorse whatsoever. She wore black robes that seemed slightly out of place in modern Gotham, and she was examining the manor's facade with the disinterested air of someone who found the architecture beneath her notice.
Alfred's training—decades of service, years of supporting Master Bruce's more unusual endeavors, countless encounters with criminals and heroes and everything in between—was the only thing that kept him from slamming the door and immediately activating every security protocol the Batcave possessed.
Instead, he kept his face perfectly neutral.
Oh dear, he thought. "Good afternoon," he said, his voice betraying nothing. "How may I be of assistance?"
Morgana le Fay smiled at him. "Hello there!" Her voice was warm, pleasant, utterly at odds with everything Alfred knew about her capabilities. "I do hope we're not interrupting anything important. We simply wanted to introduce ourselves." She gestured vaguely toward the east, where the rolling hills of the Wayne estate eventually gave way to neighboring properties. "We've just purchased the Blackwood Manor—the lovely old place on the other side of the hill, closest to yours. We're going to be your new neighbors! Along with the rest of my family."
She delivered this information as though it were the most natural thing in the world. As though ancient dark sorceresses regularly engaged in real estate transactions and social calls to introduce themselves to the neighborhood.
Alfred's mind raced through approximately seventeen different emergency protocols while his face maintained its expression of polite interest.
The Blackwood Manor. He knew the property—a sprawling Gothic estate that had sat empty for nearly a decade after its previous owners had died under circumstances that were officially listed as "natural causes" but which local rumors attributed to everything from ghosts to government conspiracies. It was isolated, defensible, and possessed extensive grounds that would be perfect for someone who wished to conduct activities away from prying eyes.
Someone, for instance, who might want to practice world-ending dark magic without the neighbors complaining about the noise.
"How delightful," Alfred heard himself say. "The Blackwood property is quite beautiful. It's been empty for far too long."
Master Bruce is going to have an aneurysm, he thought. An actual, literal aneurysm. I shall need to prepare the medical bay.
The wild-haired woman—and Alfred was becoming increasingly certain he should know who she was, that he'd seen her face in briefings or news reports or wanted posters—let out an impatient huff. "Can we go yet?" she asked Morgana, her accent distinctly British and upper-class, dripping with aristocratic disdain. "This is boring. I wanted to look at the dungeons again. You promised we could design proper dungeons."
"In a moment, Mother," Morgana replied smoothly.
Alfred's eyebrow twitched. It was the closest he ever came to visible surprise.
Mother?
He studied the two women again with fresh eyes. They did share certain features—the dark hair, the pale skin, the general aura of "could kill you with a thought and would enjoy doing so." But Morgana le Fay was over a thousand years old. Her mother would have to be...
Alfred decided not to pursue that particular line of reasoning. Some mysteries were better left unsolved, especially when the alternative was drawing the attention of beings who could probably read minds.
"The grounds are quite extensive," he offered, because the silence was stretching and someone had to fill it. "I trust you'll find the property suitable for your... needs."
Morgana's smile sharpened slightly, as though she appreciated the careful neutrality of his word choice. "I'm certain we will. The realtor was very accommodating once we explained our requirements." Something flickered in her green eyes—amusement, or perhaps the memory of whatever "accommodation" had actually entailed. "But we didn't come merely to announce our presence. We believe in being good neighbors."
She reached into her designer handbag—Morgana le Fay carries a handbag, Alfred noted with a hysteria he ruthlessly suppressed—and withdrew a bottle of wine.
Not just any wine. Alfred recognized the label immediately. A 1947 Château Cheval Blanc, one of the most sought-after vintages in existence. Bottles regularly sold at auction for over three hundred thousand dollars. Morgana held it out to him as casually.
"A housewarming gift. In reverse, I suppose, since we're the ones warming our house. But it seemed rude to arrive empty-handed."
Alfred accepted the bottle with hands that absolutely did not tremble. "That's... extraordinarily generous, madam. Thank you."
"Morgana, please. 'Madam' makes me feel old." Her lips curved.
The wild-haired woman—Mother, apparently—had grown bored with the conversation and wandered several feet away. She was now examining one of the decorative gargoyles that flanked the manor's entrance, poking at it with her finger as though testing whether it might come alive. "Ugly thing," she announced. "We should get better ones. Ones that actually move and attack intruders."
"We'll discuss the security features later, Mother," Morgana said with the patient tone of someone who'd had this conversation many times.
"Your mother seems... spirited," Alfred offered diplomatically.
"She's adapting to regular civilian life. It's a process." Morgana's expression flickered with something that might have been genuine affection before smoothing back into pleasant neutrality. "We won't take up any more of your time. I'm sure you have duties to attend to, and we have a mansion to furnish. I simply wanted to ensure we started our neighborly relationship on the right foot."
The right foot, Alfred thought. Yes. Because nothing says 'friendly neighbor' quite like the woman who destroyed Camelot stopping by for a chat.
But there was only one response appropriate to the situation. Only one action that decades of training and British propriety would allow.
Alfred straightened his already-straight jacket, inclined his head with precisely calibrated courtesy, and smiled.
"How wonderful," he said, and the words came out perfectly pleasant, perfectly welcoming, betraying nothing of the screaming happening inside his skull. "Would you two care for a cup of tea? I've just put the kettle on, and I believe we have some rather excellent biscuits that arrived from London this morning."
Morgana's eyebrows rose slightly, and for just a moment, Alfred saw something like genuine surprise flicker across her ancient features. Whatever she'd expected from this encounter, apparently it wasn't a tea invitation.
"That," she said slowly, "sounds lovely."
Oh dear, Alfred thought again as he stepped aside to welcome the most dangerous woman in the world into Wayne Manor. Master Bruce is going to need significantly more than the medical bay. Perhaps a therapist. Perhaps several therapists? Although, then again, he has been acting a bit—OFF—lately…
But he kept his smile firmly in place as he gestured toward the sitting room. "Right this way. I trust you take yours with milk?"
XXX
Do you also want to read a few chapters ahead of my posts on this site? You can!
You can check me out on "Pat-reon.-com / Starwaves" to support me and read a few chapters ahead of everyone else!