Sleeping With Devils

A Short Story in The Night Garden universe

PLEASE NOTE: This is a repost of the story, originally released in January 2026, in order to move it to my new platform. Sleeping With Devils is one of the lore-expanding stories I've been promising as a free read for a little while now, as a celebration for Lemon Balm's release going well. The short is from Acanthus’ POV. This story is meant to be after A Priest’s Lament (the newsletter exclusive), but you don’t need to read these in any order; not really. The final word count is 4,600 words, and the full story is here for free.

This is one from the Tales From The Night Garden universe. You don't need to have read Lemon Balm in order to enjoy it. If you like the shorts, consider buying the book!

Some trigger warnings before we jump in:
Manipulation
Mentions of torture (dark ages, the Catholic church, the Inquisition is a Thing)
Blood (we're dealing with vampires here)

Please let me know what you think, and if you'd like more! And, consider subscribing to keep up to date on my work.

Sleeping With Devils

Acanthus

“Tell me a story.”

Cypress’ voice was light, and it broke my concentration on the book in my lap. I blinked. Well, this was certainly new. “What, do you want me to read to you?”

“No, Acanthus. Tell me more of your story.”

“My story? What, like my past?”

“Yeah, tell me more about you.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to get to know you better. You’re a mystery to me, Acanthus.”

Cypress was one of those types of people that enjoyed breaking things down and figuring out how they worked, and his approach to friendships and relationships were no different. I lowered the book, keeping my finger in between the pages as I closed it in my lap, and his eyes lit up. He moved to use the chair as it was intended, leaning forward and watching me eagerly. I couldn’t meet his eyes; blushing as I glanced around, making sure that we were the only ones in the lobby. His interest was flattering but it was awkward; I hated any level of admiration or attention on me.

It was nearing three o’clock, which meant that most of the patrons in The Yellow Rose were asleep or in their rooms. The other vampires were prowling the property, but I hadn’t seen much of them tonight. The low yellow light glinted off of the polished wood of the welcome counter, and I stared past it to the dark door with the Staff only plaque screwed into it. Azalea probably wouldn’t want me divulging too much of her history…

My eyes lingered on Azalea’s door. Cypress sighed again, loud and exaggerated, and my gaze darted to him. “Very well,” my voice was low and hesitant as I mulled over the words. “What would you like me to tell you about?”

“Dunno,” Cypress admitted. “I don’t know much about you. There is always continuing where you left off last time. You could tell me more about what happened the night François rescued you from the crypt? Unless that’s too unhappy of a memory.”

“If I dive into that little tale, we’re going to have to go somewhere more private.”

“Back to the room?”

I glanced towards the stairs. It was a lovely autumn night, and perhaps it would be nicer to go outside, but I think talking about my Sire in the open air would send me into a panic. His name was a curse, and I didn’t care to draw the devil back to me. The room was safe, small, and cozy. I rose, stretching with a groan before pulling my finger from the book and letting the block of paper snap shut. “Certainly, the room sounds nice. Is that acceptable?”

“I suggested it, Acanthus,” Cypress snorted. He stood from the chair as I shelved the book, and I watched him stuff his phone into his pocket from the corner of my eye. He came up next to me, wrapping his arm casually around my waist. I leaned into the touch, kissing his shoulder. He gave me a gentle squeeze, and I smiled against him, relishing the closeness. He pulled away too soon, but his warmth lingered, and a pleasant tingle danced across my skin as I followed him towards the stairs.

The stairwell was dark as we ascended, but that was hardly an issue for someone like me. Besides, I knew these sage and plum halls like the back of my hand. Cypress was walking nearly blind behind me, and so I reached back and laced our fingers together as we hit the second floor. His eyes would be useless in this amount of light, but I could clearly see everything in a blue haze, the colors swirling together and intermingling in a chaotic kaleidoscope of shapes. I guided them down the hallway to our room in the end. A tingle focused in my forehead as I sent my powers in front of us, and a light blazed to life through the cracks of the door before it creaked open.

Cypress’ arm sagged, and they squeezed my hand. I smiled, squeezing it back before letting our fingers part. In the room, I crossed my legs and floated idly towards the bed, before plopping down and pulling my hair over one shoulder to braid. Braiding my hair grounded me, and this was certainly going to be a tale that increased my discomfort. Talking about François always did.

My companion slid into the bed, and the depression of the soft mattress brought me back to the present. I smiled at him as he sat across from me, relaxed and leaning back on his palms. I pressed against the cream-colored wall, the cold seeping through my thin cotton t-shirt. “Alright. Let’s begin.”

——

When I last spoke of François, I was left mute, trembling, and terrified in the alcove behind a stone casket that I refused to call my own. I didn’t know much of anything; feral, and so disconnected from the world that I had forgotten how to speak. “Hello, little one,” the stranger said, and I struggled to remember what the words meant. “I’ve left you perhaps just a little too long in this crypt, haven’t I?”

My body forgot how to move, and my heart fought to escape the prison of my chest as I sat frozen. Unphased by my fear, the man had sat in the small square of moonlight. My teeth gritted into a snarl. That’s my moonlight, you cannot have it.

He tapped the torch against the stone to extinguish it. The smell of smoke and pitch hung heavily in the air with the loss of the light. I was far more confident without the burning light, but I didn’t quite fall into comfort yet. This stranger was something new entirely, I didn’t know what to make of him. My cautious curiosity was in stark contrast to his calm. His eyes glinted in the darkness like a cat; his stillness unnatural and unfeeling as the surrounding stone. Familiar.

I had no way of knowing in my kaleidoscopic haze, but the man who had interrupted my half-mad solitude was familiar to me. Cardinal.

I had to search to remember what that word meant. The silver of the moonlight swirled and reflected off of the bright red habit of the man. That’s what it is, he’s an authority of the church. Have I been found?

My fractured mind began to focus; cascading through the Latin and Greek of the illuminated scriptures, and the rules of the church came flooding back. The man was dressed in the fancy habits, gold and silver rings adorning his fingers. He was important, high up in the Church and extremely young to be. He couldn’t have been much older than I was, and yet, when I had been yanked so completely out of my human life, I had just begun to go through the process of ascending to Bishop. I blinked at him, working through the internal mudslide.

He didn’t look like any Cardinals I had known, but his face stirred something in my memory. If he was familiar to me, then he couldn't have been someone who existed in my human life, but something about him felt safe. His stillness mirrored a statue; no breath fell from his nostrils, and the sound of his heartbeat was unnaturally slow for a grown man. He was anachronistic and outside of time. Like me?

The thought pulsed from me before I had meant it to; it felt different, like I had projected it into the room. It echoed behind my ears as if I had shouted it, despite never moving my lips. I paused. How could I sound so different within my own mind? My confusion dovetailed and went straight back to fear as I heard a response to the thought, in a voice that wasn’t mine. “Like you, Little Thorn.”

In Romantic languages like French, many nouns are gendered, and the name he gave was a feminine noun. La petite épine. Before I could ask why, he answered as if he could hear the thought before it was formed. This time, he spoke aloud. His voice was a soothing river as he spoke, gentle and patient as if he was referring to a child. “You are like a flower, Little Thorn, but you have wit, and bite, and can cut if one is not careful. You are a beautiful face that craves peace, but are capable of causing the most exquisite pain. If you decide to trust me, I can show you how to have all you want in the universe.”

I could understand him perfectly, and my communication skills were already starting to come back. I blinked, looking down at the dank stone that I was laying on. I hadn’t known comfort or satisfaction in so long. I couldn’t find my voice yet to speak aloud, but I curiously tried to mimic that tunnel feeling. It worked; I projected it towards the stranger as I squinted my eyes shut. ( I can only imagine how ridiculous I looked as I tried to force my thoughts his way.) “Who are you, and why do you seem so familiar? Do I have a name? How long have I been here? What did you mean that you had left me here? What am I?”

There was a loud laughter in response, the man in the center of the room tossing his head and shutting his eyes. His shoulders fell back and he had a carefree air about him as he rested his palms on his knees, posture neutral and unthreatening. The sound was startling, and it unsettled me greatly, but the open posture oddly set me at ease. My intuition was warring with itself on whether to run or to rely on him for information. Was the way he was currently carrying himself for my benefit? I couldn’t be sure. “Please, one question at a time, young one. I can only answer so quickly.”

Right. I shouldn’t be so eager. I cautiously ducked out of the hole behind the casket and crawled towards him, low to the ground like an animal moving in to smell something. He settled, patiently waiting for me to come to him. Mirroring his stance, I stared into his icy blue eyes. Cross legged, hands resting at my dirty knees. We were at odds; me, a picture of rot and insanity, and he a picture of opulence and vitality. My tongue felt strange as I moved my mouth to form the syllables, disjointed and slow. My voice was a reedy, dead rasp as I choked out, “I… Who… What am I?”

“You are,” he spoke quietly, his gentle voice pulling me out of my head, “a breathing, feeling, sentient being. A creature bound to darkness and the moon, but not evil, or bad. You are no demon, or devil. We are in God’s image, more so than man, and we are here to rule them. Angels, of sorts, though many refute us. You are a vampire.”

He smiled, his eyes warm as he reached for my hands. Unthinkingly, I lifted them from my knees and placed them in his, scattering little tufts of disintegrating fabric with the movement. It startled me how warm he was; I was frozen through the bone, cold and empty compared to him. His touch nearly felt like it could burn me, and my heart quickened to its hummingbird pace in my chest. A person. Another person. Another not-person. Another.

The waltz my heart adopted was lifting in excitement, rather than the deep weight of dread that usually accompanied the quickening. I blinked, turning the word over in my thoughts. Vampire. I knew very small rumors of what such a creature was; myths came from the East through merchants and travelers, spreading like wildfire every so often. They were supposed to be bound to caskets, allergic to garlic and sun, and needed blood to survive. Silver would harm them, and mirrors would hold no reflection. They carried dirt and stones in their pockets.

Mindlessly, I pulled my left hand from his and reached up to the small silver chain around my neck that held the cross, touching it. The chain had never left my skin. As I fiddled, I could honestly say that I had never pictured such a creature as an angel; more a twisted, unnatural monstrosity that defied the Lord and the laws of death. The man laughed softly and murmured, “Fear not, child. You are not abandoned, or lost. Most of the peasants’ rumors are just that. You can keep your silver and your crosses.”

My cheeks burned with what little heat they could muster as I dropped my hand back to his, thinking nothing of the dirt and blood clinging to my tattered clothes and skin. I was thirsty for knowledge, and more of my innate curiosity was beginning to clear through the fog. “I thought that vampires were a form of demon.”

François scoffed and rolled his eyes, as if offended by the very thought. I nearly missed the context of his words as I wondered why a Cardinal wouldn’t believe in the thought of demons. “There are so many different forms of vampires,” he explained, “and none I know have had any communion with Satan. They are simply people, transformed and moving through the world in the only way that they know how.”

Just how many vampires does he know?

I hummed thoughtfully, looking down at our clasped hands. His words seemed logical enough, though I think my previous worldview died the moment the sun had sizzled my fingers. He smiled and leaned in. “As for who you are… You never told me your name in the instances we met, while you were human. And, even if I did know it, it’s been sixty years since that day. It is lost to the sands of time. But, we shall find you a new one.”

“A… new name? Sixty years? I’ve been in this crypt for…”

I trailed off, my heart switching from its new calm to a painful throbbing in my chest. That meant that an entire lifetime had spanned between my human life and this strange, cursed existence. The Marquis and my brothers were likely— definitely — dead. My youngest brother may still be alive, but as a decrepit old man. A sob welled up in my throat, but never came. My eyes watered and tinged red.

The man, blurry through the tears in my eyes, reached up and gently touched my face. “It is alright to grieve the loss of the previous life, Little Thorn. But please, do not despair. We will have eternity to create new ones.” He gently stroked my cheek with his thumb, cocking his head to the side. “Tell me something that brings you joy,” he said. There was the strange sensation of dried scabbed blood flaking off beneath his touch. “We shall make you a name based on that.”

His brilliantly blue irises swirled and reflected the moonlight. His entire focus was on me, and his face was genuinely kind and patient. My body calmed of its own accord, my posture loosening. You can trust me, his expression said, and I found myself believing him. As his warm hand fell from my face, I realized I missed the echo of his touch. “I… It’s been so long since I’ve known anything but darkness… But I remember enjoying the gardens. I would help to plant them every spring… There is my faith, peace, and the church… Autumn, and the changing colors… And there is the moonlight.”

“Gardens mean flowers and beauty. Faith and the church mean protection, security, healing, and spirituality. Autumn colors, so red, orange and yellow, the brisk breath of winter coming in, longer nights. And the moonlight; silver, serenity, peace, intuition and intentions… I think I can work with that.”

I blinked. “But all of those things do not intersect easily.”

“Silly fledgling,” the man replied, his voice lilting upwards with humor. “As if you can compile an entire sentient being into a single word.”

As he spoke, a vibrant image suddenly popped into my mind, and I gasped. The view was wondrous, and I closed my eyes to focus on it. I had not conjured the vision of the flower myself — it was wavering, as if it were a picture in light reflected on water — it was a beautiful stalk of flowers that stood in a tall pillar, the stem a vibrant red and the flowers a brilliant white. The flowers were bell-shaped, and the leaves were spiked and dark towards the base. The red of the stalk was nearly purple and the white of the petals were glowing and ethereal in the bright moonlight. The leaves rustled in the wind, and the sweetness of its scent enveloped me. “Oh, it’s beautiful…”

“Do you like it? Does it stir something within you?”

As the picture dulled, a longing filled me. “It does… I wish that the image wouldn’t fade.”

He grinned. “Those are Acanthus mollis flowers.They’re medicinal, and they bloom in July. It’s the height of summer, but the red of the stalks are brilliant, like the turning of the leaves. They also seem magical in the moonlight.”

I blinked, looking down at my hands, which had relaxed to resting in my lap at one point. “Acanthus…”

I tried the name out on my tongue, feeling the syllables as they formed. “Ah… Can… thus.”

It was an odd name, and it didn’t seem French. It felt sharp and spiky on my tongue; vastly different from the beauty of the flower, but I didn’t mind that. The syllables mirrored the Latin on my tongue during the liturgies of my living profession. I liked the thought of something that could be both hard and soft in one entity. I wasn’t sure if it fit me, but it was unique. Closing my eyes, I conjured up the image of the flower again, sitting with it before I nodded. “I think, for now, I like it. I can always change it later if I prefer, right?”

“Of course, Little Thorn,” he replied, his voice warm. “It is your name, after all.”

——

“Wait, so he named you? He caused the problem of you being lost and stuck. The bastard left you to rot in that crypt for sixty years and then acted like a benevolent caretaker? The actions don’t match.”

I smiled wryly at Cypress, who had leaned forward as he listened, rapt. “I’m getting to that, Pup. Storytelling requires a bit of nuance. François was a performer, and a damned good one, at that. His main goal in that musty crypt was to own my entire soul. And he succeeded, at first.”

Cypress blinked, but the expression on his face fell into something akin to what someone’s face does when they smell an old trash heap. I can’t say I blamed him. Pushing off of the wall, I shifted to lay across the bed, laying my head in his lap. I’d braided and unbraided my hair multiple times while telling the story, the vision of my emaciated form in those decayed habits jumping into our link. Cypress took over braiding my hair, and I closed my eyes, focusing on the comforting rhythm of his callused fingers.

“How are you, Acanthus? Do you need to stop?”

“No,” I shook my head, sighing. “But, let us call a spade, a spade. Do not let him charm you through my words, Pup. I loved him dearly, but he was a monster who delighted in torturing people. He was a stain on our world, and I do not wish to bring humanity to a monster as I speak of my past.”

His fingers paused, and as I opened my eyes, he chewed on his lip. His face was pensive, but the anger blazed in his steel and storm eyes as his voice took on a dangerous edge. “Did he hurt you?”

My heart froze and my breath caught in my lungs. It was enough to answer. He tensed, and his shoulders squared as his face fell into a scowl. “I, no, not that night, at least,” I breathed, desperate to bring him peace. He sagged, and his fingers resumed the twisting over and under. “He hurt me many times, but this first night was peaceful.”

——

We talked for many hours that night, facing each other cross-legged in the crypt. As the first hints of sunlight began to creep into the darkness, François brought his wrist to his lips and drew blood, directly from the vein. He stopped the wound with a nail, and held his arm out to me, the smell of iron and ichor filling my senses. My vision swirled with bright color and movement. Up until then, I had only known the taste of the dirty and diseased blood from the floor, or from feeding on the rats and voles that had unfortunately stumbled across my path.

Feeding from a vampire is different from the taste of human blood. It’s a step up from feeding off of animals, but a step below feeding from humanity. Vampire blood has an earthy taste, with an underlying note of something decaying and dead. If I had to equate it to human food, vampire blood is not unlike how mushrooms taste in comparison to meat. I latched on to François’ wrist and drew from him, lapping at the wound. I clung to him; a dying, dehydrated man that found an oasis in a desert. He allowed me to feed for several minutes, and when he pulled away, I whined in protest. “I want more…”

My gaze averted towards the floor, and I watched him in my periphery; I hated the petulance in my voice. He tipped his head, giving me a sympathetic look. My shame grew even larger and threatened to swallow me whole. He crooned, before saying, “I know, little one. Hunger is terrible, but you will learn to manage it. For now, however, you must be patient.”

My heart quickened as he stood, my mind jumping to the horror of being left alone here. Wait, I wanted to scream. Don’t leave me here alone.

“Do not be afraid,” he murmured, holding out his hand. “I will not leave you. But, we do need to leave this place.”

I took the offering, but my questions persisted. “But, François, I have nowhere to go. I’ve been here for a lifetime. And it sounds like so much has changed in the world…” I trailed off, my chest tightening. “If I do not stay, where will I go?”

François sighed, nodding. He knelt back down to my level, his eyes boring into mine. At the time, I took the stare as kindness. Now, I know the calculation behind it. “I understand your hesitation. But, you need guidance, and I have answers. You may stay with me as I teach you of our world, and what it means to be a Vampire. Acanthus, I promise that I will not leave you alone. To survive sixty years in these conditions,” he trailed off, and in the pregnant pause the heavy weight of his words made me squirm. “Well. You are strong, and you are resourceful. I think you have what it takes to survive in the World of Shadows. Come.”

When I made no effort to rise from the floor, he tipped his head towards the door and repeated himself more insistently, tugging at my hand. “Come.”

So many questions plagued me. A flash of impatience and irritation crossed his eyes, but only for a split second. My blood froze in my veins; that flash scared me more than the unknown. I smoothed my ruined habit with my right hand and kept a firm hold of his hand with my left. The fabric did little for me as he led me out of the dark crypt. I thanked my lucky stars that it was pre-dawn and no humans would be about. Who would be reticent to leave something they’ve deemed a hell? Especially with the promise of a companion, who knew how to navigate the unknown? It was a stubborn side of me that only balked because I disliked change.

We made our way through the dark corridors of the basement dungeon and towards a narrow, steep flight of stairs that I knew from memory would open into the back channels of the church. And, being led by my new companion, I allowed myself to take my first real steps into the World of Shadows.

——

Cypress was quiet as I stopped talking. His eyes darted back and forth as he searched my face. “Wait, that’s it?”

I blinked. “That’s where the night ended, Cypress. The man had, after all, created the darkness he was leading me through. ”

“But, no, there has to be more! When was that?”

I snorted. “Is that relevant?”

“It is! You said you’d been in the crypt for sixty years. How did you know?”

I tensed, sliding my gaze away from his face and to the cream colored wall. “The winter he had rescued me from the crypt was the year of 1327. I’d disappeared from the inner sanctum in 1267.”

Cypress sat back with a long, low whistle. “I can’t imagine… What happened next?”

“There wasn’t much, at first,” I admitted, looking up at him. I’d been telling my story for a while, and the low light of the pre-dawn was starting to filter through the windows. It was still too early for Cypress’ eyes to pick up on the building light, but the subtle shifts of blue were starting to come through the open glass.

I lifted myself out of his lap, gliding to the window and latching it closed before turning to look at him. “We remained in Toulouse in a small hut on the outskirts of the city. I was like a toddler, asking him incessant questions and drinking every word. He seemed to know everything, and he shined like a God in my eyes. I learned the rules of the World of Shadows and of the nature of Vampires, and my rescue from the crypt had awakened me to an entire world I was blind to in my human years. Much like you, I drank deeply when I found a fountain of knowledge.”

Cypress smiled, a blush creeping across his cheeks. “Okay, so what happened next?”

I sighed. “Cypress, I’m tired, and I really don’t want to humanize a monster.”

“Oh, trust me, I still want to rip his throat out for leaving you alone for sixty years.”

The words shocked me, and I let out a bark of a laugh. Cypress grinned at me, and my shoulders sagged as I glided back to the bed. I crawled onto the mattress, wrapping my arms around his neck. “I’ve grown tired, As I said, it’s nearly dawn, and I think this section of my tale is done. I’ll think of something else to tell, for the next time that I decide to share.”

He pouted at me, but relented and wrapped his arms around my waist. “Fine. But I’m going to bug you for another story tomorrow.”

I tilted my head forward and pressed my forehead against his. “Fine. I’ll gladly tell you.”