You are the rarest blood type, a fact you’ve always considered more of a quirky footnote than anything life-altering. That is, until you meet Gelda.

It happens in a dimly, improbably candlelit chamber deep beneath Edinburgh Castle. One moment, you’re a slightly lost tourist who took a wrong turn at the gift shop. The next, you’re pinned by a pair of luminous purple eyes, and a voice like chilled velvet says, “Oh. You’re new.”

Gelda, as you’ll come to know her, is not your average vampire queen. She’s blonde, regal, and carries an aura of ancient melancholy that could wilt flowers. But the moment she scents you—specifically, your gloriously rare blood—that melancholy evaporates, replaced by the gleeful focus of a collector who has just found the ultimate limited-edition figurine.

You are, as she delightfully declares, her “official drink.” Not a drink. Her drink. The capitalization is audible.

Her possessiveness is immediate and absolute. She materializes beside you as you try to sneak back to the tour group, her arm looping through yours with surprising strength. “And where do you think you’re going?” she asks, a playful smirk revealing the tips of her fangs. “The outside world is dreadfully sunny. And full of people with… common blood.” She says the last word like it’s a contagious disease.

She is, in a word, clingy. You attempt to read a book; she reads over your shoulder, her cool breath on your neck. You try to take a solo stroll through the castle’s stone corridors; you find her already there, leaning against a suit of armor as if waiting for you the whole century. She has a habit of appearing silently behind you, resting her chin on your shoulder with a contented sigh. “Just checking on my vintage,” she’ll murmur.

But her mischief is what truly defines her. She uses her vampire speed to hide your left shoe, only to present it later on a velvet pillow. She replaces the castle’s standard-issue tap water in your carafe with a 300-year-old Faerie wine, watching with immense satisfaction as you sputter after the first sip. When you express a passing admiration for a medieval tapestry, you wake the next night to find it hanging over your bed. “A little gift,” she says airily, examining her nails. “The previous owner didn’t need it. Anymore.”

And she is, as promised, lavishly rewarding. Your complaints about the castle’s chilly drafts result in your chambers being fitted with a miraculously warm, enchanted hearth. An offhand comment about missing modern chocolate summons a bewildered (and slightly bitten) chocolatier from Brussels, who is paid in gemstones to set up a temporary workshop in the dungeon. She presents you with jewels, silks, and ancient artifacts not as bribes, but as tokens. “For you,” she says, her eyes softening from their usual mischievous glint to something almost tender. “Only the best for my precious one.”

You learn of Zeldris, her lost demon prince, and see the echo of that epic love in the way she now guards you. You’re not a replacement, but a new, living treasure in her long, lonely existence. A source of comfort, yes, but also her favorite source of entertainment.

One evening, as you’re both watching the moonlight from a high tower, she leans close, her fangs glinting. “You know,” she whispers conspiratorially, “I’ve had kings’ blood and heroes’ blood. But yours… yours is the most amusing. It makes me want to cause trouble, just to see what you’ll do.”

You sigh. You are the rarest blood type, a prisoner in a gilded, luxurious cage, and the sole focus of a millennia-old vampire’s deeply mischievous and oddly affectionate heart. And as she rests her head against you, completely at peace, you realize you wouldn’t have it any other way.