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Coming Back

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Coming Back

A Devil Wears Prada fanfiction  

This story is a nonprofit work of fanfiction.

The Devil Wears Prada is the property of Lauren Weisberger and 20th Century Fox.  

Miranda Priestly walked up Madison Avenue, towards east 73rd street, heading home. It was late. She pulled the collar of her Alexander McQueen trench coat up. The black leather coat was beautiful, with its panels of white lace.  Yet hardly appropriate for a cold November night.

The night had been a complete disaster. The Book needed serious revision, hence returning home at 3:00 am. Then her car broke down. Steam pouring from the radiator, across 67th street. Her new driver babbling, incoherent. Furious, she decided to walk home. Ire pushing her forward. She was close enough, only a few blocks away. No need to summon some pestilential cab.

Footsteps sounded behind Miranda, sending a jolt of alarm through her. She turned, spying their source. Letting out a relieved breath. A young couple. A man and woman, arm in arm. Returning from some soirée downtown. They seemed harmless enough. Their eyes upon each other, paying no heed to Miranda’s progress.

Miranda continued onward, footsteps echoing on the quiet walk. Her shadow long, cast by streetlights overhead. Two more blocks to go. She frowned, looking down at her feet. Perhaps her decision to walk was ill-advised. The red Louboutin pumps were lovely, but unsuited for such a task.

She paused, sitting on a nearby bench, its green metal surface cool. She winced, removing one shoe, rubbing the arch of her foot. A woman’s voice startled her. “Can we help you?” it said. Miranda looked up, startled. Meeting the speaker’s eyes.

The couple from before.

The woman smiled. Her hair honey gold, twined in an elegant chignon. A few errant strands framing her face. Clad in a black sweater dress, a matching pair of Ferragamo knee boots upon her feet. Her eyes, light amber, danced with hidden humor.

The man approached. Tall, ash-blonde. Hair parted on the left, the sides shaved close, a stubble of beard upon his cheeks. Wearing a sharkskin suit, dark charcoal. His eyes the same startling shade as his companion. He grinned. “My, we’ve found a pretty one, haven’t we, Sylvie?” he said. The blonde chuckled, her eyes darkening. “Indeed, we have, Adrien,” she said. “Are you ready?” The man winked. “Of course, dear sister,” he said. “But first, some sport.”

He pulled Miranda to her feet, with easy strength. His smiled widened, revealing sharp fangs. “Run,” he murmured, letting Miranda go. She stumbled from the pair, voiceless. Horror etching her features.


Miranda ran down 71st street, kicking the useless heels from her feet. Heading west, her pursuers close behind. Playing with her. Miranda pushed ahead, in a burst of frantic speed. Crossing Fifth Avenue, heedless of cars. Hoping that someone, anyone, would help.

Miranda tore into Central Park, lungs burning. She skidded before a playground, the swings and slide empty. Ghostly under silver moonlight. Sand and concrete reflecting the light from above. Laughter echoed around her, mocking. Two shapes emerging from the gloom. Nearing her, effortless. Graceful, a pair of wolves, closing in for the kill. Strong hands grasped the editor’s shoulders, spinning her ‘round. Adrien. Eyes bright with malice.

Delicate fingers trailed up Miranda’s back. A voice, cooing in her ear. Throaty, full of desire. “Look how she trembles, brother,” Sylvie said. “Isn’t she delicious?” A low chuckle rumbled in Adrien’s chest. “Let’s have a taste,” he smirked. He pulled the editor’s mane, bending her back. Her throat exposed, vulnerable.

Then pain. Sharp, piercing. Sinking deep. The warmth of blood upon her skin. A rough tongue, lapping it up. Sylvie behind, her body pressed close. Fangs stinging as they entered.

Miranda stood, trapped between the pair. Her mouth stretched wide, as if to scream. Tears streaming down her face. Eyesight cloudy, growing dim. One thought, one image remaining. A woman. Dark eyes bright, her face so dear.

I should have told her. I should have told her!

Adrien gasped, a heavy object striking him. He turned, releasing Miranda. The editor fell to her knees, falling from Sylvie’s grasp. Staring at the item upon the sand.

The Book.

A figure emerged from the dark. Wearing a flared black Alexander McQueen biker jacket. Matching leather pants below. A pair of studded Valentino boots upon her feet. The cold autumn breeze tossing her auburn hair. Chocolate eyes furious.


Her foolish, beautiful girl.

“Let Miranda go,” she growled. A snarl marring her lips.

Panic rose in Miranda’s breast, her eyes widening. “Run, Andréa!” she rasped. “Get away!” Adrien laughed. Blood still smeared upon his lips. “Looks like we get dessert, too,” he said. He grinned at Sylvie, then moved, pouncing on the brunette.

Andy shrugged off the attack, flowing like water. Dashing him aside. She reached beneath her jacket, pulling two weapons free. Hurling one at Adrien. A sharpened stake, of white oak. It pierced the vampire, sinking deep into his chest. He looked down, surprised, then ceased to be. A cloud of silvery dust floating to the ground. Sylvie howled, enraged. “Adrien!” she cried. Rushing at Andy, hands raised like claws.

Andy grabbed Sylvie’s wrist, yanking her close. Forcing her down. Fingers tearing golden curls, wrenching her head back. Her throat laid bare.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” Andy hissed. Her free hand swept forward, bowie knife flashing. Cutting deep, through flesh and bone. Drawing a crimson line across pale skin. Separating crown and trunk. 

Sylvie fell, silent, to the ground. Her head still tight in Andy’s grasp, dangling by her hair. Then nothing.

More dust scattered across the sand.

Miranda stared at Andy, a cough rocking her frame. She fell to the ground, trembling. Suddenly cold. So very cold. “Andréa,” she whispered. A shadow fell over her. Andréa, kneeling beside her. Hands shaking. Pulling her close.

Andy scanned Miranda’s wounds, muttering a soft curse. Her eyes lifted, meeting the editor’s. She cupped Miranda’s cheek, thumb brushing her lips. Voice aching, full of sorrow. “I’m sorry,” she said. “They took too much blood. It’s… it’s too late.”

Miranda reached out, seeking the brunette’s hand, twining their fingers together. “I’m going to die, aren’t I?” she said. Andy nodded. “Yes,” she said. Miranda shook her head, a wave of fear crashing through her. “The girls,” she said. “I can’t leave them like this. Please Andréa, help me.”

Andy bowed her head, her hair a dark curtain. “There’s only one thing I can do,” she said, anguish clawing her face. “And if it works, you’ll hate me.” Miranda shook her head. Her voice low, resolute. “I won’t,” she said. “Never you.”

Andy raised her head. Tears tracking her face. “Are you sure?” she asked. The editor nodded. Andy picked up her knife, testing the edge. She brought it up, examining it. Pale fingers stopped her, trembling upon the blade. Pushing it aside.

“Wait,” Miranda said, her voice low. “I… I have to tell you. To let you know. Now. In case it doesn’t work.” She paused, leaning up towards the brunette. Taking her lips, in a soft kiss.

“I love you.”

Andy smiled at the editor. Incisors elongated, white, needle sharp. “I love you, Miranda,” she said. “No matter where we end, or when. Forever.” She kissed Miranda again, her mouth trailing lower. Finding the pulse trembling at her throat. Lips brushing soft skin, an apology. Holding her close, fingers twining in silver hair.

Biting her.

Marking her.

Claiming her.

She drank, blood spilling over her tongue. Moaning as she did. Her senses reeling. Only wanting more. The taste of Miranda, the pounding of her heart. The arms that wrapped around her, tight.

Home. She’s my home.

The blood slowed, its flow ebbing. Andy pulled back. She licked Miranda’s wounds, healing them. She took the knife, weighing it in her hand. Pressing it to the skin above her collarbone. Hissing as she cut, deep, red welling about the blade. She turned her head. Drawing Miranda close, pressing her lips to the wound. “Drink,” she murmured. “Drink, love, and stay with me.”

Miranda froze. The copper tang upon her tongue cloying, strange. Then something changed. A need, growing deep within. Irresistible. Her mouth ardent to have its fill. She fell upon Andy. Arms wrapped around her, unwilling to let go. Swallowing the liquid that pulsed down her throat. Lost in its warmth, its taste. The scent of dark hair, the feel of skin on lip and fingertip.

All of it Andréa.

Then hands, so gentle, pushing her away. The spell of their connection broken. A sob torn from the editor’s throat. A moan of loss, her eyes blurred with tears. “Andy…” she whispered.

The brunette rose. Sweeping Miranda into her arms. She paused a moment. Looking up. Eyes drawn towards the indigo sky. To the stars, shining, overhead. So pure, so bright.

Like the promise held in each tomorrow, if only we try. For our hopes, our dreams.  

Our love.

Miranda followed Andy’s gaze, leaning against her, cheek to cheek. “Now what happens?” she asked. The brunette sighed. Her voice low, thick with regret. “You die,” she said. “Then the blood does its work. Turning you, changing you.”

The editor shivered. A cold, like ice, creeping over her. “And when I wake?” she asked. Andy kissed Miranda’s brow. Voice hushed, a tender promise. “I’ll be waiting for you,” she said.

Miranda’s breath slowed, her voice faint. Blue eyes falling shut. “Does it hurt?" she said, "Coming back to life?"

Andy stood silent. Words abandoned. Lost. Holding her. Just holding her.

A sigh escaped Miranda’s lips. Long, drawn out. Then ending. Her heart fluttered a moment. A hummingbird’s wing, so frail, falling still. She sagged, suddenly heavy. Pale limbs lax within the brunette’s arms. Head pillowed upon Andy’s breast, as if asleep.

Andy bowed her head. Dark eyes an elegy of grief. “Does it hurt?” she asked, her voice a hollow echo. Tears falling, christening her cheeks.

“It’s starting to,” she said. "It’s starting to."

She stood there, under the staring stars. Cradling her love’s form. So small, so fragile in death.

Something falling from her lips, a whisper on the wind. A silent prayer, that their tomorrow would come.

That this was not the end.