Page 11 of Take Her to the Grave

He's right, damn him. Ishouldbe terrified. Should be fighting this inexorable pull toward darkness. Instead, I find myself swaying closer, drawn by that magnetic combination of danger and desire. Drawn by the most devastatingly handsome creature I could have ever dreamt up.

"Tell me about your world," I whisper. "If I'm going to dance with monsters, I should at least know the steps." The pun is so cringey that I almost take it back, but his face keeps the words from my mouth.

Torrin studies me for a long moment, then steps back. "Come with me."

"To where?"

"You want to understand darkness? Then let me show you what true darkness looks like."

He holds out his hand – an echo of every devil's bargain ever written. But I'm tired of being just the writer of dark tales. I want tolivethem.

I take his hand.

The world... shifts. There's no other way to describe it. One moment we're in my office, the next we're standing in a part of Ravencrest Cemetery I've never seen before. Thetransition is so smooth I would think I imagined it, except for the lingering sensation of movement through shadow.

"How did you—"

"Shadow walking," he explains. "One of the simpler gifts of my kind. Distance means little to those who travel through darkness."

We're standing in front of a massive mausoleum I've never noticed before, though how I could have missed it is beyond me. The structure is Victorian Gothic at its finest – all soaring spires and grotesque gargoyles, looking more like a miniature cathedral than a tomb.

"Welcome to my home," Torrin says, and there's dark humor in his voice. "At least, one of them. I find it convenient to maintain a residence near my hunting grounds."

"You live in a mausoleum?"

"Appropriate, don't you think? The dead watching over the dead." He leads me toward the ornate bronze doors. "Though I've made some improvements over the years."

The interior is... not what I expected, although I don’t know what I would have expected in the first place. Instead of crypts and coffins, I find myself in what can only be described as a gothic library. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line the walls, filled with volumes that look ancient and priceless. Leather armchairs are groupedaround a massive fireplace, and oil paintings hang between elaborate sconces that cast warm light over everything.

"Not quite the nest of bones and cobwebs you were expecting?" Torrin asks, amused by my obvious surprise.

"It's beautiful," I breathe, trailing my fingers along the spines of leather-bound books. Some of the titles are in languages I don't recognize, alphabets that look more like artwork than writing.

"I've had centuries to collect," he says. "Books are one of the few human creations that never grow tiresome. Your kind may be ephemeral, but your stories..." He picks up a volume, handling it with a softness I wouldn’t have expected from him. "Your stories are immortal."

"Is that why you read my work? Looking for immortal stories?"

His smile is knowing. "I read your work because it calls to the darkness in me. Because somehow, without ever having known a real monster, you understand us. Understand the hunger, the need, the eternal dance between predator and prey."

"And now?" I ask. "Now that I do know a real monster?"

He sets down the book and stalks toward me with fluid grace. "Now you're becoming something far more dangerous than just a writer of dark tales. You'rebecoming a bridge between worlds – not quite human anymore, but not yet fully creature of shadow."

"Is that what's happening to me? Why everything feels different? Why I can sense things I never could before?"

"You're awakening," he says, circling me slowly. "The darkness in your blood, in your soul, is responding to mine. Like calling to like."

"The man you killed," I say suddenly. "The vampire. Is that why he was watching me? Because he could sense this... awakening?"

Torrin's expression dims. "Yes. Young ones are often drawn to humans on the cusp of transformation. Like moths to flame." His hand slides into my hair, gripping firmly. "But you aremineto transform. Mine to guide into darkness. Mine to break and rebuild."

I should protest this possessiveness. Should assert my independence, my free will. Instead, I find myself melting into his touch, offering my throat in that instinctive gesture of submission that makes him growl.

"Show me," I whisper. "Show me what I'm becoming."

His other hand cups my face, turning it until I'm forced to meet those ancient eyes. "Are you certain? Once you see, truly see, there's no going back. No more pretending thisis just research for your books. No more hiding behind fiction."

"I'm tired of hiding," I admit. "Tired of pretending I don't feel this fucked up side of me growing stronger every day. Tired of fighting what I know Iwant."

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