Page 36 of A Touch of Darkness

It’s no use.

I toss and turn for a little while, and then I decide…if the professor is up, and I’m up, maybe we can just get started now. Sure, maybe he’s falling asleep. But maybe he does have some kind of supernatural ability that allows him to not sleep or something.

It’s worth a shot. Because I can’t turn my brain off.

If I get there and he doesn’t answer, I’ll just wait a few hours.

I type the address he gave me into my GPS app and am delighted to see it’s only ten minutes from Blackthorne. After waking both Nicole and Rebecca up—and feeling terrible about it—Nicole gives me her car keys in exchange for leaving her alone so she can sleep. She laughs, so I know she’s kidding, but I still feel bad. I just need answers.

I’m not sure what I’ve done to deserve the two of them. It’s almost like fate…or maybe the universe…has conspired to provide me some kind of friendship, of help, because it knew I’d need it.

By the time I arrive at the house, I’m starting to wonder if it’s potentially the worst idea I’ve ever had. His home, hidden behind dense trees and wrought iron gates, looks more like a small castle than a home.

I pull past the iron gates, and the car’s headlights skim across the towering facade of Lucian’s estate. It’s enormous—like a medieval castle plucked straight from a storybook. Above me, stone gargoyles—much like those at Blackthorne—perch at the corners of the roof, their grim faces twisted in silent warning.The walls are built of dark, weathered stone, streaked with centuries of wear, and in the moonlight, they seem to shimmer.

Beyond the gates, a long, circular driveway winds through rows of ancient trees, their spindly branches knitting together overhead in a tangled canopy. The headlights flicker over shadows that stretch like clawed fingers across the cobblestones. Each bump in the path rattles me, as though the ground is protesting my arrival.

I roll to a stop in front of a massive set of double doors carved from solid oak. They’re framed by pointed arches and ornate carvings—floral motifs and mythical beasts swirling across the wood. Overhead, an ornate stained-glass window depicts some heraldic crest, maybe a family emblem. The glass catches the moonlight in fractured hues of crimson and violet, lending an eerie glow to the doorway below.

Stepping out of the car, I feel the chill of the night air instantly. The wind rustles through the dead leaves piled against the stone steps, sending them skittering like restless spirits. The estate’s towers and turrets loom high above, disappearing into the darkness. A single light in one of the upper windows flickers, casting a narrow beam onto the deserted courtyard. It feels like a watchful eye tracking my every move.

My heartbeat quickens as I ascend the steps and approach the massive front door. The entire place radiates a sort of austere beauty, the kind that makes you want to whisper instead of speak. I half expect to see robed figures gliding along the parapets. Everything is so still, as if even time itself moves cautiously here.

Once I make it up the steps, I notice the door is slightly ajar. My fingers hesitate on the brass handle before I push it open, calling out, “Professor Draedon?” My voice echoes into the silence.

Nothing.

Of course, he has to make things harder than they need to be. Not that he’s expecting me yet, but still.

I venture on, knowing it probably isn’t the best idea to walk into a vampire’s house without him answering the door, but the need to get the answers I’m looking for outweighs it.

Inside, the house is everything I imagined when pulling up the drive—ancient, ornate, oppressive in its grandeur. Dark wood panels stretch high along the walls, interrupted by tall windows draped in velvet curtains. Candlelight flickers from sconces, casting long, shifting shadows that dance across the floor. The scent of old books, wax, and something faintly…metallic…hangs in the air.

I shudder with an uncontrollable fear that I probably shouldn’t be here alone. But honestly, at this point, what do I have to lose?

“Professor?” I call again, my voice quieter this time. Still no answer.

My footsteps seem too loud, echoing as I move through the foyer, where a grand staircase curls upward like a serpent. I pause, drawn to a massive portrait hanging on the wall above the stairs. It’s of a man—Lucian—but he looks different, perhaps slightly younger, harder. His gaze pierces through the layers of paint, making my stomach twist. It reminds me of the bust portraits at Blackthorne.

I keep moving, my hand trailing the banister as I ascend. The further I go, the more oppressive the house feels, as if it’s alive and watching me. I pass rooms with doors slightly agape, catching glimpses of shadowy interiors—an opulent sitting room, a dining room with a table that could easily seat twenty, and a music room dominated by a grand piano—and a harp. I don’t believe I’ve ever even seen a harp in person.

Finally, I reach the second floor and pause. A faint sound reaches my ears—muffled, nearly rhythmic. At first, I think it’smusic, which would explain why Lucian hasn’t heard me, but as I follow it, the sound sharpens into something else entirely.

Once I edge closer, I can finally place it.

Moaning.

Low, breathy, and totally unmistakable.

Heat rises to my cheeks as I make my way toward the sound, heart pounding in my chest. The hallway stretches before me, lined with doors upon doors, but it’s the one at the very end that’s slightly open, light spilling into the dark corridor like a splintered beacon.

I push the door open just enough to see inside. A library. It’s massive, the walls lined floor to ceiling with books, interrupted only by a colossal fireplace and a smattering of dark leather chairs with ornate golden buttons. The smell of old parchment and leather fills the room. But it’s not the library itself that draws my attention.

It’s Lucian himself—and in a way that I’ve never seen him.

He’s there, near the fireplace as the flames crackle and shift—but he’s not alone. A woman—a vampire, judging by her pale skin and the glint of fangs—arches against him, pressing her chest to his face as she cries out in complete pleasure as he sucks one nipple into his mouth. I watch as her hands tangle in his dark, unruly hair, pulling his face to her neck, and the sounds she makes… they’re almost feral. Like a mixture of pleasure, bliss, and a hint of agony as he continues to suck on one erect nipple and grasp the other between his thumb and forefinger, causing it to amplify in size, hardening somehow even more.

I swallow past my complete shock, but I can’t move. My feet are rooted to the floor, breath caught in my throat as my own chest heaves. I don’t know why I stay, why I don’t turn and leave, give the pair the privacy they deserve—that they believe they have—but I can’t look away. He doesn’t notice me—and neither does she, thank God.

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