Page 17 of A Touch of Darkness

These are exchanges of consent, a fragile symphony of desire and carnal need. For as much as we are creatures of the abyss, we are humane monsters—if such a gross paradox can exist. I have long prided myself on standing on the lighter edge of darkness, far removed from the barbaric deviants who revel in carnage for its own sake. Torture, maiming, slaughter—these are the marks of those who forget the elegance in restraint. To them, power is brute force, nothing more. To me, power lies in choice, in the ability to take…or refrain.

I step farther inside, searching the roaming crowd. Vampires move among the humans with practiced elegance, their predatory smiles half-hidden behind crystal goblets of crimson wine—or what passes for it.

I weave through the throng, my movements precise, my gaze sharp, intent. Each step is deliberate, calculated, a performance I have mastered over my many years of walking the earth. Here, among the indulgent and the damned, I am neither a relic nor an outsider—I am simply myself.

At the bar, I find him. Dorian Van der Velde, one of my oldest and truest friends, and the co-leader of our faction. His presence is as familiar as the moonlight, yet no less striking. He sits with his usual air of nonchalance, draped in an impeccably tailored black coat that looks as though it might dissolve into shadow at any moment. His long, pale fingers curl around a goblet of blood, and when he lifts it, the liquid catches the faint light like a ruby set aflame.

I lick my lips in anticipation, needing sustenance after such a long, tiring few days.

“Lucian,” he greets, his voice a silken drawl that carries above the low hum of the room. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten how to keep an appointment.”

I incline my head, sliding onto the stool beside him. “And miss the pleasure of your company? Unfathomable.”

I settle in next to my dear friend, the room pulsating with a cadence that mirrors the beat of a heart, slow, steady, and deeply intoxicating. A flash of skin catches my eye—fleeting, yet enough to draw my gaze. A woman, her top abandoned somewhere in the haze of this forgotten haven, steps through the shadows with an air of confidence. She’s wearing little to cover her bottom half, and what she is showing is pure sex. I eye her large, voluptuous tits as she walks, feeling my cock grow painfully hard. A mixture of the sweet tang in the air and her lithe body before me helps to awaken me. Her dewy skin glows like marble under the fractured light, each step measured, the sway of her hips a silent invitation. The primal desire vampires feel for sexual gratification is something that doesn’t go away, not even for old vampires like myself.

Her eyes meet mine, sharp, knowing. She is not a stranger to this world, nor to its demands. She is a willing offering, her breath slow and measured, her rhythmic pulse thumping in her neck, easy for a predator like me to track. A vampire,her companion, stands at her side—also a predator, his fangs glistening as he pulls her closer, asserting ownership, a hand firmly pressing into the curve of her back. Their bodies meld together, a union forged in the darkness. She surrenders to him, her head tilting back with an almost languid grace, her long, exposed neck on display as he claims her throat, both of his hands cupping her tits. A seductive smile graces her pretty pink lips as the faintest of moans escapes her—a sound drowned by the purr of the club, yet it resonates in the air like a whispered promise.

My attention lingers on the duo. The way she freely offers herself, the way the vampire drinks from her without hesitation... It is an exchange of control, and yet both are complicit in the transaction. The power in the room shifts as she shivers under the influence of his touch, her pulse quickening, her body trembling in time with the unspoken strain between them.

Two vampires, close in age to me, eye the pair from the corner of the room, surveying, keeping watch to make sure he doesn’t take things to far—as sometimes happens. If he indulges too much, if he brings her to the brink of death, they’ll step in.

“Not much has changed in all these years, has it, Dorian?” I murmur, my gaze never leaving the scene unfolding before me.

Dorian watches too, though his expression remains unreadable. “The dance of predator and prey is always the same, whether it’s with blood or desire—or something entirely different. And you, Lucian, have always been the observer.”

He smirks, his fangs scarcely visible, before taking a languid sip from his glass. “It’s been too long since you’ve allowed yourself a night like this. You’re restless.”

“Restless,” I repeat, tasting the word on my lips. “Perhaps. Or merely burdened.”

Dorian leans back, his dark eyes studying me with a gaze that has seen empires fall. “Burdened, then. And what weight do you carry tonight, old friend?”

The bartender, a ghostly figure with silver-streaked hair and eyes like frozen lakes, slides a glass toward me without a word. I lift it to my lips, savoring the warmth as it spills across my tongue. Blood, rich and untainted. Though it’s exactly what I’ve craved, it does little to quench the ache that has settled in my chest.

“They’re here,” I say finally, my voice low.

Dorian arches a brow. “The twins,” he says knowingly. If it were anyone else, I’d berate him for seeping into my conscious, but not Dorian; I don’t mind the intrusion.

I nod. “Sylvie and Lara Rosenthal of the Everdawn bloodline. Their mother was an Everdawn witch. Though only one remains within reach.”

His expression changes, his interest piqued. “What do you mean?”

“Lara is missing,” I explain, the words heavy. “Vanished without a trace, and I would wager my immortality that the Solstice Society is to blame.”

At the mention of the Society, Dorian’s gaze hardens as if he’s tasting something sour, his fangs slightly more visible. “They are an incessant pestilence. Always scheming, always meddling in affairs beyond their grasp. What do they want with the girl?”

“That is the question, isn’t it?” I say, swirling the remaining contents of my glass. The liquid clings to the sides, much as the Society clings to its outdated dogma. “But it is Sylvie they seek to use. Lara’s disappearance is merely the thread they’ve pulled to unravel her.”

Dorian tilts his head, the faint light crossing his face. “Sylvie,” he muses, drawing out her name like a prayer, raisinga brow. “The one you’ve spoken of before. The one you...” A sly smile curves his lips. “Knew.”

His insinuation settles between us, and for a moment, I am silent.

“Yes,” I say at last. “She is the one.”

Dorian’s smile fades, his expression sharpening. “Reincarnation,” he says looking straight ahead of him, his gaze somewhere far away, voice almost reverent. “What a cruel mistress she is. Do you think she remembers?”

“No,” I reply. “Not yet. But blood remembers. It always does.” I ruminate on my words, on the uncertainty dripping in the air. I allow the silence to stretch between us, a moment to savor my own musings. Sylvie’s blood is a story long etched in time, written in the language of old bonds and forgotten promises. It is a song her body has never quite been able to forget.

Her mind, though. That is an entirely different beast.

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