Page 1 of Dark Desire
Chapter One
What’s a fate worse than death? Surviving it.
Surviving only to carry on, trapped inside the prison of your own mind, caught somewhere between existing and being invisible. The rest of the world moves on without you while you remain confined to your painful past, bound by a life of all-consuming rage and helplessness. But the worst torment of all was knowing that the person who cursed you to that fate walked free without consequence. Well, not for much longer.
‘She’s here, I know it,’my demon, Ambroz, hissed inside my head as I stood in the middle of a narrow cobbled street lined with granite and whitewashed cottages. The dreary, weather-beaten structures of Cornish local homes and the odd, quirky shop matched the relentless drizzle that cloaked the village in misery.
St Wythren’s Cove, Cornwall, England. An old, sleepy fishing port that looked as if it hadn’t changed since the eighteenth century. A place so small and off-grid, it was a miracle a place like this was still surviving. She truly believed this would be enough to remain hidden from me? She must have known thatone day, I would find her. Or perhaps she was banking on the fact that I would never return to my demonic vampire form to hunt her down. Maybe she thought she had escaped me. A cruel smile curled across my lips at the thought of the fear I would instil in her the moment she realised just how wrong she was.
All day, I had been tracking the witch who stole nearly three hundred years of my life. Flying over mile after mile of ruggedly beautiful coastlines and endless moors in my demon form, I eventually caught a scent of something intriguing in the air. A hint of her magic lingered on the breeze, like an old perfume remaining long after its owner’s absence. My skin prickled with anticipation, and a sliver of raw, thrilling excitement ran down my spine, knowing how close I was to seeking my revenge. But it was short-lived. The faint traces of her magic didn’t grow stronger, no matter how many cramped streets and dark corners of the old fishing village I explored. Fuck, I was no closer to finding her.
Standing on a jagged rock, I gazed out from beneath my black hood across the shingle beach nestled in an untouched cove. Clenching my fist, I hissed through my fangs as the wind howled, struggling to be heard over the crashing waves against the high-walled port. Sensing her fading magic, I knew she’d been on this beach a few hours ago. But just like the waves swept away any footprints in the sand, her magic was disappearing too quickly. I shouldn’t have listened to my brother. I should have flown here the moment Leif gave me her location, not giving her the chance to escape. This felt like a trap. She was toying with me. Leading me to another dead end, just like the times I'd almost caught her as the raven she’d cursed me to be.
‘We aren’t leaving without her beating heart. So keep looking,’ Ambroz ordered as I yanked the hood further down over my face against the damp chill and turned back to the village.
After spending nearly three centuries trapped in a bird's form, you'd think I’d have more patience. But ever since I was freed from my personal form of hell, I'd had very little of it. I needed to make her suffer more than I needed air in my lungs. Making her pay had become my sole purpose. My darkest desire was to watch her take her last breath as I loomed over her so that she could stare into the eyes of justice. And I wouldn't stop hunting her until I made that happen.
At the corner of the street, a warm orange glow emanated from the small windows of a thatched-roof pub. Its beams creaked in the coastal breeze, along with the gentle sway of a weather-beaten sign reading,The Higgly-Piggly Hog. What a fucking name. It seemed to be the only sign of life at this time of night in this otherwise deserted town.
As I approached, my supernatural hearing picked up the low hum of chatter, the crackling of the hearth in the fireplace, and the occasional clink of a pint being placed on a table. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath at what I was being forced to do.
Interact. With. Humans.
It had been a long time since I had been in their company. As a half-vampire who depends on blood and a half-demon who relies on organs to survive, it was like walking into a tempting sweet shop without any money. I had made a promise to myself, my siblings, and the royals that I wouldn’t kill anyone tonight. Anyone who wasn’t the witch, anyway. I just hoped I had enough control to keep my word.
The moment the creak of the door echoed around the pub, the atmosphere shifted. A hush fell over the room, and all the weary faces turned towards me, their tired eyes narrowing with suspicion. I stood in the doorway, my large frame blocking the entrance from the pouring rain behind me. Keeping my hood up to conceal my scarred face from alarming anyone, I took a single step inside and let the door slam shut, heightening theeerie silence that followed. My steady green eyes scanned the uneasy locals gathered around the bar and scattered among the small round tables while they assessed me with the same quiet intensity.
A smirk tugged at one corner of my lips as I made my way to the bar, basking in the fear and palpable tension that filled the air. My towering height and massive frame alone were enough to trigger uncertainty. Being human, they had no idea how dangerous I truly was, but they could sense that I was someone they should be cautious around. It was clear by the way they exchanged nervous glances with each other. The round-bellied bartender hesitated when he met my gaze before grabbing a pint glass and pouring me a beer without a word. He placed it on the bar, wringing the dirty dishcloth between his nervous hands. I pulled out the plastic card the royals had given me to pay for things and tapped it against the machine, grunting a thanks before moving to a secluded spot to sit.
I hunched over my drink slightly, trying to appear less intimidating, and after a couple of minutes, the soft chatting resumed. Though their conversations were quieter and more guarded, as if they didn’t trust an outsider to hear all about the success of Trevor’s latest fishing trip, in case I was here as a spy to steal the fisherman’s baiting secrets. I took a chance and glanced around the pub, searching for any sign of the witch. My dark gaze flicked between the old-timers, but the few women around didn’t match my vague description, nor did they give away any magical vibes. My hand clenched around my glass as I ground my jaw, considering my next move.
For the next hour, I sat and sipped my pint, listening to the lively conversations, stories about the good ole’ times and pointless gossip about the villagers, hoping one of them might give me some information about the witch living among them. Despite the side-eyes and curious glances directed at me, noone dared to speak to me. They could probably sense my hostility and social awkwardness, but that didn’t stop them from desperately wanting to know more. Intrigue sparkled like beacons in their eyes.
The problem was, I couldn’t ask humans where to find a black-haired, centuries-old witch because I doubted they even knew she was a witch. I was pretty sure I couldn’t ask a single question that wouldn’t become the hottest topic of their next village meeting or the front page of their gazette, which they all seemed to carry under their arms.
My eyes widened as an idea struck me. The sound of my chair scraping across the stone floor caused all their conversations to come to a halt, their judgmental glares fixed on me as I walked towards the bar. I cleared my throat before placing my hands on the counter and peering down at the newspaper lying on its surface.
“Do you mind if I borrow that?” I asked the man next to me. He frowned, his gaze following mine to his newspaper and then pouted his lips.
“You can ‘ave it. But you gotta pay for it.” He folded his arms across his chest.
“Beer?”
The man’s gaze narrowed slightly at me, then he nodded in agreement. I paid the bartender before grabbing a local newspaper and flipping through the pages, searching for any photographs of a black-haired woman. I knew my chances were slim, but I’d take anything.
“Where are you from?” the grey-haired man asked as his dog sat obediently at his feet. He turned in his chair to give me his full attention. It seemed he thought we had broken the ice, and he would take the opportunity to figure out the newcomer in his hometown. “You’ve got an accent.”
I ignored him. My eyes scanned every image in the paper and I felt my rage rising as I inched closer to the end with no success.
“You planning on sticking around St. Wythren or are you just passing through?”
“Depends,” I grumbled.
“On?”
“If I find a woman.”
“Ah.” He let out a raucous laugh, but I kept my eyes cast down on the paper in my hands. “Ain’t that just the goddamn truth? It’s always a woman.” He slammed his hand down on the bar. “Isn’t that right, Big Nige? You want to tell him, or shall I?”
