Page 9 of A Touch of Darkness (Chronicles of the Cursed #1)

The city hums with a distinct rhythm I know too well: a symphony of muffled heartbeats, distant horns, and whispers carried on the wind. Beneath its polished facade, a darker melody thrums, one that calls to only creatures like me—those who walk the knife’s edge between civility and hunger. It is here, in the forgotten veins of this sprawling labyrinth, that I find solace.

And fuck, am I hungry.

Midnight Delight lies hidden beneath the city’s surface, an ode to indulgence and sin. It’s a true and proper feeding club—with only consenting adults.

The air grows colder as I descend the cracked stone steps, the weight of the night pressing against my shoulders like a familiar cloak. The cumbersome oak door creaks as I push it open, releasing a rush of heat and sound that envelops me in its embrace.

Inside, the club is alive with a decadence only our kind could conjure. The walls are cloaked in dark velvet, rippling shadows that seem to drink in the light. Purples deep as wine blend into blacks that gleam like polished obsidian, interrupted only by streaks of silver. Overhead, iron chandeliers drip with chains of quartz, their fractured light casting broken constellations across the arched ceilings.

The scent is the first to greet me: blood, concentrated, rich, and coppery, mingling with the faint tang of fear and the sweet notes of surrender. Humans drape themselves across low couches, their wrists and throats exposed like offerings on an altar, just waiting to be consumed. Devoured. Worshipped. There are no chains to bind them here, no iron to tether them to this place. They come willingly, drawn by the promise of something forbidden, something greater than themselves.

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, raising a 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.

I sift through my thoughts, attuned to the subtle shifts in the air. “She isn’t fond of me, Dorian,” I continue, my words more a statement of fact than anything else. “From the brief moments we’ve shared, it’s clear enough. I stir things in her that she cannot possibly comprehend. Not yet. A discomfort clings to her like a security blanket when I’m near, a palpable tension that gnaws at her bones. She’s not yet open to the truths I would reveal to her, but she feels them, nonetheless. And that, I think, is enough for now.”

“But you will tell her eventually?”

I hesitate, my gaze fixed on the glass in my hand. “What purpose would it serve? To burden her with a history she cannot change, a connection she cannot fathom?”

Dorian’s laugh is soft but biting. “Ah, Lucian. Your humanity is showing. Always so noble, so reluctant to embrace the chaos of the heart. Perhaps you fear what she might remember, rather than what she might feel.”

His words cut deeper than I care to admit, but I refuse to let my old friend see it. “This is not about the past,” I say, my tone firm, but my gaze shifts, dark and restless. “It is about the present. The Solstice Society is moving, and if they’ve set their sights on Sylvie, we cannot afford to wait indolently for their next move. I am nearly certain they believe they’ve found their golden ticket with her.”

I pause, my words settling heavily on my shoulders. A shadow of guilt lingers, one I cannot escape. I failed her once, and despite the seemingly endless years between that moment and this, I feel a duty, a sense of obligation to her. She stands before me, unknowingly entangled in a web of destiny she is too young to understand, and I will not allow history to repeat itself. Not again.

Her blood holds a power I cannot yet gauge, and the Solstice Society—well, they will see it as a weapon. They will see her as a weapon, as they always do. They don’t care about the consequences. All they care about is exploiting her. Ending us. They’ll use her, twist her to their will, and destroy everything in their path. If they get to her before I can reach her...

I can't let that happen. I won’t let that happen.

And then there's the prophecy I’ve studied for countless ages. The one that haunts the dark corners of my mind, the one that speaks of a “hunter born of twins.” Sylvie is no mere mortal as she suspects, as her parents obviously allowed her to believe—there’s something in her, something ancient and powerful, that binds her to a fate she cannot escape. Her parents, too. And they kept it from her for all these years. What a dangerous game they played.

If she’s truly the one Solstice seeks, they’ll stop at nothing to shape her for their twisted purposes. And I... I know what it is to be used, to be a pawn in someone else’s game. I won’t let her endure that fate.

“And what is it about her that draws them so?” Dorian asks, his curiosity genuine. “We know her past, but it seems as if they think they can predict her future.”

“That,” I say, setting my glass down, “is what I intend to fully discover.”

I’ve been studying her lineage for years, waiting on her time in the world because I’ve always known the Society would use her for their own gain.

I just never expected she’d be a reincarnate of someone so deeply and intimately intertwined with my own soul. Perhaps, through my insanity, through my undying obsession, I’ve shaken up fate.

I’ve brought her directly to me.

I fail to know what Solstice fully plans to do with her. But I will find out. The room seems to pulse around us, the music and the feeding blending into a singular, hypnotic tempo. A human girl passes by, her neck marked by fresh punctures, her smile dazed but satisfied—because it is, of course, as much of a high for them as it is for us. Dorian watches her with a detached amusement before turning back to me.

“You care for the girl,” he says simply.

I meet his gaze, unflinching. “Care is a dangerous word.”

“Dangerous, yes. But true.”

Silence stretches between us, leaden with unspoken truths. Around us, the club continues its revelry, a sanctuary for creatures like us who have seen too much, lost too much, and yet cannot bring themselves to look away.

At last, Dorian speaks again, his tone lighter. “Very well, then. If you wish to unravel this mystery, I will stand by you. Though I suspect you’ll find more than you bargained for.”

I offer him a faint smile, one that does not feel genuine in the slightest. “When have I ever sought anything less?”

Dorian laughs, the sound rich and unrestrained, and for a moment, the heaviness of the night seems to lift, and we are younger versions of ourselves. Younger and much less tame. Memories with Dorian flash in my mind, but I don’t allow them to settle.

I glance around the room, my gaze lingering on the humans who offer their blood so freely and the vampires who take it without hesitation.

Sylvie Rosenthal is more than a meager thread in this tapestry. She is the axis upon which the wheel turns, the skeleton key to a history that refuses to be forgotten. And I, bound by a duty I cannot forsake, will not allow her to fall into the hands of those who would see her destroyed.

The past is written in blood, yes. But the future—hers, mine, ours—remains unwritten.

For now.