Chapter 1
(A Dark Vampire–Witch Tale by Ravenwritesdark)
The rain hadn't stopped for three nights in Victoria Town. It dripped down the cobblestones like veins, slick and restless, as though the heavens themselves bled.
Irene kept her hood drawn low, the hem of her black cloak brushing through puddles. Her boots whispered against the street, and with each step, she murmured a spell under her breath—not for power, but for silence. Her kind wasn't welcome here. Not after what she'd done.
The townspeople called her the girl who cursed the moon.
If only they knew the truth—that it wasn't a curse, but a promise.
A promise to a man who wasn't quite a man anymore.
---
Demian watched from the shadows of the old bell tower, his eyes like cold glass under the lightning. He could smell her before he saw her—honeysuckle and stormwater, threaded with something darker. Magic.
He hadn't felt that scent in a hundred years.
"Witch," he whispered, tasting the word as if it might burn his tongue.
The oath bound around his throat pulsed, an invisible chain forged by the vampire council. He had sworn never to drink the blood of her kind, never to speak to one, never to crave one. The punishment was death—slow, burning, eternal.
Yet here he was.
Watching her.
Wanting her.
---
Irene reached the door of the apothecary, the only place still open this late. The bell above the frame jingled softly when she entered. The scent of herbs filled the room—lavender, rosemary, and something metallic.
"Evening," she murmured to the old woman behind the counter.
The woman only nodded. Her eyes flicked to the symbol burned faintly into Irene's wrist—a crescent moon with a drop of blood at its center.
The mark of a witch.
Irene tugged her sleeve down. "Do you still have wolfsbane?"
Before the woman could answer, the door behind Irene creaked open again. The wind rushed in with the faintest scent of iron.
And death.
She didn't have to turn around to know someone was watching her.
Demian stepped inside. The world seemed to still. His presence drew the air tight, pulled all warmth from the room. Every flickering candle leaned toward him as if in reverence—or fear.
The old woman backed into the corner, whispering prayers to saints long dead.
Irene turned slowly. The moment her eyes met his, she forgot to breathe.
He was beautiful in the kind of way that ruined people—sharp jaw, black hair damp with rain, eyes like smoke and starlight. But there was something ancient in the way he stood, like time itself bowed around him.
"Leaving so soon, witch?" His voice was velvet and danger.
Her throat tightened. "You shouldn't call me that."
"And yet it's what you are."
"I could say the same, vampire."
The word struck him like a blade and a caress all at once. His lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"Then we're both damned," he said softly.
---
She brushed past him, but he moved quicker—faster than her spell could spark. His hand shot out, catching her wrist. The contact seared them both. Her magic flared, his curse burned, and the scent of smoke filled the air.
"Let go," she hissed.
"Tell me your name."
"You don't need to know it."
"I already do." His gaze darkened. "Irene."
Her pulse faltered. How did he—
"Your mark," he said quietly, brushing his thumb over the faint moon on her skin. "That's not witchcraft. It's blood-binding. Ancient magic. Forbidden."
She yanked free. "You talk as if you understand it."
"I do." His eyes flicked to his own wrist, where a faint scar mirrored hers—the same mark, hidden beneath centuries of guilt. "Because once, long ago, I made that same mark."
Irene froze. "You're lying."
"Am I?"
The air trembled between them.
---
Outside, thunder rolled like the growl of an angry god.
"You shouldn't be here," she said finally. "If your kind finds out—"
"They already have." His eyes glowed faintly red. "They sent me to kill you."
The words landed like ice in her chest.
"Then why haven't you?"
"Because," Demian whispered, stepping closer until her back met the wall, "I don't remember which side I'm on anymore."
Her heartbeat stuttered. He was too close—the space between them crackled, filled with the hum of forbidden magic and unspoken hunger.
"You're dangerous," she breathed.
"So are you."
Lightning flashed, painting them in white fire. His fangs brushed the edge of a smile, but his eyes… his eyes were soft.
She could feel his restraint, like a beast clawing at its cage. Every instinct told her to run. But her soul—her cursed, aching soul—wanted to stay.
---
He leaned in, voice low, trembling. "Do you know what happens when a vampire breaks an oath?"
She shook her head, unable to speak.
"Their heart burns to ash."
He lifted his hand, and she saw the faint smoke rising from his skin where it had touched hers. His veins glowed faintly crimson, veins of fire beneath cold flesh.
And still—he didn't pull away.
"I can't stop," he whispered.
"Then don't," she said before she could stop herself.
---
Their lips almost met when the bell above the door chimed again.
A shadow fell across the room.
"Demian," a voice hissed from the doorway. "What have you done?"
Another vampire stood there—eyes blazing silver, cloak soaked in stormwater, his fangs bared in fury.
Irene instinctively stepped back, but Demian moved in front of her, shielding her with his body.
"Go," he murmured.
"I'm not leaving you."
The other vampire drew a blade that gleamed red with spellfire. "You broke your oath. You touched her."
"Then I'll burn for it," Demian said, his voice steady. "But not before you die."
---
The room exploded into motion. The blade slashed through the air, and Demian caught it with his bare hand, blood spilling across the floor. Irene's spells erupted like lightning, shattering shelves and sending glass flying.
The old woman screamed and fled into the storm.
Demian roared, his eyes now full crimson, as he drove the blade into his attacker's chest. The vampire's body turned to ash before it hit the ground.
The silence afterward was deafening.
Irene's chest heaved. "They'll come for you."
"I know."
"And you'll die."
"Then I'll die knowing what it felt like to touch you."
He stepped closer, blood dripping down his arm, and pressed his forehead to hers. For a heartbeat, they were one—cursed, bound, burning.
Her magic pulsed in response, wild and alive.
"Demian—" she began.
But the words vanished as his eyes rolled back, his body collapsing into her arms. The mark on his wrist glowed once, then dimmed.
She screamed his name, holding him as the storm raged outside, knowing what it meant—
the curse had begun.
---
Outside, the rain finally stopped.
But the blood on the street didn't wash away.
And somewhere in the darkness, a dozen eyes watched from the rooftops, whispering:
"The Bloodspell has returned."