The gallery hummed with muted conversations and the soft clinking of wine glasses.
Lily stood near the refreshment table, gripping a plastic cup of water she hadn't touched. Her paintings lined the east wall. The four pieces that had taken months to complete.
Dark forests with moonlight filtering through skeletal branches. Crumbling churches where shadows seemed to breathe. Beautiful decay frozen in oil and canvas.
A woman in a cream colored dress approached, her doting husband trailing behind with cheeks reddened from too much wine.
"Excuse me, are you the artist of these macabre paintings?"
"Yeah, that's me."
"These are simply stunning. Where did you study?"
"Didn't. Self-taught. Started painting when I was sixteen."
The woman's eyes widened.
"You're joking! The composition is so sophisticated. The way you balance the macabre with something almost sacred, it's remarkable! Tell her George!"
Her husband nodded, his eyes glassy but firm, "you should keep going with this. You've got real talent. How old are you again?"
The woman shot him a warning look, as if he was being incredibly rude, which he was although not intentionally.
"It's fine, I'm twenty three years old."
"Remarkable, simply remarkable! Painting for only seven years and already you are on the fast track to success."
Heat crept up Lily's neck at the woman's kind words.
"Thanks. That means a lot."
They moved on, and she allowed herself a genuine smile. Not even the older man earlier who'd muttered something about "derivative gothic nonsense" could puncture this feeling. Success tasted sweet, even if it was small.
She scanned the crowd again, noting the various reactions. It was a decent turnout for an amateur artist although other artwork apart from her own was on display as well.
Most people paused at her work for at least a minute. Some took photos. A few whispered to companions.
Then she saw him.
Tall. Impossibly well-dressed in what had to be a custom suit. Dark hair swept back from a face that belonged on old European currency. He even had a widows peak to complete the look.
He stood motionless before her largest piece, the one with the abandoned cathedral and the storm clouds that looked almost alive. His expression held complete absorption, the kind of focus she imagined scholars brought to important historical texts.
Something crawled up her spine like a spider. Not fear exactly, but recognition of something beyond normal. He didn't move like the other guests, didn't shift his weight or check his phone. Just stood there, drinking in every brushstroke as if he was a statue.
She forced herself to look away and pulled out her phone. 9:47 PM. She'd been here since six.
Enough was enough for the day.
Her feet ached in the black boots she'd worn specifically because they looked better than they felt. The compliments had fed something hungry inside her, but exhaustion was winning now.
Lily grabbed her favorite bomber jacket from the back room and slipped toward the exit, not bothering to say goodbye to the gallery owner although she did wave good bye to the friendly lady at the door.
Fresh air and her apartment waited. Tomorrow she could bask in whatever this night meant.
***
The layers spoke to him.
Technique married to raw emotion in a way that transcended mere skill. The strange man leaned closer to the cathedral piece, tracing the path of light with his eyes.
Suffering lived in those shadows. Beauty emerged from decay. The artist understood something fundamental about existence, about the thin wire that existed between creation and destruction.
He hadn't felt this stirred since...when?
Memories blurred together, but this, oh this was immediate. So alive!
A small placard caught his attention. He shifted to read it.
Lily Adders, local amateur painter.
The photo showed a young pale woman with dark black hair, shining emerald eyes, and an awkward smile, as if the camera made her uncomfortable.
His chest tightened with purpose. She might still be here.
He moved through the gallery, scanning faces.
Too old. Wrong hair. Men in clusters. Woman wearing expensive jewelry and perfume.
No one matched the photograph.
An older woman with a clipboard stood near the entrance to the gallery. He approached, offering his most disarming smile.
"Pardon me. I was hoping to speak with Miss Adders about her work. Is she still present?"
The woman glanced at her watch, "oh, you just missed her. Left maybe fifteen minutes ago."
Disappointment settled cold in his gut.
"I see. Thank you."
Tomorrow then. He would return to study her work again and maybe, if he was fortunate, speak with the young woman who had managed to make him feel something after all these years.
***
The French Quarter faded behind her as Lily walked deeper into the quieter streets.
Streetlights cast uneven pools of yellow light across cracked sidewalks. The drunken yells and blaring music became background noise, it was too familiar.
Her mind still buzzed with the gallery, with praise and that strange man's intense staring at her artwork.
She didn't notice them until they closed in.
Four shapes materialized from the shadows. Large. Moving with purpose. They boxed her in before she could react, hands shoving hard against her shoulders. She stumbled backward into the alley, brick scraping her palm as she caught herself.
"Phone. Wallet. Now."
The one closest reeked of stale beer.
Her heart hammered against her ribs.
"I don't—I don't have any money on me."
"That's fine."
Another one grinned, a gold tooth catching the distant streetlight.
"You got other uses no?"
Terror shot through her chest. She filled her lungs and screamed, raw and piercing.
A fist slammed into her stomach. Air exploded from her lungs. She doubled over, gasping, vision sparking with white dots.
"Shit, someone probably heard that."
"Cops'll be called, no doubt about it."
"Stupid bitch."
The first kick caught her ribs. She crumpled. Another boot connected with her spine, driving her face-first into grimy asphalt. Pain bloomed everywhere at once. Her kidneys, her shoulders, the back of her head. She tried to curl up, protect herself, but there were too many feet, too many angles.
Someone stomped on her hand. Bones crunched. She tried to scream again but only managed a wet gasp.
"That's what you get for ruining the fun time we could have had if you had just kept your damn mouth shut."
Another kick to her face. Warmth flooded her mouth. Copper taste. Her vision blurred, darkness creeping in from the edges.
Not like this, she thought distantly.
Please not like this.
For the first time in her life, she prayed for someone, anyone, to come help her.
***
The scream for normal ears was drowned out by the saxophone melody drifting from a nearby club. His ears though heard it as if it had come from someone right next to him.
The man stopped mid-stride. His nostrils flared.
Blood, fresh, human, fear-soaked.
The scent threaded through the endless exhaust fumes, smells of liquor, vomit, and rotting garbage, pulling at something primal in his chest.
He turned toward the source, his pace quickening.
Experience had taught him to recognize violence by scent alone. This wasn't an accident. Someone was hurting another deliberately, with intent.
Perfect.
Hunger gnawed at his throat like a fire being stirred by the wind.
He hadn't fed in days, and the prospect of draining someone who deserved it always satisfied on multiple levels. Justice and sustenance in one act.
His shoes made a soft tapping against the pavement as he moved. Had he been stalking his prey they would have been silent but for this, there was no need for it.
The blood-scent grew stronger, mixing with sweat and adrenaline. Multiple heartbeats.
Four accelerated with excitement, aggression. A fifth one stuttering, weakening.
He rounded the corner into an alley.
Four large men surrounded a crumpled figure on the ground. Boots rose and fell with sickening thuds. The victim, a woman, barely moved anymore, just twitched with each impact.
His eyes narrowed and began to subtly glow with a soft hazel light. His fangs longed for the blood of these criminals, aching at the thought of piercing their flesh.
Then the streetlight caught her face.
His body stiffened with recognition.
The artist.
***
Her body felt strangely cold. Each breath scraped through her throat like broken glass. The world had narrowed to a tunnel of grey shapes and muffled sounds.
The boots stepped back. Through the fog clouding her vision, she watched the four shadows retreat.
"We gotta go, man. Too long already."
Footsteps. Different ones. Lighter. A rhythmic tap-tap-tap approaching from somewhere beyond her field of view.
A figure materialized at the alley's entrance.
Tall, slender. Details bled together in her failing vision.
"The hell you want?"
One of the men moved toward the newcomer.
"Walk away rich boy unless you want—"
The threat died mid-sentence.
Movement exploded. Too fast.
The leader crumpled without a sound, his body hitting the pavement with a wet thud. Two others dropped before they could react, necks twisted with sharp cracks at angles that made Lily's stomach lurch even through the haze of pain.
The fourth one ran.
Not fast enough.
The stranger caught him mid-stride and yanked him backward. He spun the unfortunate deviant around and the thugs face now stared in horror, pleading eyes falling on Lily.
One pale hand clamped over the runner's mouth, muffling his screams. The stranger bent his head low, face disappearing into the crook of the man's neck.
Minutes crawled past. The struggling stopped. The stranger's head tilted back, and something that might have been satisfaction crossed his posture.
The body dropped.
Footsteps approached.
Tap-tap-tap.
Lily tried to focus but her mind was heavy with fatigue.
The stranger knelt beside her. Features still blurred, but she caught pale skin, dark clothing. Concerned hazel eyes studying the damage.
"No time."
His voice cut through the fog.
Something warm and wet pressed against her lips. A bitter metallic taste flooded her mouth, similar to the copper she had tasted earlier.
She tried to turn away but fingers gripped her jaw, firm but not cruel. It tasted different from her own blood.
"Drink."
The liquid burned down her throat. Wrong. Everything about it felt wrong.
"You'll live."
His voice held certainty, promise, and something else hidden underneath.
"You'll paint forever, Lily Adders. All of eternity stretched before your brush."
How did he know her name?
The question dissolved as the burning spread through her veins like wildfire, consuming everything in its path.