4. Echoes In The Dark
4
ECHOES IN THE DARK
~GWENIVERE~
T he darkness stretches endlessly in all directions, yet somehow I'm not lost. Perhaps because I'm holding onto the only real thing in this void – a crystal that can't seem to decide what it wants to be.
One moment it's midnight blue metal, cool and solid in my palm. The next it shifts, becoming glass so clear it seems to capture starlight that doesn't exist in this place. Back and forth it transforms, as if caught between two natures, two possibilities.
Just like me.
I stand in the center of a circle I can't see but somehow know is there. Voices drift through the darkness, each one dripping with contempt.
"Abomination..."
"Should have been drowned at birth..."
"Neither one thing nor the other – what use is a creature that doesn't belong anywhere?"
Part of me knows this isn't my memory.
These aren't my wounds.
I'm experiencing someone else's past, someone else's pain. But knowledge doesn't make it hurt any less. What is unraveling around me seems to intertwine with similarities of my own childhood, which begins to make me wonder what is real or fable.
What is mine…and what is theirs?
The crystal pulses in my hands, its perpetual transformation between metal and glass matching the rhythm of my heartbeat. It's the only warmth in this void, the only thing that feels real and true while everything else tries to convince me I'm nothing.
"Worthless..."
"Cursed..."
"Better off dead..."
It becomes harder to separate myself from these foreign memories. The hatred seeps in like poison, familiar in ways it shouldn't be.
Haven't I heard similar whispers?
Haven't I felt this same isolation?
Ghost girl.
Freak.
Death's little puppet.
Tears slip down my cheeks before I realize I'm crying. The sobs that escape my throat sound young, broken in a way that speaks of innocence not yet fully shattered. My hands — smaller than they should be – clutch the crystal closer.
"I just want..." The words catch in my throat, thick with longing. "I just want to be loved. To belong. To be warm..."
As if in answer to my plea, warmth suddenly envelops me. Not the gentle warmth of sunlight or the comfortable warmth of a fireplace – this is different. It's like being wrapped in a blanket woven from starless nights and ancient promises.
I look up, surprised by the comfort in what should be terrifying.
My breath catches.
Above me looms a creature of shadow and bone, its skull gleaming with an ivory sheen that shouldn't be possible in this lightless void. Multiple eyes blink in patterns that speak of curiosity rather than malice. What should inspire terror instead fills me with a sense of safety I've never known.
A Duskwalker.
But not just any Duskwalker.
There's something familiar about this being, about the way its shadows curl around me like protective wings. Its presence carries an essence of winter frost, of caves that have never known sunlight, of tombs sealed for millennia.
Yet within that cold darkness, I find myself warmer than I've ever been.
I'm aware now that I'm experiencing this memory as a child – small and vulnerable in ways that make the creature's protective presence even more striking. This isn't how the stories go. Duskwalkers are meant to be harbingers of death, not guardians of lost children.
But as those shadows hold me closer, as that skull tilts down to study my tear-stained face, I feel nothing but security.
Safety.
Home.
My eyes drift closed as I lean into the impossible embrace.
"Thank you," I whisper, and the words feel both like memory and present truth.
The crystal in my hands gives one final pulse before settling into its glass form, capturing within its depths a perfect reflection of the creature's skull.
A reminder, perhaps, that sometimes the things we're taught to fear might be the very things meant to save us.
In this moment between memory and dream, past and present, I understand something profound: loneliness doesn't have to be forever.
Even in the darkest void, warmth can find us.
Even if it comes wrapped in shadows and crowned with death's own face.
Tears slide down my cheeks as consciousness returns, though I can't remember why I'm crying, the aching sadness remains.
The dream that felt so vivid moments ago slips away like water through my fingers, leaving only an echo of emotion – loneliness mixed with an inexplicable sense of comfort.
"Ugh..." I groan, trying to force my heavy eyelids to stay open. My entire body feels like it's been dragged through all nine circles of Hell, with an extra lap around Purgatory for good measure.
The urge to slip back into oblivion is almost overwhelming.
Just five more minutes...
Then memory crashes back like a tidal wave.
The infiltration. The Artifacts Chamber. Landing in a naked vampire prince's bedroom. Getting tied up. Biting a Duskwalker?—
"Oh shit!"
I bolt upright, nearly falling as I scramble toward the nearest window. Sunlight streams through ornate stained glass, painting the floor in jewel-toned patterns.
Sunlight. Which means...
I'm not dead.
But that's not the only surprise.
I look down at myself, mouth falling open as I take in the oversized white t-shirt that barely reaches mid-thigh. More importantly, I take in the distinctly feminine legs beneath it. I press my hands against my chest, feeling the familiar curves there.
I'm me again.
Just to be absolutely certain, I grab the hem of the shirt and lift it, needing visual confirmation that everything is back where it should be?—
"You can conduct your personal inventory later," a deep voice drawls from the corner. "Preferably when you're not in enemy territory."
The shriek that escapes my throat probably wakes half the academy. I spin toward the voice, heart pounding, to find I'm not alone in what appears to be a luxurious bedroom.
Cassius leans against the wall in a way that should look casual but somehow manages to radiate predatory grace. The morning light casts half his face in shadow, but what I can see...
Sweet merciful darkness.
His jawline could cut glass – all sharp angles and perfect planes that somehow manage to look both aristocratic and dangerous.
Black hair falls in artful waves, just long enough to brush his collar, with hints of midnight blue when the light catches it just right. His features have a classical beauty to them like a statue of a fallen angel carved by an artist who understood that true beauty requires an edge of danger.
But it's his eyes that capture me completely.
They're the color of arctic ice – pale, almost silvery blue, with rings of darker steel around the pupils. Right now those extraordinary eyes are making a deliberate journey from my bare feet up my legs, lingering at the hem of the borrowed shirt, before continuing their slow ascent to my face.
The hunger in his gaze is unmistakable, and he makes no attempt to hide it.
This isn't the frenzied bloodlust I witnessed in Damien. This is something altogether different – slower, more controlled, but somehow even more dangerous.
It's the kind of look that makes me acutely aware of every inch of exposed skin. That makes me wonder what it would feel like to have those eyes on me in a very different context. That makes heat pool in places it absolutely shouldn't when I'm alone with a potentially hostile supernatural prince.
His lips quirk slightly as if he can read my thoughts on my face. Given what I know about Duskwalkers, he probably can.
I try to gather my dignity, which is challenging when I'm wearing nothing but a t-shirt that barely preserves my modesty.
"Do you often watch girls while they sleep?"
"Only the ones who break into my academy, survive drinking my blood, and bear impossible marks on their skin." His voice is like smoke and shadow given sound – deep, rich, with an underlying rasp that sends shivers down my spine.
He pushes off from the wall with fluid grace, and I have to force myself not to step back. Every movement he makes is precisely controlled, yet there's something wild lurking beneath that aristocratic exterior.
Something that calls to the darker parts of my own nature.
The sunlight shifts, illuminating more of his face, and I notice details I missed before.
The slight hollow beneath his cheekbones speaks of otherworldly beauty rather than gauntness. The way his current expression – caught somewhere between hidden amusement and hunger – softens the severe lines of his face without diminishing their impact.
He's dressed all in black, the fabrics clearly expensive but chosen for function over flash. The outfit emphasizes his height and the lean strength of his build. He moves like someone who knows exactly how lethal they are and doesn't feel the need to prove it.
"You're staring," he observes, and there's definitely amusement in his voice now.
"So are you," I counter, lifting my chin defiantly.
His eyes darken slightly, the pale blue overtaken by expanding pupils.
"Indeed."
He makes no attempt to deny it or apologize.
"Though I think my reasons might be more complex than simple appreciation."
The way he says 'appreciation' makes my skin tingle.
There's heat in his voice, yes, but also curiosity.
Analysis.
As if I'm a puzzle he's trying to solve while simultaneously wanting to take it apart piece by piece.
The air between us crackles with untamed energy, like the moment before lightning strikes. Each breath we share seems to intensify the magnetic pull drawing us closer together.
My heart pounds against my ribs, its rhythm matching the pulse of magic that dances across my skin.
I try to fight it – this inexplicable attraction to someone who should terrify me. My gaze drops to his lips of its own accord, lingering there before I force it back up to meet his eyes.
The intensity I find there nearly steals my breath.
This is insane.
You don’t even know this man.
Creature.
Prince…
His stare hasn't wavered, hasn't softened. If anything, it's grown sharper, more predatory. The silver in his irises seems to swirl like storm clouds, darkening with barely contained desire.
"Don't tempt me, little intruder," he growls, the sound resonating through my bones. The burning pulsation in his warning should make me scurry back home to where I came from.
To finally leave, defeated and empty-handed.
Yet…
Instead of retreating, he steps closer.
The movement brings him well into my personal space, our height difference more apparent than ever. Even with my head tilted back, he towers over me.
Like a god who’s descended upon mortal lands and is facing the only one standing in his way…
Our lips are mere inches apart, close enough that I can feel the coolness of his breath against my skin.
"The research in ancient texts clearly states Duskwalkers don't have emotions," I say, aiming for academic detachment but hearing the breathlessness in my own voice. "They don't express feelings."
A huff of dark amusement escapes him.
"Are you suggesting," his voice drops lower, gaining an edge that makes heat pool in my stomach, "that Duskwalkers can't get hard or fuck the seemingly innocent female intruder who dares to taunt them?"
I click my tongue, rolling my eyes even as electricity races down my spine at his words.
Tilting my head further back, I meet his challenge head-on.
"Not my fault I grew up to be an attractive woman who happens to be wearing a t-shirt."
"My t-shirt," he corrects, something possessive entering his tone.
A smirk plays on my lips as I pretend to consider this.
My gaze drifts deliberately back to his mouth while my tongue traces slowly along my bottom lip.
"Hmm, I'm not sure about that." I pause for effect. "White isn't really your complementary color."
His answering grin is dangerous – all predator and promise. We're so close now that I can see flecks of darker blue in his silver eyes, like shadows in ice.
"Then what color would compliment me?"
The tension between us pulls tighter, a bowstring drawn to its limit. I know I'm playing with fire – or whatever the Duskwalker equivalent might be — but I can't seem to stop myself.
"Black," I whisper, watching his pupils dilate further. "Like your damn soul."
His smirk turns haunting, beautiful in its deadliness.
"And yet you, little mouse, won't run away when you're seconds from being trapped."
He's right.
Every instinct for self-preservation should be screaming at me to retreat. To put distance between myself and this creature of shadow and death who looks at me like he wants to consume me whole.
Instead, I curse under my breath.
"Fuck you, smartass."
My hands fist in his shirt, yanking him down those last crucial inches until our lips come crashing together.
No one survives a Duskwalker’s touch, and here I am, having every intention of getting drilled by him if it’s my last breath.