Eternal Craving (Eternal Desires #1)

Prologue

Opium.

The perfume wafts over me and I breathe it in…

Intoxicating.

This is the closest scent to her that I can find. I place the bottle down carefully, dropping the delicate stopper back into position and pushing it aside. An inner tide of emotion sweeps over me as nostalgia saturates my senses.

Losing her wasn’t merely about pain — it was devastation, a relentless, raw grief coiling around my heart like a vice, tightening until it crushed the remnants of my humanity.

I was drowning in memories of her, bewitched and lost to reason, hoping that this impassioned fever would break, dissipating these emotions. Of course, I’d taken lovers since, but they’d come and gone like seasons, unworthy of remembrance.

The darkest hour was drawing near.

And I found myself predictably alone in my London residence. Comfortably ensconced in my shadowy sanctum where I was assured solitude, I rather enjoyed my own company.

Despite the minimal décor, the room was homey, with time-honored furniture that captured the classic style.

Leaning against the arched window frame, I traced the tumbling leaves caught in a howling wind, made visible by the lamp-lit streets.

Taking in the dramatic nightscape, one could become easily entranced by the grey city skyline.

Little evidence of its former silhouette remained.

Rain began battering the window. I’d left it ajar in hopes of airing out this neglected room, and waterdrops found their way inside, settling below the ledge, pooling on the stone floor.

Turning, I made my way over to the oak writing desk and sat in the high-backed chair.

For several precious moments, I allow myself to reminisce, inspired by thoughts of missives once written here, and others received, the waxed seals crumbling as the envelopes were ripped open and the letters read.

And read again.

Elm beams ran along a low ceiling, holding in the warmth.

Open flames crackled in the fireplace and cast out an occasional spark.

The wooden mantelpiece was engraved with a fleur-de-lis.

Scratches surrounding the design reveal someone had taken a dislike to the decorative symbol.

The carved iris, though blemished, remained recognizable, suggesting that the culprit had become bored, and had moved on.

The carpenter’s choice of mahogany saved the design.

There were symbols like this throughout the home, hidden motifs incorporated into every room, their purpose lost in time.

Another secret of this mansion was a clandestine doorway behind a contemporary painting hanging on the far wall, a discreet exit should one be needed.

It was only one of the chamber’s many intriguing features, its past as rich as its thickly lined, black velvet drapes.

I took a sip from the crystal glass, savoring the taste of the red liquid.

The candlewick was burning, but I didn’t need its light.

The stillness would be eerie if it weren’t for my refined senses, an evolved heightened awareness enabling the detection of the smallest movement or the slightest sound – a supernatural advantage.

I had long ago given up sleeping at night – I now owned these dark hours.

When a heart ceases to beat, it’s fatal for humans, but for my kind it’s just the beginning, an endless pathway strewn with the remarkable.

Myth unravels as we, the immortals, linger in the underworld and, when the mood takes us, we integrate with the living.

I’d never considered myself dead, for I am very much alive.

A fresh breeze through the window cleared my mind and my thoughts wandered back over the centuries to the year 1745.

I’m lying naked on a rug before a fireplace, entwined with my lover.

We were savoring what was left of dusk, and sensual delights beyond imagination.

She’d captivated me long ago and I’d become obsessed with her.

Over time, I’d come to appreciate the words she’d spoken that winter night as I caressed her soft skin and kissed her.

“Orpheus, why do you refuse to talk about the past?” she asked.

I sighed. “Some memories, I choose to forget.”

“The pain fades in time.”

“What if I don’t want it to?”

She shifted in my arms. “So you hold onto the pain and forget the cause?”

I pushed her away. “Whatever it takes.”

“To survive eternity?” she whispered.

“To exist.”

She dressed and withdrew, leaving me to consider our conversation. Finding no benefit in sentimentality, I ignored her.

My memory of her face was beginning to fade.

My beloved had changed everything – the woman who had saved me, time and time again, and who had patiently guided me.

Now I understood; it was time to write it down. For her, I would document all that I knew, everything that I remembered. If I could capture those moments, she would come back to me. I would feel her near, hear her voice, and sense her touch.

I refused to let her go.

Her echoing presence lingers, as though she was somewhere out there calling to me. Even though I knew the truth, my mind hoped for the impossible – that she had survived them.

With a glance at the crimson glass, I’m reminded that it wasn’t always this way, though history is invariably distorted – skewed prose, old-fashioned perspectives deteriorating in unread books.

I, however, am a living historian.

Once, I had desired death but feared to drink from its cup. Such reticence has since waned.

Now I crave it.

I glanced over at the candle as it went dark, leaving a wisp of curling smoke to tease my nostrils. I had become distracted and drawn into the drama of the past, remembering that defining moment – the event that had changed everything.