Claimed by the Prince of Darkness

The hour sat between daylight and lamplight.

As it was Friday, the courtyard thrummed with departure: trunks clattering over cobblestones, horses snorting, and Sexton's iron gates wide open that led to the road outside. A neat row of Elite carriages stood at the front, with their side lamps already lit despite the daylight. By the gate, the Groundlings' coaches filled fast and were waved off unlit—no time and no oil to waste.

Ruelle stepped out with her trunk, dragging it. Kevin and Hailey had already caught the earlier coach, while she had lingered a few minutes too long for her wet dress to dry. She set her trunk at the end of the line and waited.

"Ms. Belmont," came Ezekiel's voice from behind. He stepped forward, his satchel strap resting over his shoulder. "Are you heading home?"

"Yes, Mr. Henley," Ruelle answered softly.

"Good," he replied. His gaze lowered to her unsteady hand. He reached for the handle, his hand brushing her fingers—and withdrew a second late as if it was an accident. "May I? Your trunk looks heavier than it should."

"It's manageable," she reluctantly said, drawing her hand back. A dull pain pulsed beneath her sleeve where no eye could see.

"Then allow me to see you to your home," Ezekiel offered. Ruelle couldn't help but think how kind her brother-in-law was, wanting to help her.

Though Ezekiel's words were low-pitched, another pair of ears caught them. A warm voice with a hint of mischief spoke from behind.

"Careful, Mr. Henley. The onlookers of the courtyard write romances out of boredom—especially when an instructor does it for the first time."

Ruelle looked back and found Dane standing a few steps away. His coat was buttoned, and he held his gloves in one hand. The wind teased his pale hair without ruffling his composure. He wore a smile as he walked towards them.

She offered him a small bow. Dane stopped before them and continued,

"Best not to feed them fresh ink. Isn't your house in the east, Mr. Henley? Ms. Belmont's is west in Brackenwell. A gentleman walking a young woman without a chaperone, especially—trunk in tow—reads as singular interest even to the dullest eyes."

Ezekiel's smile thinned.

And though Ruelle knew Ezekiel was married to her sister, the others weren't aware of it. She glanced toward the coaches and the faces looking their way. Gossip ran faster than horses. Dane was right. She had no wish to hand the courtyard another story—least of all at Mr. Henley's expense.

"It's nothing, actually," Ezekiel said. "Ms. Belmont seems to have trouble with her luggage—"

"Then we are twice in luck." Dane's eyebrows rose. "Fortunate timing: I'm bound toward the Brackenwell road on an errand and have an empty seat. With a driver to chaperone."

"That is kind of you, Mr. S," Ruelle murmured. "But I'll wait for the coach."

"Isn't that going to take time?" As Dane spoke, her gaze slid to the packed line. "Not to mention, I need a witness in case my coachman falls asleep. Come along. The students here will vouch that they have arrived home safe in my carriage."

Feeling his insistence, Ruelle hesitated. "I would rather not trouble you. Even if I did, I shouldn't go without offering something."

"You can give me what you'd pay in a regular coach—" a small grin appeared on the pureblooded vampire's lips, "—and if that still offends your conscience, double it."

She finally gave him a nod. "Thank you."

Dane gestured to his coachman, who stepped forward and took her trunk as if it weighed nothing. She then turned to Ezekiel and offered a quick bow before leaving.

She climbed inside the carriage and took the far corner of the plush seat. The air inside held a clean, faint sweetness—beeswax and linen. Dane followed, tapping the front window to signal the coachman.

While at the edge of the courtyard, Ezekiel's hand tightened on the satchel strap as the carriage slipped through Sexton's gates.

Back in the carriage, Ruelle's eyes had drifted to the window. Outside, the path was bordered with trees turned soft rose-red. Branches leaned in until they touched above the road, turning it into a tunnel of colour. Autumn was beautiful, she thought.

"Your family must sleep easier on weekends when you are under their roof," Dane said. "Humans breathe better when their daughters aren't under ours."

A faint smile appeared on Ruelle's lips as she answered, "Yes."

He settled his cheek against his gloved knuckle, studying her with that effortless, catlike calm. He started,

"You know, Mikhael is considering cancelling the weekend leave for Groundlings."

Mikhael Oak, the headmaster? She frowned. "Why cancel weekends?"

"Continuity, safety, preparation," he recited. "Mostly it is convenience. Though Sexton adores a draft that never leaves the drawer." He studied her for a long second. "If weekends go, you'll miss the village more than now. And also the villagers' tongues."

Ruelle let out a small laugh. "Probably not the gossips. I might hear them clear from Sexton."

"A public menace," Dane agreed, something wry shifting behind his pleasant eyes.

Ruelle had already heard them at Caroline's wedding: the way pity and distaste passed mouth to mouth at the mention of her admission to Sexton. The men and women had questioned what immoral things were taught. And she had smiled until her cheeks ached. It was Caroline's big day. Her parents would not forgive a scene, and the village never forgot one.

Dane then, almost idly, said, "I'm surprised you're not already promised. With your family sending you to Sexton, I would have expected a hat lingering on your doorstep."

Colour climbed Ruelle's cheeks. "There was… talk. Last spring."

"Oh?" Dane remarked with a mixture of surprise and interest.

For a foolish week she had allowed herself a candle's worth of hope—no more—imagining her mother's mouth softening and the neighbours' voices turning kind.

"It ended before it began." A small smile touched and left her mouth with a hint of embarrassment. "He wrote a letter saying he ought to choose a prettier bride."

Dane's brows lifted a fraction, the smile never quite reaching his eyes. "Then he did you a favour—he announced himself small. Men who shop for faces miscount everything else. Good riddance."

'What did you do to turn him away?!' Ruelle heard her father's angry voice. 'He found out you were utterly useless! You are worthy of nothing and just a burden!'

Ruelle's gaze flicked to the window. Her reflection moved with the trees—her cheeks less hollow, her mouth softer, and more colour in her face compared to the past.

"Perhaps so," she whispered.

The road hummed beneath the carriage wheels while the horses kept an even, patient rhythm. The sky deepened from turquoise to blue-black, with traces of orange at the horizon.

They had entered the town named Hushford—once a human town, now filled with halflings and vampires. Even in full daylight humans took the long way round, unless they had business here. Ruelle's eyes caught three women under the street lamp, mouths red as cherries, shoulders bare to the evening.

"Would you mind a brief stop?" Dane asked, tapping the window with his knuckles.

"Not at all," Ruelle answered.

The coach drew up before a shop, where the board read Fallow & Sons.

Dane stepped down first, then turned, his features softened by a brief, amused smile. "Come. Let me show you what I'm buying."

A bell chimed as they entered the shop. Inside, the air smelt of familiar leather and polish, but just more refined. Ruelle kept her fingers folded, remembering how last winter she had stitched her shoe soles with wax and thread. Here, a single buckle looked dearer than a week's food.

Shoes sat on velvet racks as if they were treasures. One pair near the end of the rack drew her eye. She murmured to herself,

"Oak-bark tanned. It flexes without cracking."

"Aye—six months in the pits," stepped a man in view, whose silvered temples caught the lamplight. "Keeps the weather out and the temper in."

The man then turned to Dane and offered a bow, "Mr. Slater. Many happy returns. I see you've brought discerning company this evening."

Dane's mouth curled, slightly surprised by Ruelle's knowledge of the shoes. "This is Ruelle, Holis. One of my dear students. Holis owns the place." He then asked the cobbler. "Is my order ready?"

"Just in time," Holis replied. He snapped his fingers. Soon a boy slid a stool and footrest into place, then knelt and unfastened Dane's boot with care.

"Happy birthday, Mr. S," Ruelle wished him. "I… didn't know."

"How could you?" Dane's smile was easy. "Thank you." After a pause, he asked, "Now that you know—what will you gift me?"

What did one give a man whose shoelace cost more than her shoes? A ribbon? A very sincere potato? Heat crept into her cheeks. "If I'd known sooner, I would have made something. I can bring it on Monday," came her earnest voice.

"But I'm impatient with late presents." Dane frowned. "Today would suit me."

"Now?" She felt her stomach dip. Perhaps a wish note in very neat—

"I accept coins," he said, amused, "and a gulp of blood."

"..." before a small, nervous laugh escaped Ruelle's lips.

Dane's mouth curled, apologetic and not guilty at once. He stated,

"I'm teasing. Keep both." He glanced toward the curtained doorway, then back to her. "There's a small gathering being held for me tonight—quiet, nothing formal. It would be lovely to have you attend it. Let that be the gift."

Attending a gathering by the Elites? She tucked her scuffed shoes beneath the hem of her dress. "I shouldn't intrude. It's a private gathering for you."

"It isn't intrusion if you have been invited." His head angled before he asked curiously, "And how do you know about shoes? Peculiar interest?"

"Only a little," she admitted. "I used to work in a shop two years ago. The owner was very passionate about shoes and liked to explain about them. But he was so old that he passed away before he could do much." Ruelle's words lowered at the end.

The curtain stirred and the owner reappeared with a pair of expensive shoes. "Wholecut from a crocodile, blind welt," he announced with quiet pride. "One could dance on a nail and never feel the head."

"Let's pray I'm spared the performance." Dane looked pleased at the sight of the shoes. Soon, the first shoe slid on, and then the next.

"A perfect fit," Holis breathed. "Turn, if you please, sire." He watched Dane stand. "Perfection."

"They are," Ruelle agreed softly. "You've set the heel in five lifts and pinned them close—no wobble. And the edge looks burnished with bone until it keeps a shine. That will take a polish like a promise."

A look of surprise passed over the cobbler's face. Nodding, he said, "Bone, yes. Elk. Holds heat better."

"What about a cork paste underfoot?" Ruelle asked him.

"Aye, it gives back a little spring after the day's weight." Holis was impressed with the young woman. He watched her move to where the other shoes were lined up, keenly looking at them.

After ten minutes, the fitting concluded and the stool was whisked away. Ruelle and Dane were about to step foot towards the door when the cobbler brought a small box from behind the counter.

"This is for you, Miss."

"Me?" Ruelle blinked, surprised, and took the box in both hands. Inside lay a plain pair of low-heeled shoes.

"They were worn once by a patron and sent back—too tight for her liking, and the back came home a little scuffed," Holis revealed, clearing his throat. "Unsellable to my usual clients. But I think they should fit you well."

Could she really take it? The shoes she had on her feet had been stitched so many times that it felt like they were hanging by a thread. The area near the toe had turned paper thin, and the heel chipped. But she humbly refused,

"I cannot take these."

"Consider it an advance," Holis offered gently. "On wages, should you ever take me up on that invitation. Please," he insisted.

"Thank you," she murmured, offering him a bow.

"Easy there, Holis—I came for shoes, not to leave without my student," Dane remarked, half-laughing.

"Never, sire. Merely tempted by talent," the cobbler returned, eyes kind.

"As are we all," Dane looked rather amused. "Tempt the leather, not my student. I'll send the next order soon. Come, Ruelle."

Ruelle shifted the box against her hip and smiled her thanks.

Bowing deep, Holis called after them, "I'll be expecting your note, Mr. Slater."

Outside, night had laid itself over Hushford. The shop and the carriage's lamps burned steadily. The coachman stowed two parcels from the shop along with her box before closing the boot.

"Time," Dane announced, snapping his pocket watch shut. "We should be off."

"Weren't you to collect something past Brackenwell?" Ruelle asked as they reached the carriage door that was left open.

"It can wait. Change of plan—home first. Guests will be gathering soon."

"Mr. S… I ought to go home. Besides, I'm not dressed for the occasion." In truth, she owned nothing suitable in her trunk for an Elite's gathering.

"If that is all that worries you, you needn't worry about that," Dane replied as if it wasn't something to be worried about. "The house has a wardrobe for guests and something should fit you. Shall we?" He offered his hand up.

She finally set her palm in his and climbed inside. He tapped the window twice. "Home, if you please."

"Aye, Master Dane," came the answer from the coachman. Reins lifted and soon the horses began to move. The carriage slid away from the lamplight to the dark road.

After nearly an hour, the trees in the path thinned and the Slater mansion lifted out of the dark.

The old blue-grey stone walls of the mansion stood patiently with its steep roofs and spire tops. Tall windows threw light across the drive. As they drew nearer, the wrought-iron gates swung inward on quiet hinges.

Lanterns in polished brass burned brightly along the path. As the carriage continued to move, she caught sight of a fountain ahead of them. Beyond, clipped hedges kept their shapes even in shadow, and farther off a glasshouse glowed faintly.

If Lucian's presence hadn't daunted people before, this would, Ruelle thought. Old blood, old money, old promises that never needed speaking.

The carriage arrived at the entrance, and the horses finally halted, blowing white fog into the cold. A footman stepped forward and opened the door, bowing low.

"Welcome home, Master Dane."

"Looks like the guests have arrived," Dane remarked, looking in the direction where carriages were parked next to each other.

Now that Ruelle was standing at the grounds of the Slater mansion, she felt a little anxious with her decision to comply with Dane's words. She took her shoe box from the coachman.

As they entered the mansion, another figure approached from the inner hall—a vampiress in a black dress and an apron tied around her waist. Her hair was drawn into a tight bun. She looked in her mid-forties with a stern expression on her face.

"Good evening, Master Dane," she greeted, her voice carrying no emotion. "Several guests have arrived. They have been shown into the east drawing room."

"I'll change," Dane hummed. He turned a fraction, indicating Ruelle. "This is my guest—Ruelle. She'll need a room and a dress suitable for the evening."

When the woman's gaze touched Ruelle, Ruelle felt her spine straighten. There was not a trace of friendliness there. For a fleeting moment the woman's eyes seemed to narrow—then it was gone, as if she had imagined it. Even so, something in it left her feeling unwelcome.

"Maude is the head of the Slater housekeeping, and she's the one who keeps this place upright. If you need anything, ask her—she'll see it done," Dane offered an assuring smile.

Ruelle managed a weak smile in return and watched him slip from sight, leaving her alone with the woman.

"If you'll come with me, miss," Maude directed, already turning—her step brisk, as if she had no time to waste.

Ruelle followed the woman with four careful steps behind, under the high ceiling.

On the way, her eyes caught sight of brass candle holders fixed on the walls at intervals. Each of them was covered with a white glass chimney—milk-pale—so the light fell clean and colourless, almost like noon smuggled into evening. Paintings hung on some walls.

They finally arrived at a room and Ruelle entered after the woman. The room was as cool as outside. She caught her reflection on the tall mirror in the room, and noticed pieces of her hair had come out. She quickly raised her hand to smooth her hair, tucking some of it behind her ear.

The head of housekeeping walked to one of the walls of closets, pulling open the door. It allowed Ruelle to glimpse a dozen dresses hanging inside there. It looked no less than the shop in her village.

Maude then pulled out a velvet wine-red dress from there. She turned and said, "This should do. Put your things on the chair."

Ruelle undid her dress before the velvet gown climbed her skin. The colour of the dress deepened at the fold. The sleeves began with a light puff before running the length of her wrists. The neckline was deeper than what she was used to, but it was covered with an ivory lace chemisette.

The woman shook the skirt once to let it fall clean, then smoothed the waist with her palm.

"Breathe," Maude instructed. "Hold."

Ruelle felt the woman pull the lace behind her. The concealed hooks were buttoned up her spine.

"Sit in front of the mirror." The housekeeper moved behind her.

Ruelle's blonde hair quickly fell over her shoulders, cascading down as Maude began to brush her hair with brisk care, catching the shorter fringe and coaxing it to fall soft over her forehead.

She couldn't recall a hand other than her own guiding a comb through her hair all these years. As stern as the woman now appeared, her touch was careful—almost kind.

It took no time for the woman to make slim braids from either side before taking them behind. They were then tied with a red ribbon, turning it into a loose bow that fell lower on her neck.

Someone knocked on the door and called, "Mrs. Maude. The cook requests you in the kitchen. Also the boiler isn't in its right temper tonight."

"Send Pritchard to the boiler room," Maude responded. Then turned to look at Ruelle and said, "If that is all, I will be on my way. The celebration is in the east wing. I assume you will be able to find your way there?"

Ruelle nodded in acknowledgement and then bowed, "Thank you." The woman didn't remark but only bowed before walking out of the door.

Left alone in the room, she opened the plain box the cobbler had given her. Removing the old shoes, she slipped into the new pair, which fit her snugly. Stepping outside the room, she wondered which was the east wing.

When she heard the music drift in the corridors, she found her answer.

But instead of walking towards the music, she walked away from it, believing there was still time for the celebration to begin. Somewhere she was anxious to rub shoulders with unknown pureblooded vampires. Her feet padded on the carpet while she admired the place.

She promised herself not to drift too far away as she took a turn at the end of the corridor. She peeked outside the window and caught sight of the glass house, this time it looked closer.

When she came to the other end of the corridor, her eyes fell on a large oil painting hanging on the wall. The window to the right poured moonlight on the painting, catching hints of gold in the paint.

A family looked back at her. The gentleman sat straight. His hair was combed back, and there was a seriousness in his eyes. Beside him sat his beautiful wife, her mouth softened by a private smile. She had her hand placed on her husband's forearm.

Then their two sons. The older boy stood behind, with blond hair that belonged to his mother, he wore a crooked grin. He looked around seventeen or eighteen. The younger boy, no more than ten, had dark hair and he stood at his mother's side.

"Even as a boy he wore a storm between his brows," Ruelle murmured. "Is he… glaring at the painter?"

"As he is now," a familiar voice spoke dryly behind her.

Ruelle turned too quickly. Her hand nudged a vase, leaving it to wobble before falling and breaking into pieces.

Her eyes flew wide. She slowly dared to look up, catching Lucian, who had closed his eyes for the smallest second—as if petitioning for patience.

He wore a white shirt. Over it was a grey-blue vest, which was paired with similarly coloured trousers. He carried his coat over one of his forearms, while the other hand rested at his side. His hair fell the way it always did, as if any attempt to fix it would only ruin it.

When Lucian opened his eyes, red as wine, Ruelle felt the air thin.

"I don't recall your name on the list," he observed, lowering his eyes to his cuff and smoothing a non-existent crease.

"No, I'm not," she admitted before adding quickly, "I'll see myself out." before anyone asked her to pay for the vase.

"Hold on," he cut in, eyes narrowing by a fraction. "Don't tell me you came to break a vase and flee. Or is sharing a roof with me insufficient—you had to trespass on another?"

"Of course not. We don't… spend time as roommates." She caught herself. "What I meant was, you aren't there most nights—" she internally winced, wondering what she was blabbering about. "That isn't what I meant."

"So you're compensating?" he asked, head tilting a degree.

"I didn't say that." Heat crept up her neck. "Your brother invited me," after a pause she apologised, "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For intruding on a family gathering and for—" she gestured faintly at the floor, "…that."

"Unfortunate though," Lucian murmured, his heel nudging a shard. "That heirloom survived generations. But it couldn't survive you."

To think the vase had decided to die in her hands tonight, Ruelle internally wilted.

"Master Lucian," a servant appeared at the corridor's turn and bowed. "The celebration is going to begin soon."

Lucian gave the smallest nod and the servant vanished.

On the way to the east wing, Ruelle kept two paces behind Lucian, since she didn't know the way.

When a long window appeared along the corridor, Lucian's eyes slid to the glass—to the faint reflection of the young woman following him. The velvet dress clung to her shoulders and narrowed to her waist before the skirt fell in a quiet line. A few loose strands framed her face, her gaze steady ahead.

The ribbon sat low at her nape. With the rest of her hair drawn back, her delicate neck was left unguarded. He pulled his gaze back ahead at once.

When they reached the corner, Ruelle saw Lucian move his coat. In a single movement, he slipped into it without breaking stride.

Maude appeared ahead. Lucian's footsteps paused and words passed between them, too soft for Ruelle to catch. The older woman's chin dipped once, her lips pressed together at whatever the pureblooded vampire said.

"Right away, Master Lucian," she bowed and disappeared down the side passage.

When they neared the place where the guests had gathered, a man in his fifties with his wife in her thirties appeared.

"Mr. Lucian. It is good to see you," the man greeted with a bow and Lucian offered the same courtesy. "If you have a moment later, I would prefer to discuss a small matter with you privately."

"Minister Gaile. Mrs. Gaile," Lucian matched the minister's pace with an easy civility, and he appeared as if he'd been born to it. "We'll speak after the toast—in my study."

The minister's eyes brightened and he responded, "Sounds wonderful! We missed you last week. Unfortunate timing?"

"Evidently," came the curt response from Lucian.

"Mr. Lucian, I must say the glass house looks even lovelier than my last visit," Mrs. Gaile hummed with a smile.

"I'll have the gardeners thanked," Lucian said, accepting the compliment while setting it elsewhere.

Ruelle's steps slowed, letting the distance grow. She watched the trio disappear into the room where music poured with the hum of voices. For a breath, she stood at the threshold. Then her hem whispered forward, and she stepped inside.

The room was neither crowded nor sparse. It held people of status—silk and velvet, jewels that caught the chandeliers' light. Ruelle kept to the edge of the room, content with the company of walls. Servants walked the floor carrying trays of refreshments.

A tap of a fork on glass pulled every gaze to the front of the room.

The man from the portrait stood there, though older—Lord Azriel Slater—with his sons beside him. The older pureblooded vampire carried an air that resembled the mansion.

"Welcome tonight, everyone." Lord Azriel's voice was low and deep, drawing everyone's attention to him. "Tonight we mark a year's turn for my elder son, Dane. Thank you for crossing distance and weather to join us…"

At the same time, someone touched Ruelle's elbow. When she turned, it was Maude. She looked at the woman quizzically, while Lord Azriel continued to speak.

The woman quietly drew her aside and came to stand behind her. Soon, Ruelle felt something cool and string-like press around her neck. A clasp clicked beneath Lord Azriel's voice. Her fingers reached for her neck, realising it was a pearl choker.

"To Dane," came a chorus of wishes.

"Thank you, everyone," Dane offered with a crooked smile. "And for the gifts I am looking forward to." A soft ripple of laughter moved the room. "Enjoy the rest of your evening."

The polite applause of the guests thinned and the chatter returned once again.

Ruelle turned around to meet Maude's eyes and spoke quietly, "It's very kind, but I didn't need a choker."

"Keep it," Maude said in a quiet voice, while the music rose again. Before leaving, she added, "A human's bare neck is often taken for an invitation."