Club Dusk

My footsteps rang hollow against the hardwood stage, the sound sharp and unforgiving in the emptiness. At the centre sat a lone stool beneath a spotlight, its stark beam slicing through the darkness. Even during the day, Club Dusk remained dark, dank, and dreary. Located on the south side of the city, across the river—known to the locals as the Underworld of Averon—it was a place of grit-stained cobblestones and the muffled murmurs of illicit dealings. The absence of windows only amplified its gloom, a feature that felt less like a design flaw and more like a deliberate statement.

This old, converted theatre, once known as the Dusk Theatre, was unique for being built underground. In its heyday, it was infamous for hosting burlesque shows and provocative plays that dared to offend the fragile sensibilities of the day. Rebels whispered their conspiracies here, while society's outcasts danced in the flickering light of its chandeliers. The Dusk welcomed people of all orientations, offering a rare sanctuary where judgment had no place.

Now, that sanctuary had evolved into something darker, wilder, and undeniably alluring. The club pulsed with its own peculiar lifeblood, feeding off the chaos of its patrons and echoing the history of the Underworld itself.

Stepping through its doors was like descending into another world—a den of indulgence and seduction where restraint withered, and primal instincts thrived. The mundane, grey lives left behind at the surface were nothing more than shadowy echoes, swallowed by the pulsing, dark heart of Dusk. Here, masks weren't just removed; they were shattered, replaced with faces painted in desire and shadows.

They could be whoever they wanted, do whatever they desired, and revel in their most audacious fantasies without fear of judgment. Many a sin I have seen, and many I will continue to see... and take part in.

Club Dusk wasn't just a nightclub. It was liberation. It was carnage. It was home.

This has always been a vampire's domain—a carefully curated illusion where humans and their desperate little fantasies play into our hands. They walk in thinking they're guests, but really, they're the feast. Blood is the price of entry, and for most, it's a bargain.

I've seen it all—the ecstasy in their eyes when they let the darkness claim them. They think they're the ones in control. It's laughable, really. But who am I to judge? I've succumbed to it myself more times than I care to count, drunk on the high of their fleeting, desperate lives. Maybe I'm no better than they are.

I sat down on the lone stool, the bright light encapsulating me in a warm glow. The rest of the club was shrouded in darkness, leaving me alone—a welcome silence and a cold reminder. Yes, I am brooding, a classic cliché. Why shouldn't I be? Am I not the monster that haunts people's dreams? The one mothers warn their babes about? I smirked as I tuned my guitar, my fingers gliding up its neck. It was smooth under my touch, comfortably familiar. I hadn't picked up this particular guitar in over twenty years, but I dust it off every now and then. Tonight, it called to me from its case, begging to be played.

After tuning it to my satisfaction, I did a test strum. Deep. Full. And when I pressed my pick to the strings, it rang out with a hollow ache. A shiver of pleasure ran through me at the sweet sound, and I began to play, letting the melody unfurl.

I let my fingers glide over the strings as the song echoed across the emptiness of the club. It was haunting and unresolved. It always left me wanting, like a puzzle missing its last damn piece. A song I could never finish, no matter how hard I tried. I wrote it while holed up in my father's old mansion, forgotten by everyone who lived there, including him. Hours turned into days as I tried to wrangle the notes into submission, my stubbornness outlasting any sense of reason. My sister would hover at the edges of my exile, sometimes listening, sometimes leaving without a word. She never interrupted; at least she had the sense to know better. I strummed more passionately this time, the anger pouring through my fingers. The climax of the song building, just on the verge of release—right before I could strum the final, cursed chord that always led nowhere. And then, a voice broke through the quiet, slicing the tension in half.

"A wee bit broody today, aren't we, Daz?"

I sighed, letting my arm fall over the guitar. Squinting into the shadows, my eyes shifted until they found Bastian—owner, bartender, DJ of the club—smirking as he strolled into view, two kegs slung under each arm. He set them down behind the bar and made his way over to the stage, his long golden-blonde hair tied back in its usual low ponytail.

Despite his pirate-like appearance, he'd been an innkeeper in his human life, which explained the strength in his barrel-hauling arms. At six foot two, he wore a white fitted button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. The snug fabric hinted at his strength. Dark jeans and a single silver hoop in his left ear completed his roguish air, giving him the look of someone who could charm anyone—or break them in half.

As he got closer, I could feel his gaze on me, reading the scowl on my face.

"What're you growling for?" he asked, sitting on the edge of the stage and turning toward me.

"Couldn't resist ruining my moment, could you?" I said bitterly.

Bastian shrugged, his grin widening. "Ruining? I thought I was helping. You looked like you were about to combust."

I was getting irritated. "I thought maybe I might get it this time." I dragged a hand through my thick, jet-black curls, the strands falling back into their usual wild chaos as I tried to shake off my frustration.

Bastian raised an eyebrow, smirking. "That's what you always say. Maybe you're just not meant to finish the song. Maybe it's cursed."

His words struck a nerve, as they always did. No—I refused to believe that. This song meant something to me. I could feel it in my bones. I stared at him, biting back a retort.

"Maybe," I muttered, brushing it off with a sniff.

Bastian leaned back, his smirk softening into something annoyingly close to concern.

"You've had two minutes of freedom, Darien. Maybe instead of sulking onstage, you could... I don't know... celebrate? Or does brooding count as a party for you?"

I looked up from the guitar, meeting his dark blue eyes. My enhanced sight caught the faint gold flecks shimmering within them—a small clue to his vampire lineage, though he was veilbound. A chuckle slipped from me, the tension in my shoulders easing slightly.

"It was a long time coming, Bast," I admitted, running my thumb over the guitar strings—a little habit I'd picked up to calm my anger. "It still feels surreal, like the fight hasn't faded from my mind. If Valda hadn't—"

"Valda." Bastian interrupted, his voice sharp enough to cut. He scoffed, bitterness dripping from the sound. "I'll never understand the hold she has on your father."

The name always stirred something bitter in me. My jaw tightened as memories flooded back. My twin sister. His favourite. Born minutes before me, but it might as well have been years in his eyes. Valda was everything he wanted— a polished protégé who basked in his approval and shouldered the weight of his ambitions. Meanwhile, I lingered in the shadows, an afterthought.

Shaking off the bitterness, I forced a smirk. "The same stranglehold she has over you and this establishment," I said, gesturing around the dark, empty space. "She never lets you forget that she helped finance the place."

Bastian's expression darkened, his eyes darting to the shadows at the back of the club, toward the Velvet Rooms. "Yeah," he muttered, the words weighed down with disdain. "The witch made me promise she could do whatever the hell she wanted here. So far, I haven't regretted it, but I can't shake the feeling I will someday."

I leaned back, letting the guitar rest against my chest. "Bast, she's harmless, really. Queen of Dusk—it's just her latest distraction. A way to kill time until she takes the Elder title," I said, shrugging it off.

"It won't be a harmless distraction when you realize she's rehearsing for world domination."

That pulled a genuine laugh out of me. The idea was absurd. My sister wasn't vying for power beyond our kind—at least, not yet. She was being groomed to take over as Elder for our clan, Sânge Varcolac—the Blood Wolf—a title that carried more responsibility than glory.

"She's not rehearsing for anything beyond our clan," I said with a shrug. "And believe me, I don't envy her. Elder might sound grand, but it's a headache wrapped in centuries of tradition."

Bastian gave me a long, hard look, then let out a dry, mocking chuckle. "Just wait and see. I'm not crazy. That witch is coming for us all…"

His words hung in the air, heavy with foreboding, but I refused to dwell on them. I shook my head, a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. "You're something, Bast," was all I could muster in reply.

He stood, brushing his hands against his jeans as if wiping off invisible dust. "Yeah, well, something is better than nothing," he said with a shrug. "When can I expect the rest of the pack to show up?"

My band, Howl by Night, loved their wolf-themed puns—because of course, we were a strange pack in more ways than one. A pack of misfits with parent issues, rebellion in our veins, and music as our only tether to sanity.

"In an hour or so, for sound check. Who else is playing tonight?"

Bastian flipped me off as he walked away, his voice echoing faintly over his shoulder. "Surprise yourself."

I smirked. He's lucky I like his arrogant ass.

I moved my guitar back to my lap and started strumming an acoustic version of Moonlit Night by Howl by Night. It was a heavy rock piece, but today, I decided to tone it down into more of a ballad to practice my vocals. My voice echoed across the stage as I tried to drown out all the aggravating issues my family had caused.

"She sits so fine, like him in kind.

Holding on tight, fallen tricks behind.

To be beside her love, joyfully we plan.

Consequence unfolds, cordial warmth began."

I could feel Bast's eyes on me as I played. People always stopped to listen. It was one of the perks of having a mother from the Dahlia Roja clan—a group known for their mastery in the creative arts—music, art, theatrics—and for being deadly assassins. My mother was a singer, a siren. When she sang, she brought the world to its knees. I inherited that from her. When I sang, I brought out the hidden desires of both humans and vampires alike. I was the perfect addition to Club Dusk, and Bastian had no hesitation in asking me to form a band.

It didn't take long to gather my pack: Lyra on keyboard, Maxence on bass, Creed on drums, and Selene, who was an addition tonight for our little show. She's a dancer and burlesque performer, and I planned to have a lot of fun with her to really get the show going. The crowd will go wild.

"His soft white hand, in the moonlit night,

Felt beaten, pleasure, oh what a sight!

The seven vices on his mind,

Her smile saying, she will be mine."

 Ah, I remember the argument with my bandmates over the last line. I was adamant that it should be "She will be thine," but they insisted on turning it into "mine" because they thought it sounded more modern. I wasn't backing down, though, not until Bast—of course—burst out laughing, cutting off the damn song at practice. He asked if we were planning to break out lutes and wear puffy collars too. I shot him a glare, my eyes practically sparking with anger as he smirked and replied:

"Don't flash your pretty purple eyes at me, Daz. We're both old enough to know you can't drag that language back no matter how hard you try. Come on, get with the 21st century."

That was when I finally caved, and we changed it. I guess I was just trying to hold on to a little piece of my culture from the late 1700s. But I suppose that's not meant to be anymore.

I strummed the final verse of the song, and my voice picked up in crescendo.

"She sits with him, forever bound.

In the echoes of love, a sweet sound.

Holding on tight, through thick and thin.

Their love story, a tale to begin."

I strummed the final chord, the sound reverberating through the empty hall, and that's when I heard it—the unmistakable clack of heels against the stone floor. From the shadows, a figure emerged, moving with an unsettling combination of grace and purpose. Valda.

Her ebony hair, always pin-straight and flawless, mimicked mine only in colour. It framed her sculpted face, with cheekbones any girl would kill for. Her lips, painted in her signature dark red, were full and lush—the kind of lips that could disarm you, make you forget how venomous her words truly were. Her eyes, a pale shade of purple, glowed faintly in the dim light, unnervingly similar to mine, yet different in every way that mattered. While my gaze held heat—frustration, rebellion—hers was cold, detached, calculating, as if she lived her life perpetually five steps ahead of everyone else. Despite being twins, we were as different as night and day. She was ghostly pale, her appearance almost ethereal, while I carried a touch of warmth in my skin—a subtle but constant reminder of how far apart our paths had diverged.

When Valda entered a room, she didn't just command attention—she owned it, no questions asked. It wasn't just her beauty, though that certainly helped; it was the quiet, lethal confidence she exuded. She didn't need to speak to remind you she could destroy you—whether with a single word, a cutting look, or a dagger to the heart.

Those were the traits necessary to lead the Sânge Varcolac clan as its Elder. Like the wolf of our emblem, the clan valued solidarity above all else but struck with ruthless efficiency when provoked. That was Valda in a nutshell—deadly, unrelenting, and proud of it.

And me? I chose to run with my own pack. You can imagine how well that announcement went over.

She stopped right in front of the stage, her gaze locking on mine as she crossed her arms.

Valda's outfit was striking, as always. She wore a crisp white shirt, the buttons undone just enough to reveal a fitted black corset beneath that hugged her form. The shirt's sleeves were rolled up effortlessly, as if she didn't need to try to look that good—she just did. Tucked into high-waisted black trousers that accentuated her long legs, the ensemble gave her an air of timeless sophistication, balanced with an edge of danger.

Her earrings added the final, mesmerizing touch to her look. Dangling elegantly, the design featured an upside-down crescent moon in silver at the top, its delicate curve contrasting the sharp edges of the obsidian-like pendants below. At first glance, the pendants appeared black, but as the light shifted, they revealed a dark blue glow—subtle, enchanting, and undeniably otherworldly.

The earrings were a gift from our mother, one of the few things we had in common. While she wore both proudly, I stuck to just the one in my right ear. A small rebellion, perhaps, but it felt like enough.

I sighed but continued to play a small tune as she stared at me.

"To what do I owe this displeasure?" I said, feigning boredom.

She ignored the sarcasm and replied, "Daddy wishes to remind you that your presence is still required at the New Year's Ball."

Valda actually looked bored, almost as if she already knew my response and thought this was a waste of her time.

"You can tell Daddy"—I mocked her cruelly—"to go fuck himself."

She raised an eyebrow, a small Mona Lisa smirk appearing on her face.

"You know as well as I do, Darien, that this was part of the deal. You get to fly the nest, sow your oats, or brood away in your broken-down palace only if you attend family events. All to show face that we are, in fact, a happy family," she said, smiling sweetly before raising her voice to mimic a game show host.

I kept playing my guitar, annoyance and rage building in equal measure.

Yeah, that was the deal—the only one Valda could strike for my freedom. I loathed our father to no end and honestly wished I never had to see him again.

"So we are in agreement, despite the expletive—you are going. Good. Moving on." She uncrossed her arms and approached the stage, all business.

"What else could you possibly want now?" I had actually stopped playing this time.

"It's not what I want, brother. It's what you need. You are broodier than usual, and honestly, I know it's near time you were fed." She looked me up and down with a critical eye.

Yes, it was my night to feed. We need to feed every three days to retain our strength. Although we can consume normal food, it is blood that truly sustains us. It allows us to use our gifts and minor incantations.

"Don't worry, I'll find some nourishment tonight after the gig. I have enough strength to perform."

"Ugh, you won't have time. Let me help you find someone truly delectable. I have a gift for these things. Do you have a preference?"

I stared at her for a while. This was coming out of nowhere. She was offering to go on the hunt for my prey? We use that term loosely. We don't kill, but we do have specific tastes. Blood can sing to us.

"You're joking, right? Why are you doing this?" I asked.

"Listen, I'm on your side. I want you to enjoy your life and not be shackled. If it means healing and bringing our family back together, I'm all for it. Just allow me to be nice to my little brother for once."

I rolled my eyes.

"Valda, I'm literally two minutes younger than you. Give it a rest."

She crossed her arms and scowled at me with a commanding air. There it was—the true Valda face.

"Fine. Go and find the perfect prey if that will make you happy." I motioned for her to leave, hoping to end the conversation. To be honest, I wanted to be rid of her and get lost in my music. I was growing annoyed with all the interruptions.

"Perfect." She replied curtly. She quickly turned, and I caught sight of her black heels, the shiny red soles glaring back at me as she walked away.

To my surprise, Bastian started walking toward me. He nodded once to Valda, and she did the same. He reached the stage and handed me a glass of whiskey.

"For your troubles of having to deal with the witch," he said with a smirk.

I downed it and handed the glass back to him, then remembered something.

"Oh yeah, did you set up the hoist for Selene?"

Bastian groaned and scowled up at me.

"Selene? Seriously? Are you trying to start a massive orgy in here, Daz?"

I smiled wolfishly at him.

"C'mon, Bast, when have I ever done that?" I chuckled.

"Oh, let me count the times, bastard. It's me who has to do the clean-up. Did you ever think about that?"

I rolled my eyes. No, I never did. My gigs were my domain. I created the atmosphere of sin. I was in control of people's lust. I was the one always giving them… more.