The candlelight cast long shadows across the drawing room walls of Thornfield Manor, where Reed Montgomery sat in dutiful silence, her needle moving through delicate embroidery with practiced grace. The isolation of their countryside estate had long since settled into her bones, each day bleeding into the next like watercolors in the rain. Her father, a man of science who preferred the company of his books to society, had ensured their lives remained untouched by scandal or excitement. Until that fateful night in October.
The storm had been raging for hours, wind howling through the ancient oaks that lined their drive, when the desperate pounding at their door shattered the evening’s quiet. Reed watched from the landing as their butler admitted a figure dressed in black and crimson, rain soaked and leaning heavily on a silver-headed cane.
“Forgive this unseemly intrusion” the stranger spoke, voice rich and cultured, with an accent Reed couldn’t quite place. “My carriage has met with misfortune on your roads, and I find myself in need of shelter.”
The stranger introduced himself as Lord Laurence Blackwood, and even from her hidden vantage point, Reed felt the weight of his gaze as it swept the foyer. There was something in his bearing that spoke of old money and older secrets, the way he moved with fluid grace despite his apparent injury, the elegant cut of his sodden clothing, the rings that adorned his gloved hands.
“Of course, you must stay until arrangements can be made” Reed’s father declared, ever the proper English gentleman. “Reed, child, come down and greet our guest.”
Reed descended the stairs, feeling those dark eyes track her movement. As she drew closer, she noticed the peculiar color of Lord Blackwood’s eyes. One green as spring leaves, the other brown as aged whiskey. His face was sharp-featured and pale as marble, framed by dark hair that fell in wet waves past his collar.
“My lady” he bowed, taking her hand in his gloved one. His lips barely brushed her knuckles, yet Reed felt a shiver course through her body at the contact. “Thy beauty doth make this dreary night seem bright as noon.”
The poetic-tinged compliment should have seemed affected, yet from his lips, it carried a weight that made Reed’s cheeks flush. There was something in his presence that seemed to draw the air from the room, leaving her slightly dizzy.
“Welcome to Thornfield, my lord” she managed, withdrawing her hand. The leather of his glove had been cold against her skin.
That night, Reed lay awake in her bed, listening to the storm rage outside her window. Through the thunder, she could have sworn she heard footsteps in the corridor. Too light to be her father’s, too purposeful to the servants’. When she finally drifted to sleep, she dreamed of dark eyes watching her from the shadows, and a voice that whispered verses in her ear:
“What angel wakes me from my flowery bed?”
She woke with the words still echoing in her mind, and a strange mark upon her pillow, a single drop of crimson, bright against the white linen.
Lord Blackwood proved to be an unusual guest. He kept to his room during daylight hours, citing his injuries and sensitivity to light. But as dusk fell each evening, he would emerge, impeccably dressed in suits that seemed to absorb the candlelight rather than reflect it. His conversation was brilliant, his knowledge vast, yet there was always something guarded in his manner, as if he were playing a part in some grand performance.
Reed found herself drawn into his orbit, spending evenings in the library where he would read to her from ancient texts, his voice wrapping around the words like silk. She noticed how he never ate at dinner, only sipped a dark wine that stained his lips the color of sin. How the servants whispered about strange sounds in the night, and how the household’s cats would arch their backs and hiss when he passed.
But it was his hands that most captured her attention, always gloved, always proper, yet somehow sensual in their restraint. When he would help her from her chair or guide her through a corridor, the leather would whisper against her skin, and Reed would imagine what lay beneath that barrier of propriety.
“Tell me, fair maiden” he asked one evening as they stood before the library fire, “dost thou not tire of this sequestered life? Does thy spirit not yearn for darker pleasures than needlework and proper conversation?’
The way he said “darker pleasures” made Reed’s breath catch in her throat. She watched as he removed one glove, finger by finger, revealing a hand pale as moonlight. When he reached to brush a strand of hair from her face, his touch cool as marble his skin represented.
“I–” she began, but the grandfather clock struck midnight, and Lord Blackwood withdrew as if burned by her warmth.
“The hour grows late” he said, his voice tight with something that might have been restraint or hunger. “Sweet dreams, my lady. May thy slumber be blessed with visions more stirring than thy waking hours permit.”
He left her there, trembling before the dying fire, her skin tingling where his fingers had traced her cheek. That night, her dreams were indeed stirring, filled with shadowed corridors and forbidden touches, and a pair of mismatched eyes that seemed to peer into her very soul.
As weeks passed, Reed found herself studying Lord Blackwood with growing fascination. There was something in the elegant line of his throat, the delicate bones of his wrists beneath his ever-present gloves, that struck her as peculiarly refined for a gentleman. His movements carried a grace that seemed feminine in its fluidity, yet there was undeniable power in his bearing.
One evening, as she passed his chamber, she heard his voice through the heavy oak door: “Mirror, mirror, upon thy wall, what secrets dost thou tell them all?” There was a different quality to the tone. Higher, softer. Followed by the sound of breaking glass.
Reed pressed herself against the shadows as the door flew open. Lord Blackwood emerged, adjusting his cravat with slightly trembling hands. In the flickering lamplight, she caught a glimpse of something beneath his collar, the edge of what appeared to be fabric wrapped around his chest.
“A lady should not wander dark hallways at night, Miss Reed.” he spoke, making her jump. His voice had returned to its usual timber. “The night holds dangers thou knowest not of.”
“And yet you walk these hallways freely, my lord” Reed replied, gathering her courage.
“What dangers should I fear, when you yourself seem most at home in darkness?”
He stepped closer, and Reed caught the scent of roses and iron on his breath. “Perhaps ‘tis I thou shouldst fear most, sweet Reed. For in my chest beats a heart full strange and terrible with wanting.”
His gloved hand rose to hover near her cheek, not quite touching. Reed found herself leaning toward the promise of contact, her breath shallow. “What manner of wanting?” she whispered.
“The kind that would consume thee whole” he murmured, and for a moment, she thought she saw a flash of fang behind his lips. “The kind that burns like holy water upon a devil’s tongue.”
The candle in its sconce flickered violently, and in that moment of darkness, Reed felt cool leather brush her throat, followed by what might have been the press of lips. Or teeth. When the light returned, Lord Blackwood stood several feet away, his face a mask of careful control.
“Your cravat sits askew, my lord” Reed said, her voice trembling. “And I believe your cloth shows beneath your shirt.”
Color touched his pale cheeks. The first time she’d seen him flush. “Thou art too clever by half, fair Reed. But pray, keep thy observations to thyself, lest they lead thee down paths from which there is no return.”
“And if I wish to walk such paths?” Reed took a step forward, emboldened by the night and the tension crackling between them. “If I find myself drawn to mysteries and… to you?”
Lord Blackwood’s laugh was like bitter wine. “Then thou art surely mad, or bewitched, or both. Yet I find myself powerless to drive thee hence.” He turned away, his shoulders tense beneath fine fabric. “Come to my chambers tomorrow night, if thou dare. Perhaps then thou shalt see all that I am. And flee from what thou find'st.”
He vanished into the shadows, leaving Reed alone with her racing heart and the lingering sensation of cold leather against her throat. In the darkness, she heard him whisper:
“What fools these mortals be, who seek the truth behind love’s mask, yet tremble when they find it.”
The next evening found Reed standing before Lord Blackwood’s chamber door, her heart thundering against her ribs. The corridor was lit only by moonlight streaming through tall windows, casting marble white squares across the Persian carpet. Her hand trembled as she raised it to knock.
“Enter” came the voice from within, softer now, stripped of its affected depth.
The chamber was illuminated by dozens of candles, their flames perfectly still in the airless room. Lord Blackwood stood by the window, a silhouette cut in black and crimson. The moonlight caught the curve of his jaw, the hollow of his throat where his cravat had been loosened.
“You’ve come” he said, turning. “I confess, I hoped you would, yet feared it all the same.”
“Why do you hide behind these pretenses?” Reed asked, closing the door behind her. “The masculine attire, the affected speech—”
“Because the truth would damn us both.” He moved closer, each step liquid grace. “Society barely tolerates me as a nobleman. As what I truly am…” He laughed softly. “Well, that would be quite the scandal, wouldn’t it?”
“Show me” Reed whispered. “I need to see.”
Lord Blackwood, or whoever stood before her, reached up with gloved hands and began to undo the buttons of his waistcoat. The fabric fell away, followed by the crisp white shirt beneath. Finally, the cloth around his chest was loosened, revealing the gentle curves that had been so carefully hidden.
“My name is Lauren” she said, her voice now naturally feminine, though still carrying that otherworldly quality that had first captivated Reed. “And I am neither the man you thought, nor entirely human.”
Reed stepped forward, drawn by some power she couldn’t name. Lauren’s skin gleamed like a pearl in the candlelight, marked by traces of blue veins beneath the surface. When Reed reached out to touch her bare shoulder, the was cool as ice.
“Your heart” Reed murmured, laying her palm against Lauren’s chest. “It doesn’t beat.”
“No” Lauren agreed, covering Reed’s hand with her own. She had removed one glove, and her bare fingers were as elegant and deadly as ivory daggers. “Though it yearns all the same.”
Their faces were inches apart now, close enough that Reed could see the subtle shift of color in Lauren’s eyes, the way her pupils dilated in the dim light. Lauren’s free hand came up to trace the pulse point at Reed’s throat, making her gasp.
“I should send you away” Lauren whispered, her cool breath brushing Reed’s lips. “Back to your safe, mortal life of sunlight and propriety. Yet I find myself wanting nothing more than to draw you into my darkness.”
“Perhaps I want to be drawn” Reed answered, tilting her head back as Lauren’s fingers slid into her hair, loosening pins until dark waves fell around her shoulders.
Lauren’s lips parted, revealing the glint of fangs. “Your pulse races so sweetly” she murmured. “Like a frightened bird against these fingers. Do I terrify you my dear?”
“Yes” Reed admitted. “And yet I cannot bring myself to flee.”
“Then you are either very brave” Lauren’s lips brushed her jaw, cool as death yet igniting fire beneath Reed’s skin, “or very foolish.” Her other hand still held Reed’s against her silent heart. “Perhaps both.”
The candles guttered suddenly, as if the wind had passed through the sealed room. In the momentary darkness, Reed felt Lauren pull away, though her hand remained entrapped.
“Dawn approaches” Lauren said, her voice tight with restraint. “You should go, while I still have the strength to let you.”
“And if I choose to stay?”
Lauren’s smile was beautiful and terrible in the restored candlelight. “Then, my dear, we shall see if love can indeed flourish in darkness, where even angels fear to tread.”
Daylight brought no clarity to Reed’s thoughts. She moved through her morning routine in a daze, her fingers constantly straying to her throat where Lauren’s touch still seemed to linger. The household continued its usual rhythms, yet everything felt altered, as if now she viewed the world through smoked glass.
That evening, she found a note slipped beneath her door, written in an elegant hand:
My chambers. Midnight. The choice to venture deeper into darkness remains yours.
The hours crawled by like wounded things. When the clock finally struck twelve, Reed slipped from her room in her dressing gown, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. The moon hung full and heavy outside the windows, painting her path in silver.
Lauren awaited her in an ensemble that made Reed’s breath catch. A man’s shirt worn loose, dark trousers, and a crimson vest that emphasized the feminine curves she no longer tried to hide from Reed’s eyes. Her dark hair fell freely past her shoulders, and her feet were bare against the Persian carpet.
“You’ve returned to me” Lauren said, closing the distance between them, she wore no gloves tonight, and when her cool fingers brushed Reed’s cheek, the contact sent shivers down her spine.
“How could I stay away?” Reed leaned into the touch. “Though perhaps I should.”
“Yes” Lauren agreed, her other hand coming to rest at Reed’s waist. “You should run from me sweet girl. Instead, you draw closer, like a moth to a deadly flame.”
Reed’s fingers found the collar of Lauren’s shirt, tracing the edge where it met cool skin. “Then let me burn.”
Lauren’s kiss, when it came, was gentle as falling snow yet scorched as brandy. Her fangs grazed Reed’s lower lip, not quite breaking skin, drawing a gasp from her throat. They moved together until Reed’s back met the chamber wall, Lauren’s body pressing her with strength that thrilled rather than frightened.
“Your heart beats for us both” Lauren murmured against her throat, where Reed’s pulse raced beneath paper-thin skin. Her cool tongue traced the vein there, making Reed arch against her. “So warm, so alive. You make me remember what it was like to breathe, to burn, to want.”
“Then take what you want” Reed whispered, tangling her fingers in Lauren’s hair.
Lauren pulled back sharply, her eyes blazing. “You know not what you offer.”
“I offer myself.”
“And that” Lauren said, pressing their foreheads together, “is precisely why I must refuse. I would not have you throw your life into shadow for a creature who can only love you in darkness.”
But even as she spoke, her hands tightened possessively at Reed’s waist, betraying her resolve. They remained locked together, neither willing to break away.
Reed’s father, perhaps sensing the changing currents in his household, announced a midnight ball, an unusual choice that made Lauren’s lip curve in bitter amusement. “How fitting” she murmured to Reed during one of their nightly encounters. “To dance on the edge of revelation.”
The night of the ball arrived draped in fog that crept like searching fingers across the manor grounds. Lauren appeared at the top of the grand staircase in a black tailcoat with crimson silk accents, her hair swept back to emphasize the sharp angles of her face. She still played the role of Lord Blackwood for the assembled guests, but her eyes never left Reed.
Reed herself wore ivory silk that made her black hair gleam by contrast. They moved through the elaborate figures of the dance like pieces in a game of chess, always circling, never quite touching. The other guests blurred into meaningless shadows around them.
“You’re wearing my color” Lauren observed during a turn that brought them close enough to share the same breath. Her eyes lingered on the single rose Reed had woven into her hair.
“Perhaps I’m already yours” Reed replied, her voice barely above a whisper.
Lauren’s fingers tightened on her waist. “Come to the garden. Now.”
They slipped away from the ball like thieves, the music fading behind them as they ventured into the fog shrouded garden. The roses were in full bloom, their heavy heads nodding in the still air, petals as dark as spilled wine.
“Do you understand what you do to me?” Lauren’s voice was rough with hunger as she backed Reed against a marble column. “How you make me want impossible things?”
“Nothing is impossible” Reed reaches up to trace the sharp line of Lauren’s jaw. “Not with us.”
Lauren caught her wrist, pressing her lips to the pulse point. “I could drain you dry” she whispered against Reed’s skin. “I could make your heart stop beating with a single kiss. I am death itself my love, wrapped in pretty clothes and prettier lies.”
“Then why do you make me feel more alive than I’ve ever been?” Reed challenged. She pulled her wrist from Lauren’s grasp only to press it against Lauren’s mouth. “If you are death, then let me die sweetly.”
Lauren’s control snapped. She pinned Reed against the column, one hand tangled in her hair while the other pressed against the small of her back, drawing their bodies flush. Her kiss was desperate, all pretense of humanity abandoned as her fangs scraped Reed’s lower lip.
“Say yes” Lauren breathed against her mouth. “Say you understand what you’re asking for. Say you choose this. Choose me. With eyes wide open.”
Reed’s answer was lost in the sudden crash of thunder. The storm that had been threatening all evening finally broke, sending guests scrambling inside. But Lauren and Reed remained in the garden, the rain soaking their fine clothes as they clung to each other in the darkness.
“Yes” Reed finally whispered, tilting her head to expose her throat. “I choose you.”
Lauren’s lips parted, her fangs gleaming in a flash of lightning. The roses around them seemed to pulse with dark life as she lowered her mouth to Reed’s throat, their petals dripping red as blood in the rain.
Lightning illuminated the garden in stark flashes, casting Lauren and Reed’s embrace in fragments of brilliant clarity. The moment Lauren’s fangs pierced Reed’s throat, the world seemed to stop. The rain hanging suspended, the thunder holding its breath.
Reed felt no pain, only a rush of sensation that made her knees buckle. Lauren’s arms tightened around her waist, supporting her as the first draw of blood passed between them. Each pull of Lauren’s mouth sent waves of pleasure through Reed’s body, dark and sweet as sin.
“My love” Lauren breathed against her throat, her voice thick with blood and desire. “My heart. My destruction.”
Reed’s fingers clutched at Lauren’s shoulders as her vision began to blur at the edges. She could feel her life flowing out, yet somehow she felt more vital than ever before, as if she were being unmade and remade in the same eternal moment.
Lauren pulled back suddenly, her eyes wild in the light of the storm. Blood, Reed’s blood, stained her lips crimson. “I cannot take more” she said hoarsely. “I would not doom you to my fate.”
But Reed could see the hunger still raging in Lauren’s eyes, could feel it in the trembling of the hands that held her. With deliberate slowness, she reached up and drew her fingernail across her own collarbone, opening a thin line of red.
“Then share your fate with me” she whispered.
Lauren’s control shattered. She surged forward, pressing Reed against the rain-slick column as her mouth found the fresh wound. This time, she didn’t stop until Reed’s heart began to slow, her pulse growing faint as winter sunlight.
At the last possible moment, Lauren tore herself away. She bit into her own wrist and pressed it to Reed’s lips. “Drink” she commanded, her voice raw with emotion. “Drink and be reborn in darkness.”
Reed’s last human sight was of Lauren’s face above her, beautiful and terrible as an avenging angel. Her last human thought was of how the roses seemed to bloom darker in the rain, their petals the exact shade of blood that passed between them.
The grandfather clock in the manor struck midnight, its chimes rolling out across the storm-wracked garden. Thirteen times it rang, though it had never struck thirteen before.
In the morning, Reed’s father found only an empty garden, the roses scattered and torn. If he noticed two figures riding away in the pre-dawn light, one in black, one in white, both moving hand in hand, he never spoke of it.
Some say that on certain nights, when the moon is full and the roses bloom blood-red, two women can be seen walking the manor grounds. They move with grace, their laughter carrying on the wind like music. One wears crimson and black, the other ivory and rose, and their love burns brighter than death itself.
But these are only stories, whispers behind closed doors on dark nights. After all, what proper Victorian lady would choose to dance with darkness, to love a creature of shadow and sin?
Perhaps only one who found that darkness sweeter than light, and sin more holy than salvation.
End