Moonlight Melody By Olivia Salter / Short Story / Paranormal Romance / Urban Fantasy

 

Moonlight Melody

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 2061

By day, she composes symphonies; by night, she chases shadows. But when her melodies draw the attention of a lone wolf hiding in plain sight, their worlds collide in a song neither of them can escape.

***

The train’s brakes screeched as Dynasty adjusted her earbuds, the sweet-sounding hum of a cello filling her ears. She sat stiffly, the violin case balanced between her knees. Late-night trains always carried an air of unease, but tonight, it felt sharper, heavier, as though the city itself held its breath.

"Second Street Station," the automated voice announced. The doors hissed open.

A man stepped into the car. He was tall, with sharp features softened by his disheveled hoodie and worn jeans. His boots, caked in mud, struck Dynasty as out of place. Who walks through the city like that? she thought, stealing glances as he settled a few seats away.

The train lurched forward, but Dynasty's gaze remained fixed. Something about him gnawed at her composure—a tension that prickled her skin. She turned up the music, trying to drown out her unease. But when her eyes flicked back to him, he was staring right at her.

***

Dynasty had always been good at noticing things. It's what made her a prodigy in music. At 26, she was the youngest composer hired by the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, her pieces celebrated for their raw emotion and haunting beauty. But tonight, as she walked home through the empty streets, her senses felt off.

The air carried a metallic tang. Her steps echoed unnaturally, the city’s usual symphony of sounds reduced to a faint hum.

And then, she heard it—a low growl.

She froze. It wasn’t distant, nor the hollow echo of a stray dog. It was close. Too close.

A shadow darted through the corner of her vision. Dynasty’s breath hitched, her violin case slipping from her grasp. “Hello?” she called, her voice trembling.

From the darkness stepped the man from the train. His hoodie was gone, revealing a lean, muscular frame. His eyes gleamed golden under the flickering streetlights.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” he said, his voice deep and raspy.

Dynasty stumbled back. “What—what do you want?”

“Not me.” He tilted his head toward the shadows. “Them.”

Before she could react, a creature lunged from the alley—a wolf, its eyes glowing like embers. Dynasty screamed, but the man moved faster than she could process. He leapt, his form blurring midair, and when he landed, he wasn’t a man anymore.

He was the wolf.

***

Dynasty woke in her apartment, the morning light streaming through her curtains. Her violin case sat by the door, but her hands trembled as she touched it, the memories of the night before rushing back.

Was it real? She glanced at her arm, where faint scratches marred her skin.

A knock on her door startled her. She peered through the peephole. It was him—the man from the train.

“How do you know where I live?” she demanded after cracking the door open.

“You dropped this.” He held up her wallet. “Thought I’d return it before…” He trailed off, his gaze flicking to her arm.

“Before what?” she pressed, opening the door wider.

“Before they come back.”

***

Over the following days, Dynasty learned his name—Eli—and his truth. He wasn’t just a werewolf; he was a rogue, exiled from his pack for refusing to partake in their brutal ways.

“They hunt for sport,” he explained one night, as they sat in her cramped living room. “But when they target someone, it’s never random. They’re after you now.”

“Why me?”

Eli hesitated. “Your music. They’re drawn to it.”

Dynasty frowned. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It’s not just music to them,” he said. “It’s a pull. A lure. Something they can’t resist.”

Despite her disbelief, the attacks persisted. Dynasty found herself relying on Eli more than she liked, their uneasy alliance growing into something deeper.

She noticed the way his voice softened when he spoke to her, the way his eyes lingered when he thought she wasn’t looking. But she also saw the torment in him—the self-loathing and isolation he carried like a second skin.

For Dynasty, it was different. Her life had always been about control—of notes, of rhythm, of structure. But Eli was chaos incarnate, a wild force she couldn’t predict. And yet, she felt safer with him than she ever had alone.

***

The night of her symphony’s debut arrived, and Dynasty insisted on performing despite Eli’s warnings.

“They’ll be there,” he said, pacing her apartment. “You’re giving them exactly what they want.”

“I won’t let them scare me into silence,” she shot back, her voice firm. “This is my life, Eli. My music. They don’t get to take that from me.”

Eli’s jaw tightened. “Then I’ll be there.”

***

The performance was flawless, every note a crescendo of defiance and beauty. Dynasty’s bow danced across the strings, her heart pouring into every stroke.

But as the applause thundered through the hall, her triumph was short-lived. The wolves were here, their human disguises barely hiding their predatory gazes.

Eli appeared at her side, his expression grim. “We need to go. Now.”

They fled into the night, the wolves hot on their trail. Dynasty’s lungs burned as she ran, Eli leading her through a maze of alleys.

When they reached a dead end, he turned to her, his eyes glowing. “Stay behind me.”

“No.” She gripped his arm. “I’m done running.”

Eli blinked, surprised, but before he could argue, Dynasty raised her violin.

She played.

The melody was haunting, a raw, visceral cry that echoed through the city. The wolves faltered, their snarls softening into whimpers. Eli stared, his wolf form trembling as if the music itself was stripping him bare.

When the last note faded, the wolves were gone, leaving only Eli and Dynasty in the silence.

***

In the days that followed, Dynasty and Eli rebuilt their lives, bound by the music that had both cursed and saved them.

Eli stayed, no longer a rogue but a man finding his place. And Dynasty, for the first time, composed not for the world but for herself—and for the man who had taught her that even in the wildest chaos, there was harmony to be found.

Dynasty’s newfound power was a revelation, but it came with a burden she hadn’t anticipated. The music that flowed from her fingers wasn’t just an art—it was a force. She could feel it now, pulsing beneath her skin whenever she played. It was a connection to something ancient, primal, and untamed.

“What does it mean?” she asked Eli one evening, her violin resting on her lap as they sat in her dimly lit apartment.

Eli leaned against the window frame, his silhouette illuminated by the moonlight. “It means you’re more than you think. The music doesn’t just move people—it commands them. It’s why the pack was drawn to you. They wanted to harness that power.”

Dynasty swallowed hard, the weight of his words sinking in. “And what if I don’t want it?”

Eli turned to face her, his golden eyes piercing. “It’s not about wanting it. It’s about owning it. If you don’t, someone else will.”

***

The attacks stopped after that night, but Dynasty felt the wolves’ presence lingering like a shadow on her soul. She buried herself in her work, composing with an intensity she’d never known, pouring her fears, doubts, and hopes into every piece.

Eli became her anchor, though he struggled with his own demons. He wasn’t used to staying in one place, to being needed. But with Dynasty, he found himself wanting to stay.

“You could leave,” she told him one morning as they walked along the lakefront, the water shimmering under the rising sun.

He glanced at her, his expression unreadable. “Do you want me to?”

Dynasty hesitated. The answer was obvious, but saying it felt like stepping into the unknown. “No. But I don’t want you to feel trapped.”

Eli’s laugh was soft, almost bitter. “I’ve been running my whole life, Dynasty. Staying here with you… it’s the first time I’ve felt free.”

Her chest tightened at his words, the raw honesty in his voice cutting through her defenses.

***

As weeks turned into months, Dynasty began to explore her power with Eli’s help. She played in the quiet woods on the edge of the city, where her music seemed to ripple through the trees like a living thing.

One evening, as she played, a figure stepped into the clearing—a woman with silver hair and eyes like molten gold.

“Who are you?” Dynasty demanded, lowering her violin.

The woman smiled, her presence commanding yet strangely familiar. “My name is Selene. I’m… like you.”

Eli tensed, his posture shifting as if ready for a fight. “She’s not like you, Dynasty. She’s dangerous.”

Selene tilted her head, amusement dancing in her gaze. “I see you’ve been keeping her close, rogue. But you’ve barely scratched the surface of her potential.”

Dynasty stepped forward, her pulse quickening. “What do you want?”

“To teach you.” Selene’s voice was soft, almost hypnotic. “The power you wield is ancient, but without guidance, it will consume you. I can help you control it.”

Eli growled low in his throat. “Don’t listen to her. She’s part of the pack. She just wants to use you.”

Dynasty hesitated, caught between the two. “And you don’t?” she asked Eli, her voice sharper than she intended.

Eli flinched, the pain in his eyes clear. “I don’t want to use you. I just want to keep you safe.”

Selene smiled faintly, her gaze never leaving Dynasty. “The choice is yours. Stay here, small and fearful, or step into your true self.”

***

That night, Dynasty couldn’t sleep. Selene’s words echoed in her mind, a siren call she couldn’t ignore.

“You’re thinking about her,” Eli said, breaking the silence.

Dynasty turned to him, guilt twisting in her chest. “She’s right, Eli. I don’t know what I’m capable of, and that scares me.”

“It should,” he replied, his voice low. “Power like yours doesn’t come without a cost. You can’t trust her.”

“But what if she’s the only one who can help me?”

Eli’s jaw tightened. “Then I’ll come with you. I’m not letting you face her alone.”

***

The meeting with Selene was tense, the air thick with unspoken truths. Dynasty stood her ground, her violin at the ready as Selene circled her like a predator.

“You’ve barely scratched the surface,” Selene said, her voice dripping with disdain. “Show me what you’ve got.”

Dynasty lifted her bow, the first note cutting through the air like a blade. Selene flinched, her composure cracking as the melody wrapped around her like a storm.

But Selene didn’t back down. With a wave of her hand, she countered, her own power surging forward like a tidal wave.

Eli jumped between them, his wolf form emerging in a blur of motion. “Enough!” he roared, his voice shaking the trees.

The sound broke through the chaos, and Dynasty’s music wavered. Selene smirked. “You’ve got spirit, but you lack control. Call me when you’re ready to stop playing small.”

With that, she vanished, leaving Dynasty and Eli alone in the clearing.

***

In the weeks that followed, Dynasty threw herself into mastering her power, her music evolving into something fierce and unyielding. Eli remained by her side, his presence a reminder that she didn’t have to face her journey alone.

But the wolves weren’t finished with her, and neither was Selene.

Dynasty knew the final confrontation was coming, and this time, she wouldn’t just play to survive. She’d play to win.

As Dynasty stood on the edge of the city, her violin raised, Eli by her side, she felt the weight of her power settle over her like a second skin.

The wolves emerged from the shadows, their eyes burning with hunger.

Dynasty smiled. “Let’s give them a symphony they’ll never forget.”

Her bow descended, the first note ringing out like a battle cry.

The music wasn’t just a pull for the wolves. It was a power Dynasty had unknowingly inherited, one that could control or destroy.

Their love wasn’t perfect, but like a melody, it grew richer with every note, imperfectly beautiful and uniquely theirs.

Breaking the Echo: Have You Ever by Olivia Salter / Flash Fiction / Anti-Romance

Breaking the Echo: Have You Ever

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 986

Simone believed her relationship sounded like Brandy’s Have You Ever, but as the song played in the empty apartment, she wondered: had she ever been loved, or had she only been a reflection in Marcus’s hollow world?

***

Simone stared at the framed photo perched on the edge of the coffee table. It showed her and Marcus on their first anniversary, arms around each other, her face bright with joy. His smile was smaller, almost polite, as if he’d been asked to pose. She picked up the frame, tracing the glass with her finger. It was the last thing she’d pack, but not because it mattered—because it didn’t.

In the quiet, Brandy’s Have You Ever played softly from her phone, the lyrics looping like a question she couldn’t shake:

"Have you ever needed something so bad you can’t sleep at night?"

Simone set the frame down, facedown this time, and turned to the boxes scattered around the apartment.

***

They had met at a mutual friend’s party. Simone hadn’t wanted to go—crowded rooms and forced conversations weren’t her thing—but Marcus was magnetic. He’d drawn people to him effortlessly, his laugh cutting through the noise like a warm melody.

“You look like someone who hates small talk,” he said, offering her a drink.

Simone smirked. “Depends. Is this small talk?”

“It’s small now, but it could be big later.”

It was cheesy, but the way he said it made her laugh. She had fallen for him in that moment, swept into the easy charm of his confidence.

***

At first, their love felt like a melody in perfect harmony. He’d call her brilliant, tell her she was beautiful in a way that made her believe it. When she was with Marcus, she felt seen.

But as time passed, she realized that Marcus didn’t love the parts of her that weren’t convenient.

When she shared her dream of opening a boutique, he listened with a faint smile. “You’ve got such a sharp mind. Retail seems… beneath you.”

“Beneath me?”

“Yeah, I mean—you’re better than that. Don’t waste your potential.”

She tried to explain that it wasn’t about potential, but about passion. He’d waved it off, distracted by his phone.

When they hosted a dinner party, Marcus had spent the evening bantering with Camille, their mutual friend. His attention was light and playful, but it lingered just long enough to sting.

Later, Simone confronted him.

“You spent the whole night flirting with Camille,” she said, her voice tight.

Marcus sighed, leaning against the counter. “Simone, it wasn’t flirting. That’s just how I talk.”

“It didn’t feel that way.”

“Well, you can’t expect me to walk on eggshells because you’re insecure.”

The words hit her like a slap. She opened her mouth to respond but found nothing. She had already learned that fighting him meant losing—either her dignity or his attention.

***

It was a rainy Wednesday when everything shifted. Simone sat in the car outside Marcus’s office, waiting for him to finish yet another “quick meeting.” The rain drummed on the windshield, the wipers sweeping it away in rhythmic motions. On the radio, Brandy sang:

"Have you ever loved somebody so much it makes you cry?"

Her chest tightened. She thought of all the times she’d lain awake at night, replaying their arguments, wondering if she was the problem. Love wasn’t supposed to feel this lonely.

Marcus slid into the passenger seat, shaking off his umbrella. “Sorry, babe. That took forever.”

She stared at him, her grip tightening on the steering wheel. “Marcus, do you even love me?”

He glanced at her, startled. “What kind of question is that?”

“I mean it,” she pressed. “Do you? Or do you just like the idea of me?”

Marcus frowned, shifting in his seat. “Simone, I care about you. Isn’t that enough?”

Her stomach sank. It wasn’t.

***

That night, while Marcus slept, Simone packed. She moved silently, careful not to wake him. Each item she placed in her suitcase felt like shedding a weight she’d carried too long.

On the kitchen counter, she left a note:

"I can’t keep being someone who loves you more than I love myself. I hope you find what you need, but I can’t wait any longer for you to see me."

She left without looking back.

***

Weeks later, Simone met Camille for coffee. They hadn’t spoken much since the breakup, but Camille reached out unexpectedly.

As they sipped their cappuccinos, Camille hesitated before speaking. “You know, Marcus always said you were too emotional.”

Simone’s throat tightened.

“But honestly,” Camille continued, “he just couldn’t handle someone real. You deserved better, Simone. I hope you know that.”

It wasn’t just the words—it was the validation. For the first time, Simone felt like she hadn’t been imagining the cracks in their relationship.

***

Healing wasn’t easy, but Simone found her footing. She moved into a small studio apartment, filling it with lavender paint, thrifted furniture, and plants that thrived under her care.

One afternoon, as she walked through the park, she passed a street performer playing an acoustic version of Have You Ever. She stopped, her heart tightening for a moment before releasing. The song wasn’t a wound anymore; it was a reminder of what she’d survived.

***

A few weeks later, Simone wandered into a record store. She was thumbing through the vinyl when a man at the next shelf caught her eye.

“Brandy fan?” he asked, nodding toward the album in her hand.

She smiled. “Always.”

The moment felt light, unforced. And for the first time, Simone didn’t feel like she was chasing love. She was ready to let it find her.

She walked out of the store into the crisp afternoon, the weight of her past finally lifting. The song played softly in her mind, not as a question anymore, but as a quiet anthem of her strength.

Fractured Reflection by Olivia Salter / Flash Fiction / Stream of Consciouaw11sness / Anti-Romance / Psychological Drama

Fractured Reflection

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 554

I can't remember the last time I didn't feel small. Trapped between the walls of his gaze, his voice. It wasn’t always this way—or was it? I can’t tell anymore. Memories slip through my fingers, slick with the grease of his lies. He loves me, doesn’t he? Or is that just what I tell myself when his words carve holes into me, leaving me torn and empty?

The sink is full of dishes again. My fault, he said, last night when the air was sharp between us. “If you weren’t so lazy, maybe this place would feel like home,” he muttered, half under his breath but loud enough to hear. I stood there, blinking at the cracked ceiling, willing myself not to cry. I don’t cry anymore. Not in front of him. He hates that. “So dramatic,” he always says, waving me off like a fly.

I used to love the sound of his voice. Deep, steady, like the hum of the ocean. Now, it’s the tide dragging me under, pulling me further from myself. I don’t know who I am anymore? My mother used to say I had a fire in me. A spark that couldn’t be dimmed. But he found it, snuffed it out with every quiet insult, every time he laughed at my dreams. “You’re not that special,” he said once, and I laughed too, pretending it didn’t hurt. But it did. God, it did.

The phone buzzes on the counter. His name flashes on the screen. My stomach twists. Did I forget something? Did I say something wrong? I stare at the phone until it stops vibrating, leaving a thin film of silence that feels heavier than the buzzing. I don’t want to hear his voice right now.

Or ever again.

The thought of him makes me pause. Never again. The words feel foreign, like a language I once spoke fluently but forgot. What would it be like, I wonder, to never hear his voice again? To not feel the weight of his expectations pressing on my chest? The thought is terrifying. And exhilarating.

The mirror in the bathroom is cracked, a thin spiderweb of lines splitting my reflection. It happened months ago, during one of his tantrums. He said it wasn’t his fault. “You pushed me,” he said, like his fists were mine, like his rage belonged to anyone but him. I run my fingers over the crack, watching my fractured self stare back at me. Who is she?

She doesn’t look like someone who belongs to anyone. Not anymore.

The door opens downstairs, and I hear his footsteps. Heavy, deliberate. My heart jumps, instinctively. Breathe, I tell myself. Breathe. He calls my name, and the sound of it makes my skin crawl. How did three syllables become a weapon?

I don’t answer.

The footsteps grow louder, and I feel my body shrink, curling inward like a dying flower. But then, something shifts. A whisper, barely audible, but insistent. Leave. The word echoes in my mind, gaining strength. Leave. Leave. Leave.

I don’t have a plan. I don’t even have a bag packed. But I have legs that can carry me, a heart that still beats, and hands that can open doors.

When he looks for me, I’ll be gone. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll find myself again.

Beneath the Lavender Sky by Olivia Salter / Short Story / Supernatural / Lupus

 

Beneath the Lavender Sky

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 3,731

The lavender-scented bathwater rippled around Rosa’s body, the steam curling into the air like restless spirits. The heat seeped into her skin, enticing her stiff, aching joints into a reluctant truce. For a moment, the inflammation and agony in her knees retreated to the edges of her consciousness, leaving her with a fleeting illusion of peace. She leaned back against the cool porcelain, her eyes closing, but the silence was not the remission she’d hoped for.

Keisha’s voice replayed in her mind, cutting through the haze like a jagged blade.

“You’re so dramatic, Rosa,” her sister had said, her attention fixed on her phone as she casually scrolled through Instagram. “We’re all tired. You just have to push through it.”

Rosa had smiled then, tight-lipped and brittle, as if her teeth were the only thing holding back the flood of anger and frustration threatening to spill out. Push through it? she’d thought. What did Keisha know about exhaustion that went bone-deep, about pain so penetrating it rewrote the very language of your body?

She thought of the mornings she’d spent staring at her coffee maker, her fingers trembling, unable to grip the handle of her favorite mug without feeling like her joints were filled with broken glass. She thought of the nights when even the weight of a blanket was too much to bear, her body screaming in protest as though it were at war with itself.

But what was the point of saying any of that? Arguing with Keisha would have been like shouting into a void. No one believed pain they couldn’t see.

Her fingers grazed the water’s surface, leaving trails in the faint purple hue. The scent was supposed to be calming, restorative even, but it felt sickening now, almost oppressive. Keisha’s words clung to her, heavier than the water she soaked in.

Rosa’s eyes opened, and she stared at the bathroom ceiling, tracing the cracks in the plaster. She wondered how many more cracks her spirit could endure before it shattered completely.

The bathwater had cooled by the time she climbed out, her knees protesting even the small act of standing. She reached for the towel and caught her reflection in the mirror. Her face looked older than her years, the weariness etched into every line and shadow. But beneath the fatigue, there was something else—something defiant.

She tightened the towel around herself and stared at her reflection as if daring it to speak. “Push through it?” she whispered, the words bitter on her tongue. Her jaw set, her fingers gripping the edge of the sink until her knuckles turned white.

“I already have,” she said, her voice steady now.

And she would. Again and again. Even if no one believed her pain, even if no one saw her pain, even if no one understood her pain.

***

The cabin sat deep in a forgotten stretch of forest, nestled among towering pines that swayed and whispered secrets to the wind. Rosa had found it in an online listing during one of her sleepless nights, scrolling with shaking hands and tear-streaked cheeks. The pictures had shown a modest, weathered retreat, promising isolation, peace, and a kind of calm she hadn’t felt in years. She booked it in a haze of desperation, needing a place to escape the pitying looks and unsolicited advice from people who thought they understood her pain.

She packed hastily: heating pads, an assortment of pills, and an old used paperback novel she knew she wouldn’t open. The drive was long, the road winding narrower with each mile until it became a dirt path overgrown with weeds. The cabin appeared suddenly, like something conjured out of the dense woods, its sloped roof blanketed with moss and its porch sagging slightly under the weight of time.

The first two days were uneventful. Rosa spent them wrapped in blankets, staring at the ceiling as the light shifted through the trees outside. She drifted between restless naps and half-eaten meals, her body aching no matter how she positioned herself. The only sounds were the occasional groan of the old cabin settling and the distant rustle of wind through the pines.

But by the third night, the quiet turned on her. It wasn’t peaceful anymore—it was suffocating. The silence pressed against her chest like a weighted blanket, amplifying the sharpness of her thoughts and the constant throb in her joints. She sat on the edge of the bed, staring into the darkness, her hands clenching and unclenching out of habit.

Then came the knock.

It wasn’t loud, but in the stillness, it echoed like a thunderclap. Rosa froze, her pulse quickening. She hadn’t seen another soul since arriving—who could possibly be out here?

The knock came again, patient but insistent.

She forced herself to her feet, every movement slow and deliberate as her joints protested. Her hand hesitated on the doorknob before she finally opened it.

A man stood on the porch, his figure backlit by the warm glow of a lantern he held in one hand. His face was rugged, etched with lines that hinted at years spent in the outdoors. A patchy beard framed his mouth, and his eyes, dark and steady, studied her with quiet concern.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, almost apologetic. “I’m Jeb. Live just down the road. Saw your car and figured I’d check in. Make sure you’re okay out here.”

Rosa blinked, caught off guard by his presence and the frankness in his tone. “I’m fine,” she said, the words coming out more defensive than she intended.

Jeb’s gaze lingered, not prying but steady, like he was looking past her words to the truth underneath. “Fine doesn’t usually look like you’re about to fall over,” he said.

A dry laugh escaped her lips before she could stop it. “You always this blunt?”

“Only when it’s true.”

She didn’t know why, but something in his tone softened her defenses. Against her better judgment, she stepped aside, the door creaking as it opened wider. “Come in, then.”

Jeb nodded once, stepping into the small cabin with the ease of someone who didn’t need an invitation. His lantern cast a warm, golden glow across the room, chasing away the shadows that had felt so oppressive just moments before.

He didn’t stay long that night, just long enough to share a few polite words and leave a small bundle of firewood by the stove. But as the door closed behind him, Rosa realized the cabin didn’t feel quite as heavy anymore. For the first time in days, the solitude loosened its grip, leaving her with something she hadn’t felt in a long time: the faintest flicker of connection.

***

Jeb’s visits became a part of Rosa’s routine, though she never invited him and he never stayed long. He would knock on the door or appear unannounced while she was chopping vegetables or sitting on the porch, his lantern casting warm light over the quiet space. He didn’t ask questions about her life before the cabin or offer empty clichés about her condition. Instead, he brought something Rosa hadn’t realized she needed: presence without pity.

At first, his lessons felt random. He showed her how to stack firewood so it dried properly and wouldn’t collapse when you needed it most. Another evening, he sat beside her and pointed to the sky, tracing constellations with a knobbly finger and telling stories about their names. “That one’s Orion,” he said, his voice low. “But some call it the Hunter. Depends on what you believe.”

“Why does it matter?” Rosa asked.

Jeb shrugged. “Because what you believe changes what you see.”

She didn’t press him for more. She was learning to let his words settle on their own, like snow on an untouched field.

On the fourth night, he arrived with a steaming mug in hand, the earthy scent wafting toward her before he even reached the porch.

“Try this,” he said, holding it out.

“What’s in it?” Rosa asked, eyeing the cup with suspicion.

“Just herbs,” he said, his tone casual. “Nothing fancy.”

Her instinct was to refuse, but the ache in her knees had been particularly brutal that day, and the thought of relief—even temporary—was tempting. She accepted the mug, its warmth spreading through her fingers.

The first sip was sharp, almost bitter, with an earthy base and a floral undertone that lingered on her tongue. She grimaced but kept drinking, the heat soothing her throat as the taste grew less offensive with each swallow.

“Not bad,” she muttered, handing him the empty mug.

Jeb smirked. “Told you.”

By the time she settled into bed that night, something strange began to happen. The familiar ache in her joints subside away, like a tide receding from the shore. Her body felt lighter, her limbs fluid and free of the usual stiffness.

She stretched her legs experimentally, waiting for the crackle of resistance that never came. For the first time in weeks, Rosa’s body felt... hers.

When sleep took her, it came swiftly and deeply, pulling her into a dark, dreamless void that felt as safe as it was unfamiliar. She didn’t toss or turn. She didn’t wake to shooting pain or the throb of aching joints.

In the morning, Rosa opened her eyes to the sun streaming through the cabin windows, her body soft and pliable, the chains of pain seemingly gone. It was the kind of peace she hadn’t known in years.

Yet somewhere in the back of her mind, a small voice whispered: What’s the cost?

***

The next morning, Rosa woke to a silence in her body that was almost deafening. For years, pain had been her constant companion, a relentless drumbeat she couldn’t escape. But now, it was gone. Her knees bent effortlessly, her fingers curled into fists without the usual crackling resistance, and she felt... light. Almost emancipated.

Tears spilled down her cheeks as she sat on the edge of the bed, overwhelmed by the absence of agony. She flexed her hands over and over, testing the miracle, half-convinced it was a cruel trick. But the relief was real.

That afternoon, Jeb found her sitting on the porch, her eyes fixed on her hands as if they were alien objects.

“Tea worked, huh?” he said, his gruff voice breaking the quiet as he leaned casually on the railing.

She looked up at him, her lips trembling. “What is it?” she asked, her voice raw, still shaky from the flood of emotions.

Jeb shrugged, his expression calm. “Something special that grows nearby,” he said.

His vague answer tearing at her, but Rosa didn’t press. She was too afraid of disrupting whatever delicate balance had granted her this remission.

By the second day, her body felt almost unrecognizable. She moved with an ease she hadn’t known in years, walking to the creek behind the cabin without once having to stop and stretch her aching joints. By the third day, she felt invincible. The air smelled sweeter, her lungs filled deeper, and every inch of her felt alive, humming with vitality.

By the sixth day, Rosa was doing things she hadn’t dared to dream of. She hiked the narrow trails through the woods, paths she’d avoided for years because the pain had always been too much. She danced to the rustling melody of the wind in the trees, her laughter ringing out like she’d been freed from a prison she hadn’t realized she’d been in.

But as her body grew stronger, her mind began to deteriorate.

The lavender field started haunting her dreams. Every night, she saw herself standing at its center, the blooms glowing with an eerie violet light under a swollen, unnatural moon. The air in her dreams was heavy, almost stifling, the floral scent clinging to her skin like a warning.

And then there was the reflection.

In the field’s dew-covered petals, she would catch glimpses of herself—only it wasn’t her. The woman staring back had her face but not her eyes. Her eyes were hollow, dark as the space between stars, and her expression was empty, void of anything resembling emotion or humanity.

In the dreams, she would scream, but the sound never came. The reflection only stared, its lips curling into a smile that wasn’t hers, wasn’t real. She’d wake drenched in sweat, her hands clutching at her throat as though the dream-self might reach through and pull her under.

By the seventh morning, Rosa sat on the edge of her bed, trembling, the once-blissful silence in her body now feeling sinister. The lavender had taken her pain, yes, but what else had it taken? And what would it demand next?

***

The seventh night, Rosa couldn’t wait any longer. She found Jeb by the edge of the lavender field, his lantern casting long, flickering shadows over the eerie blooms. He turned at the sound of her footsteps, his expression unreadable in the dim light.

“What’s in the tea?” she demanded, holding up the chipped mug he’d handed her days ago. Her fingers trembled, but whether from anger or fear, she couldn’t tell.

Jeb studied her for a moment, his face darkening. He set the lantern down carefully, its light pooling between them like a fragile truce. “It’s not the tea,” he said at last, his voice low and rough. “It’s the lavender.”

Rosa felt a chill creep up her spine. “What’s wrong with it?”

Jeb hesitated, his eyes flitting to the glowing field behind her. “It takes your pain,” he admitted. “But it doesn’t stop there.”

Her stomach turned. “What does that mean?”

He took a step closer, his shadow stretching over her like a warning. “It doesn’t just take your pain—it takes everything. Your fire, your soul. You feel better, sure, but you stop feeling anything.”

The weight of his words sank into her, heavy and suffocating. Rosa’s grip tightened on the mug until her knuckles ached. “You could’ve warned me,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I did,” he replied quietly, his gaze steady. “In my own way.”

Rosa slammed the mug onto the ground, its contents spilling into the dirt. “Why would you give me something like that?”

Jeb didn’t flinch. He leaned on his cane, his face etched with something between regret and joy. “Because misery loves company,” he said, his voice softer now. “I lost my wife to this field years ago. She drank the tea, just like you. It took her pain, her anger, her passion. Took everything that made her... her.” He swallowed hard, his eyes glassy. “I thought maybe if I wasn’t the only one, I could forget what it cost me. Maybe it’d feel fairer if someone else knew what it felt like to lose so much.”

Rosa stared at him, her chest tight. “So you wanted to drag me down with you?”

Jeb’s shoulders sagged under the weight of her words. “I didn’t want to be alone anymore,” he admitted, his voice breaking.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The lavender field swayed faintly behind them, its sickly glow casting strange patterns across the ground.

Rosa stepped back, shaking her head. “You’re pathetic,” she said, her voice trembling with disgust.

Jeb didn’t argue. He just watched her go, his lantern flickering behind her as she walked away from the field, the cabin, and the man who had tried to trap her in his grief.

Her knees ached as she climbed the hill, the pain clawing its way back into her body. But with every step, Rosa felt something else returning, too: her fire. Her anger. Her self.

***

Rosa stormed out of the cabin, her steps quick and sure, her body humming with a vitality that felt unnatural—alien, even. The strength she’d once prayed for now coursed through her limbs, but it carried a weight she couldn’t name, a hollowness that chilled her to the bone.

The lavender field beckoned her under the pale, swollen moon. Its scent grew heavier the closer she approached, no longer soothing but sickening, as if the air itself had turned syrupy sweet. The blooms swayed faintly in a breeze that didn’t exist, their violet glow almost hypnotic.

She stopped at the edge of the field, her chest heaving with anger and confusion. The lavender seemed alive, a sea of pulsing light, each flower straining toward her as though reaching for her soul. Rosa stepped forward, the soft earth giving way beneath her boots, and knelt in the center of the field.

The first stalk tore easily, its stem snapping with a sickly wet sound. She ripped another, then another, her movements frantic. Her hands moved faster than her mind, guided by a primal instinct to destroy, to purge this place of its malignant beauty.

The sharp edges of the stalks bit into her palms, drawing thin lines of blood that dripped onto the thirsty soil. But Rosa didn’t stop. She worked until her hands were scratched and raw, her breath coming in gasps, her chest tight with effort.

And then, like a tide rolling back, the pain returned. It began as a faint ache in her fingers, a whisper of discomfort that quickly grew into a scream. Her knees buckled under the sudden weight of it, her joints flaring with the sharp, familiar agony she’d thought she could never bear again.

Rosa dropped to the ground, clutching her hands to her chest. The broken lavender stalks around her seemed to tremble, their glow dimming as if the field itself jerk back from her defiance. She gasped as the pain surged through her body, relentless and raw, crawling into every joint, every nerve.

For a moment, she almost regretted it—almost. But then, as the tears streamed down her face, something deeper surfaced: relief.

The pain was cruel, yes, but it was hers. It was real. It was the one thing that proved she hadn’t been completely consumed by the hollow perfection the lavender had promised. It reminded her of her fight, her resilience. And despite everything, it reminded her of who she was.

She stayed there, crumpled among the broken stalks, until the moon sank lower in the sky and the field was cast in shadow. Her breaths steadied, the sharpness of the pain settling into a dull, rhythmic throb. Slowly, Rosa pushed herself to her feet, wobbling as her knees protested the movement.

The cabin door was ajar when she returned, creaking softly in the night breeze. Inside, the fire had burned down to embers, casting the room in a dim, flickering glow. Jeb was gone—no note, no sign of his presence except the faint scent of his lantern oil lingering in the air.

Rosa stood in the empty cabin, her body aching with every beat of her heart. She looked at her hands, the scratches stark against her skin, and flexed her fingers despite the pain. Her lips twisted into a bitter smile.

“Guess you couldn’t stick around to face this,” she muttered to the shadows.

She sank into the chair by the hearth, letting the warmth of the dying embers seep into her skin. The lavender’s scent still clung faintly to her clothes, but now it felt distant, powerless. Rosa closed her eyes, feeling the rhythmic pulse of pain in her body as if it were the tempo of a song only she could hear.

For the first time in what felt like forever, she didn’t push the pain away. She didn’t fight it or curse it. She simply let it be, letting it remind her she was alive, still standing, still herself.

Jeb was gone. The lavender field lay in ruins. And yet, in the midst of all that loss, Rosa felt something she hadn’t in years: a quiet, unshakable sense of strength.

***

Back in the city, Rosa’s pain returned as relentless as ever, an old adversary reclaiming its territory. Her knees stiffened in the mornings; her fingers ached as she typed, each keystroke a reminder of the battles she fought daily. Yet, something fundamental had shifted within her. The pain was still there, but it no longer defined her—no longer consumed her.

At work, a coworker flopped into the seat beside her, cradling a finger wrapped in a colorful Band-Aid. “Worst morning ever,” they groaned, holding up the injury. “I got this paper cut, and it’s right on the knuckle. Can’t even bend my hand without wincing.”

Rosa paused, studying the sliver of red beneath the Band-Aid. She didn’t roll her eyes or offer the empty sympathy she might’ve before. Instead, she leaned forward, her voice calm but carrying the weight of something unshakable.

“You think you know pain?” she said, her tone soft yet firm, a quiet storm. “Let me tell you about mine.”

Her coworker’s eyes widened, startled. For a moment, they looked as though they might interrupt, but Rosa continued, her words deliberate and measured.

“Imagine waking up every day and feeling like your own body is at war with you. Imagine fighting to get out of bed, not because you’re tired, but because every joint in your body feels like it’s on fire. Imagine holding back tears just to pour a cup of coffee because even that feels impossible some mornings.”

The office grew quieter around them. Conversations dimmed as Rosa’s words hung in the air like smoke.

Her coworker mumbled an apology, but Rosa waved it off, a faint smile tugging at her lips. This wasn’t about them. It wasn’t even about the paper cut.

For years, she had worn the mask: the polite smiles, the hollow reassurances, the forced laughter that kept her pain hidden from a world too quick to dismiss it. But now, her smile wasn’t a mask. It wasn’t armor. It was something raw, unyielding—a reflection of who she had become.

She no longer needed anyone to understand the depth of her suffering. She no longer craved their pity or validation.

She understood herself. And that was enough.

When her coworker scurried away, Rosa returned to her desk, the ache in her hands sharp but familiar, like the chords of a song she’d long since learned to play. She stretched her fingers, pressed them to the keys, and began to type. Each letter, each sentence, was a quiet triumph.

Blood and Sunlight by Olivia Salter/ Short Story / Romance / Supernatural

 

Blood and Sunlight

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 5,619

Lucien had seen centuries slip by like pages in a brittle book. Time blurred when you lived in shadow. His kind didn’t seek the light—not metaphorically, not literally—but that all changed one fateful autumn afternoon.

He was prowling the edge of Saint Dominic’s Park, hidden beneath the thick shade of ancient oaks. A modern predator, Lucien preferred subtlety. Humans barely noticed the pale man who kept to the edge.

But she noticed.

Amara sat on a weathered bench near the fountain, her sketchbook balanced on her lap. Her hair shimmered with streaks of sunlight, the auburn strands catching fire against her caramel skin. She tilted her head in concentration, her pencil darting across the page like it had a mind of its own.

Lucien froze. He shouldn’t have stayed. His rule was simple: avoid entanglements. Yet, something about her presence drew him in, like the sun warming frozen ground.

From the safety of his shadows, Lucien studied her. She wasn’t like others he’d observed—her gaze lingered on small, unassuming moments. A bird landing on the rim of the fountain. The way sunlight made the water sparkle like fractured glass. She wasn’t just existing in the world; she was capturing it.

When her pencil snapped, he acted before thinking.

“You’ll need a new one,” he said, extending a fresh pencil.

Amara’s eyes darted up, startled. Her rich brown gaze locked with his—a collision he hadn’t braced for.

“Thanks,” she murmured, taking the pencil. Her fingers brushed his, a fleeting touch that sent a jolt through him.

“You’re welcome,” he replied, his voice measured. “Lucien.”

“Amara,” she said with a shy smile.

For the first time in decades, Lucien wanted more.

Their connection grew naturally—or so it seemed to Amara. Lucien began frequenting the park, always finding excuses to sit near her or strike up a conversation. His charm was subtle, woven into his dry humor and perceptive observations.

“You’re always sketching people,” he said one afternoon, gesturing to her notebook. “Why not try the trees? They’re better at holding still.”

Amara laughed, her smile lighting up her face. “People are more interesting.”

“Are they?” His tone was light, but there was a heaviness beneath it.

“Definitely,” she said, brushing her hair from her face. “They’re flawed and messy, but that’s what makes them real.”

Her words lingered with Lucien longer than they should have. He was no stranger to flaws—his very existence was a testament to humanity’s darkest impulses. But Amara’s world was filled with light and warmth, and he couldn’t bring himself to tarnish it.

Still, he couldn’t resist her pull.

Lucien avoided her invitations for weeks, sensing the danger of stepping too deeply into her world. But when Amara invited him to her art show, he couldn’t refuse.

The gallery buzzed with energy, the scent of wine and perfume mingling with the rhythmic hum of conversation. Lucien kept to the edges, avoiding direct light. His senses were a mixture of heartbeats, laughter, and whispers. It pressed against him, a reminder of what he was and what he hungered for.

But then he saw her. Amara stood beside one of her pieces: a charcoal sketch of the park fountain, infused with a depth of feeling Lucien couldn’t quite name.

“You came,” she said when she spotted him, her eyes lighting up.

“Of course,” he replied, the ghost of a smile touching his lips.

As the evening wore on, Amara grew bolder in her questions. “Lucien, you’re like a walking enigma. Where do you go when you’re not here?”

He deflected, as always, but Amara wasn’t satisfied.

“You don’t just disappear when the sun sets,” she pressed.

Lucien stiffened. “Some mysteries are better left unsolved.”

Amara wasn’t one to leave a thread hanging. Days later, curiosity led her to his estate, a sprawling manor hidden deep in the woods. The gates were ajar—a detail she found odd, but not alarming.

The grand hall was like stepping into another world. Chandeliers dripped with crystals, casting fractured light across portraits of men and women dressed in antique, elaborate clothes. A thick layer of dust covered the floors, as though no one had walked here in decades.

But it was the portrait that stopped her. It was unmistakably Lucien, his sharp features frozen in an oil painting dated 1812.

“What are you doing here?”

His voice cut through the silence, startling her. Amara spun around to find him standing in the doorway, his face shadowed and tense.

“This is your home,” she said, her voice trembling. “That’s... you.”

“Amara, you need to leave.”

“No!” Her voice rose, echoing in the huge hall. “You’ve been lying to me this whole time. Who—what—are you?”

The silence between them was suffocating. Then, with deliberate precision, Lucien stepped forward. In the dim light, his fangs glinted as he spoke.

“I am a monster.”

Amara ran that night, but her thoughts chased her. The man she cared for—the man she loved—was something out of legend. She couldn’t reconcile it with the Lucien she knew, the one who made her laugh and saw the world as she did.

Lucien didn’t follow. He retreated into his solitude, berating himself for ever letting her in. He told himself it was better this way, but he couldn’t erase the sound of her voice or the warmth of her touch.

Weeks passed before Lucien found her again. She was in the park, her sketchbook untouched beside her.

“You came back,” she said, her voice heavy with emotion.

“I couldn’t stay away,” he admitted, his tone unguarded for the first time.

They spoke long into the night, words spilling out like lifelines. Lucien told her everything—the centuries of isolation, the hunger that defined him, the fear of losing control.

Amara listened, her fear giving way to something softer.

“I don’t know if I can accept all of this,” she said, her voice trembling. “But I know I can’t lose you.”

Their relationship didn’t heal overnight. Amara set boundaries, needing time to process. Lucien respected her space, but he didn’t retreat entirely. They began to build something fragile but real, rooted in honesty and choice.

Lucien learned to let the light touch him—not the sun, but Amara’s unwavering presence.

For her part, Amara learned to embrace the shadows, seeing beauty even in the darkness.

Weeks turned into months, and Lucien and Amara found themselves navigating an uncharted middle ground—a fragile balance between his world and hers. Lucien, for the first time in centuries, learned what it meant to coexist with another being rather than merely observe.

But their bond wasn’t without its fractures.

It was late one evening when Amara arrived at Lucien’s manor unannounced. She stood at the edge of his sprawling garden, her breath visible in the chill. Lucien appeared moments later, stepping out of the shadows as though he’d been waiting for her.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” he said, his voice soft but tinged with caution.

“I couldn’t stay away,” she admitted, clutching her coat tighter. “But Lucien... we can’t keep pretending this is normal.”

His brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean... this,” she gestured to his estate, to the ancient, lifeless grandeur around them. “Your world. It’s not just different—it’s dangerous.”

Lucien stepped closer, his movements as fluid as the night itself. “I would never harm you.”

“I know,” she said, her voice breaking. “But it’s not just about me. What happens when someone else finds out? What happens when your hunger becomes too much?”

Lucien stiffened. “I’ve controlled it for centuries. You think I’d slip now?”

“It’s not about what I think,” she said, her tone firm. “It’s about what’s real.”

Her words struck him harder than he anticipated. He wanted to argue, to promise her safety, but he couldn’t deny the truth: his existence was a fragile thing, a constant battle between restraint and instinct.

Their fragile pact was tested when a figure from Lucien’s past arrived uninvited.

Lucien had just returned from one of his late-night walks when he sensed it—a presence, familiar and unwelcome, lingering in the air like decay.

“Still playing human, are we?”

The voice came from the doorway, low and mocking. A man stepped forward, his sharp features illuminated by the moonlight. His eyes gleamed with the same predatory hunger Lucien fought to suppress.

“Cassian,” Lucien said, his voice a warning growl.

Cassian smirked, leaning against the doorframe. “I heard whispers of you slumming it with a mortal. Thought I’d see for myself.”

Lucien moved swiftly, grabbing Cassian by the collar and slamming him against...the wall. “Stay out of my life.”

Cassian laughed, unbothered by Lucien’s aggression. “Oh, but I’m curious. What’s it like, living in constant denial? Does she know what you’re capable of?”

“She’s none of your concern,” Lucien hissed.

Cassian’s smirk widened. “We’ll see.”

Amara noticed the change in Lucien almost immediately. He became more withdrawn, his eyes clouded with a tension she hadn’t seen before.

“Lucien, talk to me,” she urged one night as they sat in the park.

He hesitated, his jaw tightening. “Someone from my past has resurfaced. Someone dangerous.”

Amara’s heart sank. “Dangerous how?”

“He won’t harm you,” Lucien said quickly, though the words felt hollow even to him.

“That’s not the point,” she replied, frustration creeping into her voice. “You’re shutting me out again.”

Lucien’s silence was deafening.

Amara stood, wrapping her arms around herself. “If we’re going to make this work, you can’t keep doing this. I’m not afraid of what you are, Lucien. I’m afraid of not knowing where I stand.”

The confrontation came on a stormy night. Cassian, ever the opportunist, cornered Amara as she walked home from a late art class.

“Well, well,” he drawled, stepping out of the shadows. “So you’re the little mortal who’s captured Lucien’s attention.”

Amara froze, her grip tightening on her umbrella. “Who are you?”

“Let’s just say I’m an old... acquaintance,” Cassian replied, his fangs glinting as lightning illuminated his face.

Before he could step closer, Lucien appeared, his movements a blur. He shoved Cassian back, positioning himself between the intruder and Amara.

“This is your last warning,” Lucien growled, his voice vibrating with restrained fury.

Cassian chuckled darkly. “You’re so predictable, Lucien. Always protecting what you can never truly have.”

With a deafening roar, Lucien surged forward, muscles rippling like coiled steel as he lunged at Cassian. The impact of their bodies colliding was like the crack of thunder, sending shockwaves rippling through the air, stirring up clouds of dust that danced like ghosts in the fading light. Each strike was a testament to their raw power, fists connecting with flesh in a brutal symphony of violence.

Lucien’s fist swung with the weight of a freight train, catching Cassian squarely in the jaw. The sound echoed like a gunshot, the force sending Cassian stumbling back, his feet skidding across the gravel ground. But he regained his footing, eyes blazing with defiance, and charged back, aiming a swift kick that barely missed Lucien's ribs. The air around them crackled with tension, every move they made a deadly dance choreographed by primal instinct.

Amara stood at the edge of the chaos, heart racing, her breath hitching in her throat. The sight of their fierce exchange gripped her with a mix of awe and dread. Lucien’s features were set in a mask of fury, veins bulging as he unleashed a flurry of punches, each blow punctuated by grunts and gasps. Cassian dodged and weaved, his movements fluid yet desperate, the glint of determination in his eyes contrasting sharply with the chaos surrounding him.

The ground beneath them trembled under the weight of their power, dust swirling like a tempest in the fading light. A jagged rock skittered across the earth, narrowly missing Amara’s feet, a stark reminder of the violence unfolding just a heartbeat away. Lucien roared again, a primal sound that resonated deep within her chest, and with a sudden, brutal swing, he sent Cassian crashing to the ground, the impact shook like an earthquake.

Cassian winced but quickly rolled to the side, narrowly escaping another devastating blow. He retaliated with a swift jab to Lucien’s midsection, forcing him to stagger back, winded but unyielding. Sweat glistened on their brows, mingling with the dirt and grime of the battlefield, painting a vivid picture of the struggle that raged before her.

Amara felt the pulse of the fight in her veins, the raw energy electrifying the air around her. Each punch thrown and each grunt of effort echoed in her ears, a visceral reminder of the stakes at hand. She wanted to scream, to intervene, but fear rooted her to the spot, a silent witness to the savage beauty of their confrontation. In that moment, she realized that this was not just a fight; it was a primal clash of wills, each fighter embodying the very essence of survival, battling not just for victory, but for the very breath of life itself.

When it was over, Cassian lay defeated, though not dead. He vanished into the night, but not before issuing a chilling promise: “This isn’t over.”

Lucien turned to Amara, his face bloodied and his chest heaving. “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head, tears streaming down her face. “You fought for me.”

“I’d do it again,” he said, his voice soft but determined.

“But for how long?” she whispered. “How long before someone else comes? How long before this world destroys us both?”

Lucien didn’t have an answer.

The next morning, Amara arrived at Lucien’s manor. Her sketchbook was tucked under her arm, her face set with determination.

“We need to talk,” she said as he let her in.

“I can’t keep living in fear,” she continued. “I love you, Lucien. But I can’t lose myself in this.”

He nodded slowly, his expression pained. “I understand.”

They spent hours talking, laying everything bare. By the time the sun rose, they had reached an understanding.

“I need time,” Amara said. “Time to figure out what this means for me—for us.”

Lucien cupped her face gently, his touch cool but tender. “Take all the time you need. I’ll wait.”

Lucien’s nights became a study in silence. Without Amara’s presence to fill the void, the manor seemed colder, its shadows deeper. He walked its halls like a ghost, his mind replaying their last conversation.

He understood her need for time, but each passing day felt heavier than the last. She was his tether to a world he had long forgotten—a world of connection, vitality, and humanity.

Yet, he had always known the fragility of their bond. Love, no matter how intense, was not immune to the weight of reality.

Across the city, Amara tried to immerse herself in her art, but her sketches felt hollow. The gallery walls, usually a source of pride, now felt suffocating. Lucien was everywhere in her mind—his quiet intensity, the way he saw her when no one else did, the danger that came with loving him.

One evening, she pulled out her sketchbook and flipped through its pages. Her hand trembled as she came across a portrait of Lucien. She had drawn it without him knowing, capturing the quiet sorrow in his eyes.

She ran her fingers over the lines, her heart aching. Despite everything, she missed him.

Lucien’s past returned to haunt him again, this time in the form of an unexpected visitor.

It was nearly dawn when he heard the faintest knock at the manor door. Curious and wary, he opened it to find a woman cloaked in tattered garments. Her face was haggard, her eyes sunken, but there was a spark of defiance in her expression.

“Sylvaine,” he breathed, his tone both astonished and guarded.

She stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, her voice sharp and brittle. “It’s been centuries, Lucien. I thought you’d forgotten me.”

“I haven’t,” he said quietly.

Sylvaine’s lips twisted into a bitter smile. “And yet you left me to rot.”

Their history was complicated, a mix of companionship and betrayal that had ended with Sylvaine choosing a darker path. She had always been bolder than Lucien, willing to embrace the violence of their nature in a way he could not.

“I’m not here for apologies,” she continued. “I need your help. Cassian is rallying others. He hasn’t forgotten your little mortal.”

Lucien’s body tensed. “Amara?”

Sylvaine nodded. “He’s determined to make her your weakness. And trust me, he knows how to exploit weaknesses.”

Amara was working late at the gallery when she heard the familiar rhythm of Lucien’s voice behind her. She turned, her pulse quickening.

“Lucien.”

“I didn’t want to disturb you,” he said, his tone uncharacteristically uncertain. “But there’s something you need to know.”

She crossed her arms, her expression a mixture of relief and apprehension. “What is it?”

“Cassian hasn’t given up,” he admitted. “And now others are involved. I need you to be careful.”

Her heart sank. “Lucien, this isn’t just about being careful. This is my life. My safety.”

“I know,” he said, stepping closer. “Which is why I need to make a decision.”

“What decision?”

“To end this,” he said, his voice steeled with force. “I can’t let him or anyone else use you as leverage.

"To end this," he said, his voice steeled with force. "I can’t let him or anyone else use you as leverage. But to do that, I may have to confront a side of myself I’ve tried to leave behind.”

Amara’s brow furrowed. “You mean...”

“Yes,” he said, his gaze unwavering. “I’ll have to become the monster he believes I am.”

Amara spent days wrestling with the decision. She sought solace in her art, her sketches becoming more chaotic and emotional.

In the end, it wasn’t fear that guided her choice—it was love.

“I don’t want to lose myself,” she told Lucien one night. “But I also don’t want to lose you. There has to be another way.”

Lucien nodded, his relief visible. “We’ll find it,” he promised. “Together.”

Sylvaine’s words echoed in his mind, but he pushed them aside. He wasn’t ready to give up on their humanity—not his, and certainly not Amara’s.

The path ahead was uncertain, but they would face it hand in hand, determined to defy the odds stacked against them.

The peace Amara and Lucien found was fragile, as delicate as the strokes of her charcoal pencil on paper. It wasn’t long before the world began to close in on them again.

The first sign of trouble came in the form of an empty gallery. Amara arrived one morning to find her artwork slashed and her supplies scattered. A single message was carved into the wall:

He cannot save you.

Her breath caught in her throat as she scanned the room, her mind racing. She clutched her phone and called Lucien.

By the time he arrived, the police had taken her statement and left, though their skepticism was evident. To them, it was a routine act of vandalism.

Lucien stared at the words on the wall, his jaw tightening. “This wasn’t random.”

“I know,” Amara said, her voice trembling. “Do you think it’s Sylvaine?”

“No,” Lucien said, his tone grim. “This is someone else. Someone worse.”

Lucien returned to the manor that night and found Sylvaine waiting for him. She lounged in one of his armchairs, a glass of blood-red wine in hand.

“You look tense,” she remarked.

“Did you know about this?” he asked sharply, tossing a photo of the vandalized wall onto the table.

Sylvaine picked it up, her brow lifted as she read the words. “No,” she said, her voice unusually serious. “But I recognize the handwriting.”

“Who?”

“Marcellus,” Sylvaine said, her expression darkening. “An old... associate. He thrives on chaos. If he’s involved, it’s because he sees an opportunity to manipulate or destroy.”

Lucien’s fists clenched. “What does he want?”

Sylvaine shrugged. “With Marcellus, it’s never simple. Power, revenge, amusement—he doesn’t need much of a reason. But if he’s targeting your little mortal, it’s likely personal.”

Lucien’s voice dropped to a growl. “Then he’s made a mistake.”

Marcellus didn’t wait long to make his presence known. He arrived at the gallery two nights later, just as Amara was locking up.

The bell above the door jingled as he entered, his footsteps echoing in the otherwise empty space. Amara whirled around, her heart pounding.

Marcellus stood in the doorway, a cruel smile playing on his lips. He was a creature of the night, his skin pale and translucent, his eyes burning with an unnatural light.

"Well, well," he drawled, his voice a silken whisper. "The artist and her protector. How domestic."

Amara felt a wave of nausea wash over her. She backed away, her eyes wide with fear.

Lucien appeared in a blur, intercepting Marcellus before he could take another step. "Get out," he growled, his voice a low, menacing rumble.

Marcellus chuckled. "Such a fierce protector. But even a beast can be tamed." He turned his attention to Amara, his gaze lingering on her with a predatory gleam. "Such delicate beauty. A shame to see it wasted on a mere mortal."

Amara felt a chill crawl down her spine. This wasn't just a threat; it was a declaration of war.

Lucien stepped forward, his body language a silent warning. "I suggest you leave now, Marcellus. Before you regret it."

Marcellus laughed, a chilling sound that echoed through the empty gallery. "Oh, Lucien, I think I've already regretted something. But that's a story for another time." He turned and walked away, his footsteps fading into the night.

But as he left, he cast one last lingering glance at Amara. His eyes, burning with a cold, calculating fire, seemed to promise that their encounter was far from over.

Lucien turned to Amara, his face pale. "Are you alright?"

She nodded, her voice trembling. "He... he's terrifying."

"I know," Lucien said, his voice grim. "But he's not the only one."

That night, as they lay in bed, Amara felt a shiver crawl down her spine. The gallery, usually a haven of peace, now felt haunted. The words carved into the wall echoed in her mind: He cannot save you.

She looked at Lucien, his face etched with worry. "What are we going to do?"

He pulled her closer, his arms a comforting shield against the encroaching darkness. "We fight back," he said. "We find a way to protect ourselves, and we don't let fear control us."

But as she drifted off to sleep, Amara couldn't shake the feeling that their fight had just begun. The shadows were closing in, and the darkness was growing deeper.

The next few days were a blur of anxiety and heightened senses. Lucien, ever vigilant, kept a close watch on Amara, his presence a constant reassurance. He hired extra security for the gallery, but the fear lingered, a venomous serpent coiled in their hearts.

Sylvaine, sensing the unease, returned to the manor unannounced. "Marcellus," she said, her voice grave, "is a predator. He enjoys the hunt."

Lucien nodded, his gaze hard. "What do we do?"

Sylvaine took a long sip of her wine. "We can't wait for him to make the next move. We need to anticipate."

"And how do we do that?" Amara asked, her voice tight.

Sylvaine regarded her with a chilling intensity. "You need to learn to defend yourself."

The idea was met with resistance at first. Amara, a creature of light and art, recoiled at the notion of violence. But Lucien was adamant.

"You can't rely on me to protect you forever," he said. "You need to be able to protect yourself."

He introduced her to a man named Elias, a former soldier with a reputation for being both skilled and discreet. Elias, a gruff but kind man, initially scoffed at the idea of training a delicate artist in self-defense. But Amara surprised him.

She was a quick study, her fear fueling her determination. Under Elias's tutelage, she learned to move with a newfound grace, her movements fluid and precise. She learned to channel her fear into focus, to anticipate her opponent's moves.

The training was grueling, both physically and mentally. But as Amara grew stronger, a new confidence began to bloom within her. She discovered a strength she never knew she possessed, a resilience that mirrored the strength of her spirit.

Lucien watched her progress with a mixture of pride and apprehension. He admired her courage, her unwavering determination to protect herself. But he also worried about the changes he saw in her – the hardening of her gaze, the edge of steel in her movements.

One evening, as they sparred in the manor's training room, Amara caught him watching. "What is it?" she asked, her breath catching.

Lucien hesitated, then said, "You're changing."

Amara paused, her hand hovering over his. "Is that a bad thing?"

He shook his head. "No. But... you're becoming something else."

Amara looked at her reflection in the polished floor, the sweat clinging to her skin, her eyes narrowed in focus. She saw not just the artist but a warrior, a creature of the night emerging from the shadows.

"I have to be," she said, her voice low. "For us."

Lucien understood. He had seen this transformation before, in himself and in others. It was a necessary evil, a shedding of innocence in a world that demanded it.

Their training continued, their lives now a precarious balance between love and war. Lucien, ever the strategist, began to delve into Marcellus's past, piecing together his alliances and uncovering his weaknesses.

Sylvaine, though still wary, offered occasional insights, her knowledge of the underworld proving invaluable.

One evening, while reviewing intelligence reports, Lucien noticed a pattern. Marcellus was gathering allies, forming a small but powerful coven. Their targets were not just humans, but other powerful vampires—a move that could destabilize the delicate balance of power in the supernatural world.

"He's not just after Amara," Lucien said, his voice grim. "He's trying to build an army."

Sylvaine, who had been observing him with an unsettling intensity, finally spoke. "This is bigger than you anticipated."

Lucien nodded. "Much bigger."

He knew he couldn't face Marcellus alone. He needed allies, powerful allies who would stand with him against this growing threat.

His thoughts turned to a figure from his distant past—a powerful vampire lord named Darius, known for his wisdom and his unwavering loyalty to the ancient code of their kind. Darius had long since retired from the political intrigues of the vampire world, but Lucien believed he could be persuaded to help.

The journey to Darius's secluded mountain retreat was fraught with danger. Marcellus's spies were everywhere, and Lucien knew that every move they made was being watched. But they reached Darius's sanctuary undetected, their arrival shrouded in secrecy.

Darius, an ancient being with eyes that held the wisdom of centuries, listened to Lucien's warning with a grave expression. "Marcellus," he said, his voice low, "is a wild card. His ambition knows no bounds."

"He's gathering strength," Lucien said. "He intends to disrupt the balance of power."

Darius pondered this for a long moment, his gaze penetrating. "And what do you propose, Lucien?"

Lucien met his gaze, his voice steady. "I propose an alliance. We need to stop him before it's too late."

Darius remained silent for a long moment, weighing the risks. Finally, he nodded. "Very well. But this will not be easy. Marcellus is cunning and ruthless."

And so, the stage was set for a confrontation that would shake the very foundations of the vampire world. Lucien, with Amara by his side and Darius as his unexpected ally, prepared to face the wrath of Marcellus and his growing army.

The battle lines were drawn, the stakes had never been higher. And as the shadows lengthened, Lucien knew that the fate of their world, and their love, hung in the balance.

The battle lines were drawn, the stakes had never been higher. And as the shadows lengthened, Lucien knew that the fate of their world, and their love, hung in the balance.

Marcellus, sensing the growing opposition, escalated his attacks. Amara's gallery was vandalized again, this time more severely, with several priceless paintings destroyed. Then, Elias, their self-defense instructor, was found dead in his apartment, a single, precise bite marking his neck.

Fear began to grip the city, a silent panic spreading through the human and supernatural worlds alike. Lucien, consumed by a grief-fueled rage, vowed to find Marcellus and make him pay.

He and Darius began to gather their forces. Old alliances were renewed, long-forgotten grudges were put aside in the face of a common enemy. Vampires, creatures of the night, emerged from the shadows, their ancient power stirring.

Amara, though shaken by Elias's death, remained resolute. She continued her training, her movements now imbued with a chilling intensity. She learned to wield a small but deadly dagger, its blade glinting menacingly in the moonlight.

One night, while Lucien was away gathering intelligence, Amara received an anonymous message. It was a simple image: a single red rose, its petals stained crimson.

Fear gripped her. She knew what it meant. Marcellus was coming for her.

She called Lucien immediately, her voice trembling. "He's coming for me," she whispered.

Lucien's voice was a low growl. "Stay inside. Don't answer the door. I'll be there soon."

He hung up and moved with a speed that belied his years. He reached the manor just as a figure cloaked in shadows emerged from the darkness.

"Marcellus," Lucien said, his voice a chilling whisper.

Marcellus turned, a triumphant smile playing on his lips. "Lucien. And your little bird." He gestured towards the manor, his eyes gleaming in the moonlight. "She's waiting for me."

Lucien lunged, his movements a blur of motion. Marcellus, anticipating the attack, sidestepped with surprising agility. Their battle erupted, a whirlwind of motion and violence that shattered the stillness of the night.

Amara, watching from the window, felt a surge of adrenaline. She grabbed the dagger Elias had given her, its cold metal a comfort in the face of the impending chaos.

The fight raged on, a deadly dance of predator and prey. Lucien, fueled by rage and protectiveness, was a force of nature. But Marcellus was cunning, his movements unpredictable, his strikes laced with a cruel, sadistic glee.

Just as Lucien seemed to gain the upper hand, a figure emerged from the shadows, joining the fray. It was Sylvaine, her eyes burning with an unnatural light.

"Long time no see, Lucien," she hissed, her voice a venomous whisper. "Let the games begin."

The battle escalated, turning into a three-way struggle for dominance. Lucien, outnumbered and outmaneuvered, found himself on the defensive. He fought with a ferocity he hadn't known he possessed, but he was slowly being overwhelmed.

Amara, watching from the window, knew she could no longer remain idle. She grabbed a heavy vase from the side table and hurled it at Sylvaine, distracting her long enough for Lucien to regain his footing.

Sylvaine, enraged, turned her attention to Amara. "You dare interfere?"

Amara, her heart pounding, charged out of the manor, dagger raised. She moved with a grace and precision that surprised even herself, the months of training paying off.

The fight that followed was a chaotic ballet of death. Amara, fueled by adrenaline and a fierce protectiveness, proved to be a formidable opponent. She dodged Sylvaine's attacks with a dancer's grace, her dagger a flash of silver in the moonlight.

Lucien, seeing Amara in the fray, fought with renewed vigor. He knew that if he lost, they both would perish.

The battle raged on for what seemed like an eternity. The air crackled with the energy of their struggle, the ground trembling beneath their feet. Finally, with a desperate lunge, Lucien managed to disarm Marcellus, pinning him to the ground.

Sylvaine, seeing her chance, lunged at Amara. But before she could strike, a figure emerged from the shadows, intercepting her attack. It was Darius, his eyes gleaming with ancient power.

The tide of the battle began to turn. Lucien, with Marcellus subdued, turned his attention to Sylvaine. Together with Darius, they fought back against the onslaught, their combined power proving too much for the remaining members of Marcellus's coven.

One by one, their enemies fell, their bodies disappearing into the night.

Finally, only Marcellus and Sylvaine remained. Lucien, his strength waning, prepared to deliver the final blow. But before he could strike, Sylvaine intervened.

"He's mine," she hissed, her eyes filled with a chilling hunger.

With a swift, almost graceful movement, she sank her teeth into Marcellus's throat, draining the life from his body.

As Marcellus's lifeless body slumped to the ground, Sylvaine turned to Lucien, her eyes gleaming with a strange satisfaction. "This is what we are," she said, her voice a low growl. "Predators. Survivors."

Lucien, exhausted but victorious, met her gaze. "And you," he said, "are still lost."

Sylvaine, without another word, vanished into the night, leaving Lucien and Amara standing alone in the aftermath of the battle.

The victory had been costly. But they had survived. And as they looked at each other, their eyes filled with a mixture of relief and awe, they knew that their love, forged in the fires of adversity, was stronger than any enemy they might face.

The world around them had changed forever. The shadows were no longer just a metaphor. They were a reality, a constant reminder of the darkness that lurked beneath the surface. But they had faced it together, and they would face whatever came next, hand in hand.

The Black Magic Woman by Olivia Salter / Short Fiction / Anti-Romance / Supernatural

 

The Black Magic Woman

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1,486

Noah’s apartment reeked of failure—stale smoke, old whiskey, and the dust of unopened sheet music. The piano stood silent in the corner, its keys yellowed under the dim light. He hadn’t played in weeks, not since his last gig ended in awkward claps and pitying stares.

His fingers itched for the keys, but every time he sat down, silence swallowed him whole. What was the point? No one cared about his music, not anymore. He’d faded into the background, just another dreamer stuck in the city’s endless grind.

Tonight, he sat by the window, chain-smoking as he stared at the flickering neon sign of the Blue Note Lounge across the street. The city hummed with life, but inside, he felt dead.

Then he heard it—a voice that slithered through the cracks of his window, low and honeyed, wrapping itself around his chest.

It wasn’t the polished, hollow perfection of a pop singer. This voice was raw and unfiltered, soaked in pain and promise, as though it carried the weight of every heartbreak, every longing.

Noah straightened, the cigarette slipping from his fingers and hissing out on the floor. The voice wasn’t just singing; it was speaking to him, through him, like it had always been there, waiting.

He leaned closer to the window, straining to catch every note, but the voice only grew fainter, teasing him with its fleeting beauty.

“Who…?” he whispered, though no one was there to answer.

The thought struck him like lightning: it was coming from the Blue Note.

Rising from his chair, Noah crossed to the window of his shabby apartment. The neon sign of the Blue Note Lounge flickered across the street, casting intermittent red shadows over the unopened sheet music littering his floor. His yellowed piano keys sat silent in the corner, untouched since his last failed gig had ended in pitying applause. But now, as that voice wound through the night air, his fingers twitched with a familiar hunger.

Without bothering to grab a coat, Noah ran down to the street. The city pulsed around him—couples laughing, cars honking, the promise of rain heavy in the air—but he heard none of it. His world had narrowed to that siren song pulling him forward.

The Blue Note's interior hit him like a wave: cigarette smoke creating halos around dim lights, ice clinking against glass, hushed conversations floating beneath the music. And there, on stage, stood its source. She was tall, elegant, her dark skin gleaming with an otherworldly sheen under the spotlight. A crimson dress clung to her figure, and her thick coils of hair framed features that were both beautiful and somehow wrong—too perfect, too sharp. But it was her eyes that held him, bottomless and ancient, reflecting nothing while seeing everything.

As the last note of her song faded, those impossible eyes found his across the room. Her lips curved into a knowing smile, and Noah's heart stuttered in his chest. He couldn't tell if it was fear or desire that made his pulse race.

She was waiting at the bar when he approached, as if she'd known he would come. "I saw you staring," she said, her speaking voice as hypnotic as her singing.

"I wasn't—" Noah started, then caught himself. "I mean, I was. You were incredible."

"Flattery suits you." She turned to face him fully. "But I don't need it. You're a musician."

It wasn't a question. "How did you know?"

"You have the look," she said. "And the hunger. I'm Nadira."

"Noah," he replied, taking her offered hand. Her skin was cool, and she held on a moment too long.

"You want more than what you have," she continued, leaning closer. "You want the sound that will make them remember your name."

His pulse quickened. "Yes."

Her smile widened, revealing teeth too perfect to be real. "Good. Because I can help you."

That night marked the beginning of Noah's resurrection—and his doom. Under Nadira's influence, music poured from him like blood from a wound. Dark, beautiful melodies that left audiences breathless and critics raving. His agent called it his best work. The venues got bigger, the crowds more adoring. But always, Nadira watched from the shadows, her eyes never leaving him.

That night, Nadira didn’t just change his life—she consumed it. Her presence became his compass, her voice the key that unlocked melodies he hadn’t known were trapped inside him.

Noah found himself returning to the piano, each note flowing effortlessly under her watchful gaze. She didn’t have to say much; her mere existence seemed to pull the music from him, dark and beautiful.

The songs came fast and raw, the kind that clawed at your soul and left you breathless. His agent was ecstatic, calling it his best work yet. Audiences packed into every gig, and for the first time, Noah felt seen.

But Nadira was always there, in the shadows of the stage, her eyes never leaving him.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered one night as he played for her alone in his apartment. Her voice slid through his veins like fire.

He didn’t stop. Not even when his fingers ached, not even when he began to feel like a stranger in his own body.

Noah’s music soared, but so did his nightmares. In his dreams, Nadira wasn’t human. Her voice was a storm, her body dissolving into shadows and feathers, her eyes burning with an unearthly light.

He woke each night in a cold sweat, her name on his lips. But when he saw her, the dreams seemed to fade, and he let himself believe they didn’t matter.

The first time he heard the scratching, he thought it was the wind. But when he looked toward the window, he saw them: a pair of crows, their black eyes gleaming in the dim light.

The next time, there were three. Then five. By the end of the week, his windowsill was lined with them, their screams had a relentless mournful song.

He mentioned it to Nadira, expecting her to laugh or dismiss it. Instead, she tilted her head, her expression unreadable.

“Crows know the truth before we do,” she said simply.

“The truth?”

Her gaze softened, almost pitying. “You’re meant for something greater, Noah. But greatness always comes with a price.”

A chill slid down his spine, but her hand on his arm burned away the fear. “Do you trust me?” she asked.

He nodded, even though the answer should have been no.

Then came the nightmares: Nadira's form dissolving into shadows and feathers, her voice becoming a storm that tore at his soul. But in daylight, her presence burned away his fears. "Don't stop," she would whisper, and he couldn't, even as exhaustion hollowed him out.

Desperate for answers, Noah sought out anyone who might know who—or what—Nadira was. Most people dismissed his questions. 

It was an old man at the Blue Note who finally spoke the truth. The old man at the Blue Note stiffened at the mention of her name.

“She’s not real,” he whispered, his voice shaking. “Not in the way we are. She’s a muse—a cursed one. Every man she touches burns bright and dies young, leaving their songs behind like tombstones.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Noah said, though his stomach churned.

The old man grabbed his arm. “You think it’s a coincidence your music came back? She’s feeding on you, boy. And when she’s done, she’ll move on to the next poor fool.”

When Noah confronted her, Nadira didn't deny it. "I gave you what you wanted," she said simply. "Fame. Success. Immortality."

"Not like this," he protested, but her eyes had softened with an ancient sorrow.

"I was like you once," she said. "Hungry. Desperate. And I paid the price. Now, it's your turn."

Noah tried to escape. He smashed his piano, burned his music, swore never to play again. But the melodies wouldn't leave him. They clawed at his mind, screamed in his dreams, forced his hands to play invisible keys on empty tables. In the end, he surrendered to them.

His final piece was his masterpiece—a quiet thing that seemed to contain all the beauty and pain of the world. As he played, he felt his strength draining, his very soul flowing out through his fingers. Nadira stood behind him, her eyes heavy with tears. "I'm sorry," she whispered as the last note faded. Noah slumped forward, his head resting on the keys.

The next morning, the world hailed Noah's final composition as a work of genius. His name became legend, his music immortal. That night at the Blue Note, Nadira performed as always, her voice weaving its spell over the crowd. Among them sat a young guitarist, his eyes wide with wonder. When he approached her after the set, she smiled and offered her hand.

"I'm Nadira," she said. "And you are?"

Olivia by Olivia Salter/ Poem

 

Olivia

By Olivia Salter

An acrostic poem with the vertical word: Olivia

Ocean waves dance in her laughing eyes

Leaving footprints in the golden sand

Imagination soars like seabirds in flight

Vibrant spirit touches everything around

Illuminating darkness with her gentle smile

Always moving forward, brave and strong