The Crimson of Eternity

Chapter 9: Shadows Between Walking

I dreamed of blood.

Not the way horror movies paint it, not gory or grotesque, but beautiful in a way that made my chest ache. A single droplet, suspended in air, shimmering like a jewel in moonlight. It hung there, impossibly still, before unraveling into a crimson river. Shadows writhed along its edges, bending and twisting into shapes I couldn’t name. And in the center of it all stood a figure. Tall. Silent. Watching me.

Lucien.

His eyes glowed faintly, not brown, not black, but something otherworldly it was a like dying embers struggling to stay alight. He lifted his hand toward me, but before I could take it, the shadows surged forward, swallowing him whole. His mouth moved, forming my name, Eveline, before the world shattered into fragments of light and darkness.

I gasped awake, my sheets tangled around my legs, my throat dry as if I’d been screaming. For a long moment, I just lay there in the darkness of my room, listening to my own uneven breathing. My heart pounded so hard I thought it might split my ribs. The dream clung to me like cobwebs, sticky and impossible to shake.

I touched my lips, realizing they were trembling. Why him? Why did my subconscious insist on conjuring him like a twisted into symbols of blood and shadows, but still reaching for me?

Because I couldn’t stop thinking about him, that’s why.

Because he disappeared without a trace after pulling me close, his breath skimming my throat, his presence both terrifying and magnetic. Because I couldn’t stop replaying the moment, wondering if I had imagined the faint glint of something sharp behind his lips.

Fangs.

The word made me shiver.

I sat up, clutching the edge of my blanket. “You’re losing it, Eveline,” I whispered to myself. “Dreams don’t mean anything. He’s just a guy. A very strange, possibly dangerous guy, but still human.”

The lie didn’t taste convincing even as I spoke it.

The next day felt unbearable. My classes blurred together, professors’ voices dissolving into background noise. Every sound was too sharp, every light too bright, as though the world itself had grown hostile in Lucien’s absence.

I found myself scanning every corner of campus for him, beneath the old oak tree, in the library, in the shadowy stretch of hallway near the art building where I had first seen him. Nothing. Only students bustling past, none of them carrying that magnetic, dangerous presence that clung to him.

And yet, I felt him.

Like the brush of cold air at the nape of my neck, or the prickling sensation of unseen eyes tracing my movements. He wasn’t here, but he was. The contradiction gnawed at me until my chest tightened with frustration.

“Where did you go?” I muttered under my breath, staring into my untouched coffee at the campus café.

I should’ve hated him for leaving me like that. For stepping into my life, setting it on fire, then vanishing without explanation. Instead, I felt like a moth circling a flame unable to resist, even knowing it might burn me alive.

That night, I dreamed again.

This time, the shadows parted long enough for me to see his face clearly. Pale. Ethereal. Ageless. His lips moved against my ear, but the only sound was a whisper of wind that carried words I didn’t understand. The syllables wrapped around me like chains, binding me tighter the harder I struggled.

I jolted awake once more, my breath ragged. And this time, I wasn’t alone.

At the far corner of my room, near the window where the moonlight spilled through, stood Lucien.

I froze, unable to move, my pulse screaming in my ears. He wasn’t a dream. He was here, real, solid, his presence pressing against me like gravity itself. His eyes found mine, and for a heartbeat, I thought I saw guilt etched into them.

“Lucien…” My voice cracked.

He didn’t answer. He just stood there, his hand half-raised as though he’d been reaching for me before I woke. His chest rose and fell in a rhythm that was too controlled, too deliberate, like someone rehearsing how to appear human.

“Where have you been?” I demanded, surprising even myself with the sharpness of my voice. “You can’t just disappear like that. You—” I swallowed hard, “—you scared me.”

His jaw tightened. The moonlight caught the sharp line of his cheekbones, the unnatural stillness in his frame. “I shouldn’t have come back,” he said finally, his voice low, velvet threaded with warning.

But he had. And that meant something.

“Then why are you here?” I whispered.

Silence stretched between us. His eyes flicked toward the floor, then back to me. And for the briefest moment, the mask slipped. His lips parted, and I saw them sharp, gleaming, too long, too inhuman.

My breath hitched. “Oh my God…”

Lucien turned away sharply, shadows swallowing his face. “You shouldn’t see me like this.” His voice cracked at the edges, rougher now, as though restraining something dangerous.

But I couldn’t look away. Fear pulsed through me, yes, but so did something else. Curiosity. Desire. A terrible, undeniable longing.

“Lucien…” I rose from my bed, my legs trembling but moving anyway. Each step felt like crossing into forbidden territory, but I kept going until I was close enough to see the faint glimmer in his eyes. “I’m not afraid of you.”

His head snapped toward me, disbelief flashing across his features. “You should be.”

“Maybe,” I admitted, my voice shaking but steady enough to carry the truth. “But I’m not.”

His hand lifted, hesitant, trembling slightly as though fighting itself. When his fingertips brushed the edge of my jaw, cold and electrifying, I swore I could feel every nerve in my body ignite. My breath came shallow, my chest rising against the invisible weight pressing down between us.

“You don’t understand what I am,” he murmured.

“Then tell me,” I whispered back. “Show me.”

For a heartbeat, I thought he might. His lips parted, his chest heaving with an ache that mirrored my own. But then he pulled back, his expression twisted with anguish.

“If I show you,” he said, his voice breaking, “you’ll never see me the same way again.”

The silence that followed was unbearable. I wanted to scream at him, to shake him until he gave me answers, but instead, I reached for his hand. My fingers closed around his, cool and unyielding, yet somehow fragile in the way he let me hold him.

“Lucien,” I said softly, “I already don’t see you the way I see anyone else.”

His breath caught, sharp and audible. For a fraction of a second, I thought he might lean in, might close the impossible distance and press his lips to mine. My heart hammered, anticipation coiling in every vein.

But then he vanished.

Just gone.

The air where he had stood shimmered with emptiness, the echo of his presence clinging like perfume that lingered long after the wearer had left. I stood frozen, hand still outstretched, my skin tingling where his cold fingers had touched mine.

I sank onto my bed, burying my face in my hands. Tears pricked my eyes, though I wasn’t sure if they came from frustration, fear, or the unbearable ache of wanting someone who didn’t belong to this world.

One truth settled heavy in my chest, undeniable now,

Lucien wasn’t human.

And instead of running from that truth, my heart whispered something even more dangerous.

I wanted him anyway.