Vampires and Lycans Age of Night

Chapter One: The Blood Moon Appears in the Sky In 1893 London, a thick fog, like a giant grey shroud, shrouded the entire city. The fog over the Thames was thicker than usual, as if even the river itself was trying to conceal some unspeakable secret. Streetlights appeared as dim, yellowish halos in the fog, like the last breaths of drowning victims. The wheels of carriages clattered dully on the cobblestones, the sound absorbed by the fog, carrying little distance, as if the whole world were wrapped in a layer of cotton. The distant church bells sounded distorted in the fog—the clear, crisp tones sounded like a sob from underwater. The clock tower of Victoria Station appeared and disappeared in the fog, the Roman numerals on the clock face blurred. The hour hand pointed to four in the afternoon, but the sky was already as dark as dusk—no, darker than dusk. Like some kind of ominous premonition. The air was damp, smelling of burning coal mixed with horse manure and earth—the peculiar smell of a London winter. But on that day, there was something else in that smell—like rust, like blood. Eileen Blackwood stood on the platform, clutching a letter soaked with sweat. Her fingers were white with cold, but a nameless fire burned within her. That fire had burned since she read the first line of the letter, and for three days, it had not extinguished but rather grown stronger. She looked down at her sister's handwriting on the envelope—Victoria's handwriting was always elegant and neat, but this time the address was crooked and shaky, as if written in violent trembling. Several letters were almost illegible, and ink drops had bled across the paper, forming deep blue stains. Eileen pressed the letter to her heart and closed her eyes. She remembered the last time her sister appeared in London. It was last Christmas. Victoria, dressed in a deep green velvet gown, her hair elegantly styled in a bun, sat before the fireplace playing the piano. Her fingers danced across the keys, playing an old Hungarian folk song—one her mother had taught them. Eileen couldn't remember the lyrics, only the indescribable sadness in the melody. "What are you thinking about?" Eileen asked her that day. Victoria didn't stop playing, but simply said softly, "I'm thinking about my mother. She always cried when she played this piece." "Why?" "Because this piece—it's about a woman waiting for her lover to return from the battlefield," Victoria said. "She waited seven years. And what she received in the end was a death notice." "And what happened to her afterward?" "She jumped into the Danube." Victoria's fingers touched the last note on the keys, then she turned to look at Eileen. "But she didn't die. She saw something at the bottom of the river—something that made her decide to live." "What was it?" "She didn't tell anyone," Victoria said. "But she said—it was a promise. A promise of blood and moon." At the time, Eileen thought it was just a story. A legend embellished with sorrow. Now she wasn't sure. "Are you sure you want to go?" a deep voice came from behind her. Eileen didn't turn around. She knew who it was—Marcus Thorne, her fiancé, a detective who had worked at Scotland Yard for twelve years. His voice had that familiar hoarseness, a mixture of worry and weariness. "I have to go," she said, her voice more resolute than she had expected. "My sister said in her letter that she saw something she shouldn't have seen. She said… she said something entered her room at night." "I'll go with you." "No." Eileen turned, looking directly into his grey eyes. Marcus had the typical detective's face—hard features, high cheekbones, prominent brow bones, as if roughly sculpted by a chisel. But his eyes were gentle. That gentleness contrasted sharply with his rugged appearance, which was why Eileen had fallen for him in the first place. Those eyes—among the men in the London police force—were the only place she could see warmth. "You have a case to handle," Eileen said. "And…" she hesitated. Her gaze lingered on Marcus's face for a second—for a moment, she felt an urge to tell him everything. About the letter. About Victoria's strange dreams. About the inexplicable unease in her heart. But she didn't. "My sister said to let me come alone. She said that thing only works on women." "You have a case to handle," Eileen said. "And…" she hesitated, "my sister said to let me come alone. She said that thing only works on women." Marcus frowned. As a rational detective, he didn't believe in any supernatural explanations. But Eileen's sister—Victoria—was never one to lie or exaggerate. "Three days," he said. “If you don’t come back in three days, I’ll come looking for you. No matter what your sister said.” He took Eileen’s hand. His palm was broad, almost completely enveloping hers. His thumb gently caressed the back of her hand—a habitual gesture when he was nervous. “Promise me,” he said. “Promise you what?” “Promise me you’ll be careful.” “I promise you.” Eileen tiptoed and gently kissed his lips. His lips were warm, carrying the taste of coffee and tobacco. It was a familiar taste—the taste of “normal life.” She didn’t know it would be their last kiss. She boarded the train to Yorkshire. The whistle blew long, steam billowed from the engine, forming a thicker white cloud in the fog. The wheels turned slowly, making a rhythmic clattering sound—clunk, clunk, clunk—faster and farther away. Eileen leaned out the window and saw Marcus still standing on the platform. His figure grew smaller and smaller in the fog—becoming increasingly blurry—until finally swallowed completely. She watched—until she could see nothing at all before retreating back into the carriage. She didn't know—that was the last time she would see him alive. She thought she would return in three days. She thought everything would be alright. She thought—there were many more tomorrows. Eileen sat by the window, watching the outline of London gradually blur in the fog. The dome of St. Paul's Cathedral, the spire of the Houses of Parliament, the silhouette of London Bridge—one by one, swallowed by the fog, as if wiped away by a giant hand. She was alone in the carriage. Outside the window—London was receding into the distance. Those familiar streets, familiar faces, familiar fog—were being left behind by the speed of the train. She didn't know when she would see them again. She didn't know if she—would ever see them again. She opened the letter and read again her sister's trembling handwriting: "Dearest Eileen, I know you'll think I'm crazy. Three months ago, I would have thought so too. But I assure you, every word I've said is true. Every full moon, he comes. He's not human, Eileen. He has a human face, but his eyes… God, his eyes glow in the darkness. And he's not human. And she—that woman—she's so beautiful she doesn't seem like a creature of this world, but her lips are red, no, blood red. When they're together, the whole house shakes. Eileen, I'm scared. I'm really scared. Please come. Please come quickly. Your sister, Victoria" Eileen folded the letter and tucked it back into the envelope. The edges of the letter were frayed from repeated folding. This indicated that Victoria had likely opened and folded it many times before sending it, hesitating many times. Eileen pressed the letter to her heart and closed her eyes. She remembered her childhood. She and Victoria ran through the gardens of Blackwood Manor, her mother smiling as she watched them from the porch, her father reading in his study. It was the warmest memory she had of them. But that memory was destroyed ten years ago by a fire. The fire burned down half the manor and killed her parents.