Chapter 4: An Obsession Begins
Ethan Calloway's apartment was a mausoleum of paper and shadows, the kind of place where daylight feared to tread. The single bulb overhead buzzed faintly, casting a jaundiced glow over the chaos—crime scene photos pinned to a corkboard, yellowed newspaper clippings spilling across the desk, and a half-empty bottle of bourbon perched like a sentinel amid the mess. He sat hunched in his creaking chair, his hazel eyes bloodshot and wild, tracing the same sentence in his notepad for the tenth time: Lilith—fangs, speed, dust. Vampire. The word stared back at him, mocking his sanity, but he couldn't unsee it—the ash scattering in the alley, her silhouette against the fog, her strength pinning that thing like it was nothing.
He rubbed his face, stubble scraping his palms, and leaned back, the springs groaning in protest. His ribs ached from the attack, a dull throb that kept him tethered to the night's reality. Logic—his old friend, the one that had carried him through small-town scandals and city exposés—told him it was impossible. People didn't move that fast. Bodies didn't turn to dust. But his gut, that relentless bastard, whispered otherwise. The puncture marks on the victims, the bloodless corpses, Lilith's cryptic warnings—it all pointed to a truth he couldn't name aloud. Not yet.
Ethan flipped open his laptop, the screen's blue glow hollowing out his cheeks. He'd spent the last three hours scouring digitized archives—police reports, coroner's notes, anything he could hack or charm his way into. The victims were a jigsaw puzzle with no edges: a barista, a stockbroker, a librarian, now the woman from the alley. No overlap in age, job, or neighborhood. Just those twin holes in their necks and a chilling absence of blood. He scrolled through grainy photos, each face frozen in death, and muttered, "Come on, give me something."
A knock rattled the door, sharp and impatient. Ethan flinched, reaching for the baseball bat propped against his chair—a holdover from a story about rigged games that had earned him more enemies than bylines. "Who is it?" he called, voice rough from disuse.
"Voss," came the clipped reply. "Open up, Calloway, or I'll kick it in."
He sighed, dropping the bat, and shuffled to the door. Detective Mara Voss stood in the hall, her silver-streaked hair damp from the drizzle, her flinty eyes narrowing as they took in his disheveled state—rumpled shirt, bruised knuckles, the faint smear of blood on his lip. "You look like hell," she said, brushing past him without invitation.
"Thanks," he muttered, shutting the door. "What's this, a wellness check?"
"More like a sanity check." She glanced at the corkboard, then back at him. "Heard you were at the Vellichor shindig last night. Fancy gig for a muckraker."
"Got a tip," he said, crossing his arms. "Thought it might tie to the murders."
Mara snorted, leaning against his desk. "And? Find any cult freaks in tuxedos?"
He hesitated, Lilith's face flashing in his mind—those obsidian eyes, that lethal grace. "Something like that," he said carefully. "You got anything new on the latest vic?"
"Off the record?" She smirked, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Same as the others. No prints, no DNA, no damn sense. Chief's breathing down my neck, and the press—you included—aren't helping."
"Then let me help," he pressed, stepping closer. "I've got leads, Mara. Stuff you won't find in your files."
Her gaze sharpened. "Like what?"
He opened his mouth, then shut it. Vampires wouldn't fly—not with her, not without proof. "Patterns," he lied. "Give me a day. I'll bring you something solid."
She studied him, then nodded curtly. "One day, Calloway. Don't make me regret this." She headed for the door, pausing to toss over her shoulder, "And clean yourself up. You're starting to scare the neighbors."
The door clicked shut, and Ethan sank back into his chair, exhaling hard. He needed more than patterns—he needed Lilith. His fingers danced across the keyboard, pulling up an obscure art history database he'd once used for a fluff piece. He typed her name—Lilith D'Argento—and hit enter, expecting nothing. Instead, the screen flickered, and a painting loaded: a woman in a velvet gown, raven hair cascading, her face a mirror of Lilith's. Dated 1742, Venice. His stomach dropped. Another search, another hit—a sketch from 1860s Paris, the same piercing eyes. Then a photograph, grainy and faded, from 1920s New York. Always her.
"What the hell are you?" he whispered, the room shrinking around him. An obsession was taking root, thorny and unshakable, and he let it grow.
****
Across the city, in a penthouse perched atop a gothic tower, Lilith D'Argento stood before a floor-to-ceiling window, the skyline a jagged crown against the night. Her midnight-blue gown was gone, replaced by a sleek black ensemble—pants, blouse, boots—that hugged her like armor. The blood from the alley had been scrubbed away, but its memory lingered in the tightness of her jaw, the restless flex of her fingers. She was a vision of timeless beauty—high cheekbones, crimson lips, skin like moonlight—but her eyes betrayed her, storm clouds roiling with secrets older than the city below.
She shouldn't have saved him. Shouldn't have let Ethan Calloway's hazel eyes and stubborn fire pierce the wall she'd built over centuries. He was a complication, a crack in the ice of her existence, and yet she couldn't shake him. The way he'd stared at her in the alley—not just fear, but defiance, hunger—echoed a ghost from her past. Lucien. The name clawed at her, unbidden, dragging up a night in 1683: cobblestone streets slick with rain, a lover's laugh, then betrayal—his blood on her hands, his body ash in the wind. She'd sworn never again.
A low growl rumbled in her throat, and she turned from the window, pacing the penthouse. It was a sanctuary of contrasts—modern steel and glass softened by relics of her long life: a Venetian mirror, a Parisian chaise, a New York jazz record spinning silently on a turntable. She stopped at a bookshelf, pulling out a leather-bound journal, its pages yellowed and brittle. She flipped to a sketch—Lucien's face, sharp and boyish, his eyes alight with the same fire Ethan carried. Her fingers traced the lines, trembling.
"He's not him," she muttered, slamming the book shut. But the lie tasted bitter. Ethan's persistence, his refusal to cower, stirred something she'd buried—hope, maybe, or longing. She'd watched him from the shadows since the alley, a silent guardian breaking every rule she'd set for herself. The coven would notice. That cloaked figure from the courtyard—Darius, enforcer of their laws—had already warned her. Handle him, or I will. Her fangs ached at the thought.
She crossed to a decanter on the bar, pouring a glass of something dark and thick—not wine, not quite blood, a blend only her kind could stomach. The first sip burned, grounding her, but her mind raced back to Ethan. He was digging, she knew it—piecing together her world with that relentless mind of his. She should've compelled him to forget, erased his memory with a glance, but something in her had faltered. His fire deserved to burn.
A soft chime broke her reverie—her phone, a sleek anachronism among her antiques. A message from an unknown number: Meet me. Corner of 5th and Ash. Midnight. -E. Her lips parted, a hiss escaping. He'd found her, or close enough. Foolish, brave, maddening man.
She glanced at the clock—11:42 PM. The city hummed beyond the glass, alive with prey and predators. She could ignore him, let Darius deal with the mess, but the thought twisted her gut. Instead, she drained her glass, grabbed a long coat—black, tailored, a shield against the night—and slipped out.
*****
Ethan waited at the corner, the drizzle soaking his trench coat, his notepad a damp weight in his pocket. The streetlamp flickered, casting long shadows that danced like specters. He'd taken a chance texting her—guessed she'd have ways of being found—but every rustle made him jump, expecting red eyes and claws.
Footsteps clicked behind him, deliberate and close. He turned, and there she was—Lilith, emerging from the mist like a phantom, her coat billowing, her eyes pinning him in place. "You don't listen," she said, voice cutting through the rain.
"You don't scare me off that easy," he shot back, stepping toward her. "I've got questions, Lilith. About you, the murders, all of it."
"Then you're a dead man," she snapped, but her tone wavered. "Walk away, Ethan."
"Not happening." He pulled out a printout—the Venice painting—and thrust it at her. "This is you, isn't it? 1742. How?"
She froze, staring at the image, then snatched it from him, crumpling it in her fist. "You're digging your grave."
"Then help me climb out," he said, softer now. "I know what I saw. I know what you are. Tell me why."
Her laugh was brittle, breaking. "Why? Because I'm cursed, Ethan. Because I've lived too long and lost too much. And you—" She stopped, eyes searching his. "You remind me of it."
He swallowed, rain dripping from his hair. "Then let me in. Whatever this is, I'm already part of it."
Lilith stepped back, conflict warring in her face. "You don't know what you're asking."
"Then show me," he pleaded, echoing his words from the courtyard.
She hesitated, then nodded once, sharp and final. "Follow me. But don't blame me when it breaks you."
He did, into the night, into her world—an obsession sealing his fate.