I moved my guitar back to my lap and started strumming an acoustic version of Moonlit Night by Howl by Night. It was a heavy rock piece, but today, I decided to tone it down into more of a ballad to practice my vocals. My voice echoed across the stage as I tried to drown out all the aggravating issues my family had caused.

“She sits so fine, like him in kind.

Holding on tight, fallen tricks behind.

To be beside her love, joyfully we plan.

Consequence unfolds, cordial warmth began.”

I could feel Bast’s eyes on me as I played. People always stopped to listen. It was one of the perks of having a mother from the Dahlia Roja clan—a group known for their mastery in the creative arts—music, art, theatrics—and for being deadly assassins. My mother was a singer, a siren. When she sang, she brought the world to its knees. I inherited that from her. When I sang, I brought out the hidden desires of both humans and vampires alike. I was the perfect addition to Club Dusk, and Bastian had no hesitation in asking me to form a band.

I had put my heart into this whole gimmick, crafting the band’s eerie, almost supernatural persona. Every member took on a stage name, just like me—Howl. It wasn’t just about the music; it was about creating an experience, a show that would stick in your mind long after the final note. We weren’t just a band; we were a mystery, a story.

It didn’t take long to gather my pack for Howl by Night: Lyra on keyboard, known as Raven; Maxence on bass, taking the name Shade; Creed on drums, aka Midnight; and Selene—tonight introduced as Spectre. She’s a dancer and burlesque performer, and I planned to have a lot of fun with her to really get the show going. The crowd would go wild. 

“His soft white hand, in the moonlit night,

Felt beaten, pleasure, oh what a sight!

The seven vices on his mind,

Her smile saying, she will be mine.”

Ah, I remember the argument with my bandmates over the last line. I was adamant that it should be “She will be thine,” but they insisted on turning it into “mine” because they thought it sounded more modern. I wasn’t backing down, though, not until Bast—of course—burst out laughing, cutting off the damn song at practice. He asked if we were planning to break out lutes and wear puffy collars too. I shot him a glare, my eyes practically sparking with anger as he smirked and replied:

“Don’t flash your pretty purple eyes at me, Daz. We’re both old enough to know you can’t drag that language back no matter how hard you try. Come on, get with the 21st century.”

That was when I finally caved, and we changed it. I guess I was just trying to hold on to a little piece of my culture from the late 1700s. But I suppose that’s not meant to be anymore.

I strummed the final verse of the song, and my voice picked up in crescendo.

“She sits with him, forever bound.

In the echoes of love, a sweet sound.

Holding on tight, through thick and thin.

Their love story, a tale to begin.”

I strummed the final chord, the sound reverberating through the empty hall, and that’s when I heard it—the unmistakable clack of heels against the stone floor. From the shadows, a figure emerged, moving with an unsettling combination of grace and purpose. Valda.

Her ebony hair, always pin-straight and flawless, mimicked mine only in colour. It framed her sculpted face, with cheekbones any girl would kill for. Her lips, painted in her signature dark red, were full and lush—the kind of lips that could disarm you, make you forget how venomous her words truly were. Her eyes, a pale shade of purple, glowed faintly in the dim light, unnervingly similar to mine, yet different in every way that mattered. While my gaze held heat—frustration, rebellion—hers was cold, detached, calculating, as if she lived her life perpetually five steps ahead of everyone else. Despite being twins, we were as different as night and day. She was ghostly pale, her appearance almost ethereal, while I carried a touch of warmth in my skin—a subtle but constant reminder of how far apart our paths had diverged.

When Valda entered a room, she didn’t just command attention—she owned it, no questions asked. It wasn’t just her beauty, though that certainly helped; it was the quiet, lethal confidence she exuded. She didn’t need to speak to remind you she could destroy you—whether with a single word, a cutting look, or a dagger to the heart.

Those were the traits necessary to lead the Sânge Varcolac clan as its Elder. Like the wolf of our emblem, the clan valued solidarity above all else but struck with ruthless efficiency when provoked. That was Valda in a nutshell—deadly, unrelenting, and proud of it.

And me? I chose to run with my own pack. You can imagine how well that announcement went over.

She stopped right in front of the stage, her gaze locking on mine as she crossed her arms.

Valda’s outfit was striking, as always. She wore a crisp white shirt, the buttons undone just enough to reveal a fitted black corset beneath that hugged her form. The shirt’s sleeves were rolled up effortlessly, as if she didn’t need to try to look that good—she just did. Tucked into high-waisted black trousers that accentuated her long legs, the ensemble gave her an air of timeless sophistication, balanced with an edge of danger.

Her earrings added the final, mesmerizing touch to her look. Dangling elegantly, the design featured an upside-down crescent moon in silver at the top, its delicate curve contrasting the sharp edges of the obsidian-like pendants below. At first glance, the pendants appeared black, but as the light shifted, they revealed a dark blue glow—subtle, enchanting, and undeniably otherworldly.

The earrings were a gift from our mother, one of the few things we had in common. While she wore both proudly, I stuck to just the one in my right ear. A small rebellion, perhaps, but it felt like enough.

I sighed but continued to play a small tune as she stared at me.

“To what do I owe this displeasure?” I said, feigning boredom.

She ignored the sarcasm and replied, “Daddy wishes to remind you that your presence is still required at the New Year’s Ball.”

Valda actually looked bored, almost as if she already knew my response and thought this was a waste of her time.

“You can tell Daddy”—I mocked her cruelly—“to go fuck himself.”

She raised an eyebrow, a small Mona Lisa smirk appearing on her face.

“You know as well as I do, Darien, that this was part of the deal. You get to fly the nest, sow your oats, or brood away in your broken-down palace only if you attend family events. All to show face that we are, in fact, a happy family,” she said, smiling sweetly before raising her voice to mimic a game show host.

I kept playing my guitar, annoyance and rage building in equal measure.

Yeah, that was the deal—the only one Valda could strike for my freedom. I loathed our father to no end and honestly wished I never had to see him again.

“So we are in agreement, despite the expletive—you are going. Good. Moving on.” She uncrossed her arms and approached the stage, all business.

“What else could you possibly want now?” I had actually stopped playing this time.

“It’s not what I want, brother. It’s what you need. You are broodier than usual, and honestly, I know it’s near time you were fed.” She looked me up and down with a critical eye.

Yes, it was my night to feed. We need to feed every three days to retain our strength. Although we can consume normal food, it is blood that truly sustains us. It allows us to use our gifts and minor incantations.

“Don’t worry, I’ll find some nourishment tonight after the gig. I have enough strength to perform.”

“Ugh, you won’t have time. Let me help you find someone truly delectable. I have a gift for these things. Do you have a preference?”

I stared at her for a while. This was coming out of nowhere. She was offering to go on the hunt for my prey? We use that term loosely. We don’t kill, but we do have specific tastes. Blood can sing to us.

“You’re joking, right? Why are you doing this?” I asked.

“Listen, I’m on your side. I want you to enjoy your life and not be shackled. If it means healing and bringing our family back together, I’m all for it. Just allow me to be nice to my little brother for once.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Valda, I’m literally two minutes younger than you. Give it a rest.”

She crossed her arms and scowled at me with a commanding air. There it was—the true Valda face.

“Fine. Go and find the perfect prey if that will make you happy.” I motioned for her to leave, hoping to end the conversation. To be honest, I wanted to be rid of her and get lost in my music. I was growing annoyed with all the interruptions.

“Perfect.” She replied curtly. She quickly turned, and I caught sight of her black heels, the shiny red soles glaring back at me as she walked away.

To my surprise, Bastian started walking toward me. He nodded once to Valda, and she did the same. He reached the stage and handed me a glass of whiskey.

“For your troubles of having to deal with the witch,” he said with a smirk.

I downed it and handed the glass back to him, then remembered something.

“Oh yeah, did you set up the hoist for Selene?”

Bastian groaned and scowled up at me.

“Selene? Seriously? Are you trying to start a massive orgy in here, Daz?”

I smiled wolfishly at him.

“C’mon, Bast, when have I ever done that?” I chuckled.

“Oh, let me count the times, bastard. It’s me who has to do the cleanup. Did you ever think about that?”

I rolled my eyes. No, I never did. My gigs were my domain. I created the atmosphere of sin. I was in control of people’s lust. I was the one always giving them… more.