Midnight Melodies
The silence that enveloped the house that night was deafening. Not the peaceful hush of slumber, but a thick, oppressive stillness that pressed down on me, heavy and inescapable.
It was the kind of quiet that made the walls feel closer, the shadows darker, the air itself alive with something unseen.
Sleep was impossible. Every time I closed my eyes, my thoughts twisted into restless knots, unraveling memories and half-formed worries that refused to let me go.
With a sigh, I pushed back the covers and rose to my feet, my bare skin prickling against the cold night air.
The kitchen was dimly lit by the glow of the streetlights filtering through the window. The hum of the kettle filled the silence, a welcome break from the suffocating quiet.
Steam curled from the cup in my hands, the rich, dark aroma of coffee spreading through the air like a lifeline, grounding me in something familiar. But even as I wrapped my fingers around the warmth of the mug, the unease inside me refused to fade.
Then, I heard it.
A soft, melodic sound, distant but unmistakable. A guitar. Played beautifully, each note dripping with sorrow, weaving its way through the stillness like a ghost's lament. And beneath it, a voice—low, raw, and heartbreakingly human.
My breath caught.
Xander?
Curiosity tugged at me, and before I knew it, my feet were moving, following the music through the quiet hallways. The sound led me to the third room—the one where all the instruments were kept. The door was slightly ajar, a sliver of warm light spilling into the dark corridor.
I hesitated for a moment, my fingers brushing against the wood. Then, slowly, I pushed it open just enough to see inside.
Xander sat on a stool in the center of the room, his back to me, bathed in the golden glow of a single lamp.
His dark hair fell over his eyes as his fingers danced effortlessly across the strings, each note coaxed from the guitar carrying something unspoken—something aching.
The melody was soft yet powerful, a whisper of longing echoing in the quiet space.
His voice followed, low and rough, filled with an emotion that made my chest tighten:
No more Nirvana
No Billy Jean
No dancing if you were gone
How could I wake up
How could I sleep
How could I be someone
All those crowds
All the music would just fade out
Not a sound
If not for you, I wouldn't sing anymore
If not for you, I couldn't get off this floor
If not for you, hell would be knocking on my door
If not for you, ooh-ooh
If not for you, hell would be knockin' on my door
If not for you, ooh-ooh
His voice cracked slightly on the last note, the weight of his words hanging in the air like an unfinished confession.
There was a vulnerability to him in that moment, stripped of his usual guarded expression, his rough exterior melted away.
Then, as if sensing me, his eyes snapped open.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moved. His dark gaze met mine through the narrow opening, unreadable, intense.
I swallowed, suddenly unsure if I should have been watching.
"I'm sorry… did I interrupt you?" I asked, stepping inside hesitantly.
Xander didn't respond immediately. He simply stared, his fingers still curled around the neck of the guitar, before finally setting it down in its stand.
"I didn't mean to disturb you," I added quickly.
"I couldn't sleep, and I heard you playing…"
"It's fine," he said, his voice quieter now, though there was something guarded in his tone.
I hesitated. "So… why did you stop?"
His jaw tensed.
"I just…" He trailed off, like he couldn't—or wouldn't—explain.
I took a step closer.
"You sounded amazing," I said softly, hoping to ease whatever tension had settled between us.
"Both the music and your voice."
Xander looked away, his gaze fixed on the floor. He didn't acknowledge the compliment, but he also didn't dismiss it.
"Are you okay?" I asked.
"Can't sleep either?"
His silence stretched just long enough to make me wonder if he would answer at all. Then, finally, he exhaled.
"You should get some rest," he said instead.
Something in his tone put me on edge. There was a weight to his words, a subtle finality that made my stomach tighten.
Before I could press further, he added, "Tomorrow, we have to go."
I blinked. "Go where?"
He hesitated, his fingers tightening slightly. "The sire—I mean, the Feral vampires' leader. He wants to meet you."
The words hit me like ice water down my spine.
"Why?" My voice was quieter now, unease curling in my stomach.
"What does he want with me?"
Xander's expression darkened slightly. His usual easy confidence had been replaced by something unreadable.
"It's… about your blood. Your aura."
He exhaled, as if weighing how much to say.
"There's something different about you. Something unusual."
His eyes met mine, sharp and searching. "He's curious, and when he's curious, it's better to comply than to resist."
A chill ran through me.
"Different?" I repeated, my pulse quickening.
"What do you mean by that?"
Xander hesitated. Then, quietly, "I don't know yet."
His words should have reassured me. Instead, they did the opposite.
"But don't be afraid," he said suddenly, and for the first time, his voice softened—not with pity, but with something else. A promise.
"Trust me. If he hurts you, I'll stop him. I won't let him touch you."
There was something unwavering in the way he said it, something that made my breath catch.
But it did nothing to stop the question from burning in my mind.
What exactly had I gotten myself into?