CHAPTER ONE

The velvet rope's smoothness soothed my fingertips as I observed the serpentine line. Another Friday night at "Crimson," my sanctuary in a small corner of LA, a haven for the city's vibrant underbelly and a feast for those with refined tastes.

For 220 years, I have roamed this earth, not as a shadowy figure, but as a connoisseur of experiences. Crimson was more than just a club; it was a symphony of decadent sensations, with throbbing synth-wave music and lighting that danced in crimson and violet hues, casting everyone in a simultaneously flattering and sinister glow.

My heightened sense of smell, always vigilant, detected a wave of acridity - greed and malice emanating from a man in a tailored suit, attempting to bribe the bouncer. Easy prey.

"Let him in," I murmured to Dimitri, my trusted Russian confidant. His raw strength complemented my subtle approach, making him the perfect 'muscle' for our operations.

"Are you sure, boss?" he asked, his gentle giant demeanor contrasting his brutal efficiency. "He smells like rotting cabbage and broken promises."

I chuckled softly. "Consider it an appetizer, Dimitri. After last week's meal, we might need something less...complex." Last week, we had dined on a human trafficker, a meal that left even me feeling uneasy.

As I moved through the crowd, shadows embraced me. My friends, as I affectionately called them, gathered in the VIP lounge overlooking the dance floor. They recognized my subtle nod, a silent signal that dinner was served.

The beauty of my arrangement wasn't just the provision of delicious, ethically sourced sustenance. It was the theatre of it all. Seraphine, with her operatic flair, preferred to whisper sweet nothings into her prey's ear, lulling them into a false sense of security before delivering the final kiss. Lucian, in contrast, was a sculptor of pain, savoring fear and desperation before allowing his victims to succumb.

Tonight, the man in the suit was their target. Unaware of the impending darkness, he laughed, throwing back his drink. Seraphine led him towards a discreet door at the back of the VIP lounge, while Dimitri stood guard, a silent sentinel.

I followed from the shadows, watching as Seraphine spun her tales of exclusive after-parties and hidden rooms. Lucian remained silent, his presence a guarantee of authenticity and a hint of the dark delights to come.

At the bottom of the stairs, another door. This one was heavy, reinforced with iron, and sealed with a complex lock. Seraphine produced a small, ornate key, a piece of antique jewelry that doubled as a lock pick. With a delicate click, the tumblers fell into place, and the door swung inward, revealing the room beyond.

It was a stark contrast to the grimy stairwell. The walls were a deep, velvety black, absorbing the dim light. The floor was polished black marble, reflecting the faint light in a distorted, swirling pattern. And in the very center of the room, a drain, a simple, utilitarian feature that spoke volumes.

The man's eyes, wide with terror, met mine. His fear was exquisite, a symphony of primal dread that resonated deep within my ancient soul. It was a drug more potent than any vintage blood, and for a moment, I allowed myself to bask in it.

Lucian, ever efficient, had him pinned against the wall. Seraphine, still holding his mouth, leaned in and whispered something I couldn't quite hear. Then, with a swift, practiced movement, she bared his neck.

The metallic tang of blood filled the air. A low moan escaped the man's lips, muffled by Seraphine's hand. I forced myself to focus on the bigger picture, on the justification for this act, rather than the intoxicating aroma.

Lucian orchestrated the draining, ensuring a slow, agonizing demise. He was an artist, after all, and saw death as his canvas. He left just enough life to fuel the fear, to amplify the delicious flavor of his blood.

As the life drained from the man, I realized that our existence was a paradox - a blend of beauty and brutality, life and death, fear and desire. And in the heart of LA, amidst the pulsating music and swirling lights, we found our sanctuary, our stage, and our feast.

In the aftermath of Lucian and Seraphine's work, I stood witness, an unseen sentinel, as they left behind just enough life in their victim to keep the body functioning. Dimitri emerged, his expression stoic, and began the process of cleaning up the remnants of the night's activities. My thoughts had already shifted towards the planning and strategy required to maintain the delicate balance of power in Crimson, the city that thrived on the exchange of morally ambiguous souls.

As the first light of dawn crept over the horizon, I found myself standing on the rooftop of Crimson, the city lights twinkling like fallen stars below. A sense of satisfaction washed over me, not just from the night's events, but also from the knowledge that I was contributing to the world in my own way, by "recycling" evil and ensuring that the darkness in men's hearts did not go unchecked.

Being a vampire was not just about preying on the innocent. I had chosen a different path, one where my hunger served a purpose, where my existence, however unnatural, could be a force for good. And as long as there was darkness in the hearts of men, Crimson, and I, Kaelen, would be there to feed.

But tonight, I felt a different kind of hunger, a desire for something more than just sustenance. The thrill of the hunt, the power, the sheer dominance... it was an addiction that I allowed myself to indulge in only on the rarest of occasions.

And as darkness fell, I descended into Crimson, the city's pulse quickening with the energy of the night. The music thrummed, bodies moved, and the air was thick with anticipation. I moved through the crowd, a king among men, every eye on me. Lucian and Seraphine offered their respect, acknowledging my presence with small gestures. They knew what was coming, they always did.

And then I caught a scent, a discordant note in the symphony of the night. A wave of rot in a field of flowers. Raw, ugly... evil. It was strong, almost overwhelming, and immediately piqued my interest. I hadn't sensed something this foul in decades.

But underneath it, woven into the darkness, was something else entirely. A scent so pure, so... perfect, that it made my head spin. It was like sunlight bottled into a soul. My mouth watered, not from hunger, but from something deeper, primal. It was intoxicating.

I followed the scent through the crowd, towards the bar. Dimitri, ever watchful, stood polishing glasses. He caught my eye, a question in his gaze. He had picked up the scent of the first man too. He thought he was just a quick snack to take back, but I knew he was wrong.

There was something unusual about this one. I could feel it.

"He's ripe, Kaelen," Dimitri murmured, his eyes never leaving mine. "Annoying her. Just tell me when."

He was eager, as always. But I raised a hand, silencing him. Something was wrong. This situation seemed different from usual.

I pushed my way through the last few bodies and stopped, my breath catching in my throat.

There she was.

A vision. An angel lost in hell.

Her face was cherubic, soft and round, with delicate features that seemed sculpted by a master. Her eyes were the color of the summer sky, wide and innocent. And her hair, a cascade of soft brown waves that framed her face like a halo. She was breathtaking. The purest soul I had ever encountered.

And that... thing... was talking to her.

He was slick, well-dressed, but the veneer couldn't hide the darkness that clung to him like a shroud. His eyes, cold and calculating, were fixed on her, and his words, though spoken softly, dripped with a possessive intent. He was invading her personal space, crowding her, making her uncomfortable. I could see it in the way she subtly recoiled, in the faint tremor in her hands.

Rage, cold and sharp, sliced through me. He had no right. He had no right to even look at her. I wanted to tear him limb from limb, to erase him from existence. But I held back. This was new, this protectiveness, this... possessiveness.

I realized that for the first time in a very long time, I wasn't thinking about recycling evil. I was thinking about saving an angel.

I stayed back, a good fifteen feet away, a shadow in the already dim bar. Dimitri, ever watchful, mirrored my movements, a predator poised to strike. He was practically vibrating with anticipation, itching for the go-ahead.

Usually, I enjoyed watching him work, the brutal efficiency, the way he cleaned up the trash. Tonight, though, the thought of Dimitri's touch, even on that... creature... felt wrong.

"Dimitri," I whispered, barely audible above the thrumming music. "Lure him away. Just... just bother him. Pretend he spilled a drink on you or something. But don't touch him. Understand?"

Dimitri's eyebrows shot up, a silent question in his eyes. This wasn't our usual routine. We specialized in discreet, efficient disposal, not clumsy diversions. Still, he was loyal, and he trusted me. He knew when to ask questions and when to simply obey.

He gave a curt nod, his features hardening into a carefully cultivated expression of aggrieved indignation. He was good at playing the victim, a skill honed over years of attracting the right kind of attention.

He moved with purpose, cutting a swathe through the crowd, his broad shoulders and imposing frame clearing a path. I watched as he approached the couple, feigning a stumble, his arm "accidentally" colliding with the man's.

I could see the man's reaction. Annoyance flared in his eyes, followed by a thinly veiled threat.

Dimitri, masterful as always, escalated the situation, his manufactured outrage drawing the man further and further away from the angel.

It was working. The creature was following Dimitri, spewing venomous words, completely distracted. The angel was left alone, standing slightly off-balance, a flicker of relief momentarily breaking through the apprehension in her eyes.

This one... this one was mine.