The Devil’s Portrait

New Orleans , 1889 — Seraphina's Studio

Seraphina Duvall jolted awake, a scream lodged in her throat.

The dream felt like it was glued to her—dark wings, a voice that wasn't quite a voice, but more like a presence, coiling around her thoughts like tendrils of smoke. "Find me."

Her attic studio was freezing, even though the Louisiana night outside was thick with humidity. The tiny hairs on her arms prickled.

"Just a dream," she murmured to herself.

Still, her hands were already reaching for her paints, almost as if they had a mind of their own.

The canvas sprang to life beneath her brush—an enigmatic figure who wasn't really a man, his sharp beauty almost painful to gaze upon, his eyes like dying stars. Behind him loomed a throne made of bones.

She couldn't recall painting the crown of flames. Or how the figure's lips appeared to part, as if they were about to speak—

A sudden knock on her door broke her concentration.

Seraphina almost knocked over her easel. The clock read three in the morning. No one in their right mind would knock at this hour.

"Who's there?" Her voice was steady, and she felt a sense of pride in that.

The reply came, smooth as velvet but sharp as a knife.

"A patron, Miss Duvall. One who finds your work… divine.

Once again, there was a knock—three sharp taps, just like a judge's gavel sealing a fate.

Seraphina's breath caught in her throat. Her fingers, still bearing the remnants of paint from her frantic work, curled into tight fists. At this hour? The attic studio, which usually felt like her personal haven, now felt more like a prison. The air was thick with the scents of linseed oil and something heavier, something that reminded her of iron. Like blood.

She picked up the iron poker from the fireplace—a sorry excuse for a weapon, but it would have to do.

"Who's there?" she called out, her voice a bit stronger this time.

The response was smooth, almost playful. "A man who's very eager to commission a portrait, Miss Duvall. Although, if you prefer to greet me with a weapon ready, I won't mind. It certainly brings a touch of… drama."

Her heart raced. That voice—it slithered into her ears, rich and sweet, but underneath, there was something off. It was the very same voice that haunted her dreams.

For a moment, she hesitated, then finally unlocked the door.

The man standing in the dimly lit hallway was striking in a way that made her stomach twist. Tall and clad in a crisp black tailcoat, his skin appeared almost luminous in the shadows. But his eyes—good Lord, his eyes—were as black as polished onyx, glimmering in the candlelight like a cat's.

"Lucian Vael," he introduced himself with a bow that was so graceful, it almost seemed mocking. "I apologize for the late hour, but inspiration can be quite elusive, and I find myself in dire need of your skills."

Seraphina tightened her hold on the poker. "You couldn't wait until morning?"

A smirk played on his lips. "I've waited far longer than you can imagine."

There was something in the way he said it that sent a shiver down her spine.