Chapter 1
Crowley walks through overcrowded streets of Praeteritus Votum, the ever-dark city lit up by ether-powered street lamps, but there are murmurs of light and warmth beyond here. People hurry past him, eyes downcast, while animated corpses trudge beside them—eternal workers performing their programmed duties under the unending night.
On a streetlamp a stapled poster with bright red letters fluttered in the breeze. “You too can profit from Erebus’ Gift. Are your workers asking for unions? Asking for better living conditions and more pay? Then Erebus’ Gift is what your workers need!” Crowley reads out loud and tears the poster and balls it up and stomps on it. With a grimace he thinks, advertised as salvation, enforced as slavery by an ether infusion spell ritual that preserves bodies for labor through death. An animated corpse swiftly comes to clean it up. Crowley sighs in defeat.
Crowley spots a familiar silhouette, hunched and hiding. A smile tugs at his lips as he pushes through the crowd. The woman crouches, trying hard not to be seen and hands over some glass bottles—not liquor, not medicine. Something riskier. The marefolk, human and shifter teens take the bottles and hide them in their hoodies. She turns around and sees Crowley approaching, she makes a hand signal to the teenagers and they disperse and she takes off running.
Crowley attempts to catch up but marefolk are agile and she quickly blends in the crowd when she pulls her black hoodie over her head of curly red hair. She vanishes into the crowd, another ghost in a city full of them. Crowley exhales, the weight of memory pressing down. He turns toward Erebus’ Lust — another graveyard, but at least one that serves good liquor.
Crowley stops running and smacks his lips when he loses her. He thinks: I never got to say goodbye to her, Sarai. Remembering he was seeing his sister Mal perform tonight, he always goes to her shows to ensure her safety and her identity stays hidden.
Every step toward Erebus’ Lust felt like sinking deeper into the rot. But what choice did he have? It was family. The thumping music is heard before he arrives and outside of Erebus’ Lust, Crowley sees the title in gilded letters above the door with intricate gold designs. An animated corpse who is the door keeper lets him through. Crowley thinks a quick prayer to Samson the Sun God as his fingers brush the gilded doorframe. The heat from the club presses against the cold night air, a rhythm he knows will drown out any thoughts of the streets he’d leave behind.
Patrons prowl impatiently inside a private dimly lit back-room in Erebus’ Lust, the infamous men’s club in Praeteritus Votum. The air is thick with smoke—rich with an earthy aroma, a hint of spice, and subtle undertones of chocolate. They salivate in anticipation, unaware how often they find themselves drawn back to this place.
They’re here for the one and only Daywalker. The patrons seek her for her ability to walk under the sun; her ability is a spectacle for them. Watching her dance at a gentleman’s club under their power polishes their egoism.
A patron dumps a glass of liquor on the ground–hastily an animated corpse comes to clean up the broken glass and wipe up the drink—swift, silent and obedient. The other patrons laugh at the scene, but the animated corpse’s eyes are dead and empty. What once was a young woman’s body is a shell of a body in pristine condition carrying out tasks it was framed to carry out.
The ambiance building in the club is filled with emotionally unavailable patrons, their social prowess drenched in cynicism. They crave authority and ownership, posturing their accomplishments for recognition. The watches and jewelry they wear are silent witnesses broadcasting that the patrons can and will wear someone’s livelihood—but without a second thought, they sink insurmountable time and money into this hellhole.
A cigar, velvety and smooth with an oily wrapper embracing it, sits proudly on top of a patron’s be-ringed fingers. A smug smile exposes his fangs.
He taunts, “Never thought I’d see a D’Arcy around here. Your mother must be proud.”
“Is it against the rules to come to my mom’s establishment?” Crowley gives a mocking smirk, looking down at the patron, his large, muscular hands flexing as his muscles bulge.
“You, indulging in sin?” He takes a drag from his cigar and smiles as he exhales viscous smoke into Crowley’s face.
“Oh! You’re obviously right! I’m just here to have a good fuck and a human or marefolk to drain tonight.” Crowley turns his head to the side, his jaw hardening as he bites down hard.
“You must think you’re such a big-shot. I’m surprised your uncle Erebus still keeps you around.” The patron says in a taunt.
“Say that again and I’ll make you eat your cigar.” Crowley peers down at the patron, rolls his large shoulders back, and looks him up and down with an indignant grin.
“Your father Morvain is playing diplomat.” The patron sneers.
“Someone has to, because I’m not doing it.”
“Your mom and Eris D’Arcy, have invested so much in this luxurious establishment”
“Yeah, yeah, my mom and that psychopath. Okay, and?” Crowley answers dully, beginning to get bored.
“Erebus is our city’s dictator. But you, Crowley, might be a D’Arcy too, but you’re nothing but Erebus’ shad—”
Crowley laughs, a vein bulging on his forehead, and cuts the other patron off, as if daring him to continue. He pushes his towering frame past the patron, knocking him flat on his back. Despite the shouting and chaos behind him, he continues toward a darker corner of the club and drops into a leather chair with a clear view of the stage.
An animated corpse brings a drink for Crowley, and he looks at her grimly. Her blank stare looks past him and then she leaves, continuing her duties.
In one hand, he holds the glass of dark liquor on the rocks. He grips the rim of the old-fashioned glass with his fingertips and swirls it slowly. The ice cubes clatter against the sides. The burning, dark brown drink flows down his throat as he lifts the glass to his lips; he licks his fangs.
The liquor chokes his senses as it warms his chest, fueling his confidence in mediocrity. He knows he hasn’t made a name for himself like his family in a century, and others have noticed.
He grits his teeth, although this was way before his time, once Erebus took control over Pra-Vo a millennia ago, he was never the same from what his aunt and mother say. All the power went to his head—once the Goddess of Corrupted Death, Amaya, blessed him as her one true prophet.
Everything he does is with her blessing. He sighs and rubs his temples, thinking that at least he’s not his parents or Eris, who take turns exploiting Mal for all she can offer. Crowley scans the stage, searching for Mal. His sister. His responsibility. If anyone threatened her tonight, he’d be ready.
