He had entered the Velvet Crypt.
It was a sanctuary of the macabre, a hoard of stolen centuries. Ancient, leather bound grimoires leaned against racks of silvered weapons and jagged artifacts. Maps of forgotten cities were pinned to the walls beside fragments of glyphs that seemed to pulse with a faint, rhythmic light.
But it was the portraits that drew him in, a gallery of vampires spanning a dozen eras, their eyes tracking his every move.
David froze before one particular painting. It depicted a young Black woman whose features were a mirror image of Monique’s. The resemblance was haunting, absolute.
"That's you," David whispered.
"Yes," Monique replied, her voice devoid of emotion.
David looked from the canvas to the woman beside him, a cold knot forming in his stomach.
"How old is that painting?"
"Four hundred and twelve years."
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