They laughed, those fucking witches, whilesheleft me to die.
When I broke free, she was gone with them, nothing left but blood-soaked sheets and her talisman crushed underfoot. The same charm I wrapped around her neck when I was balls deep inside her, when she cried and bled for me and swore it would keep us bound through eternity.
That night, I lost mercy.
I burned their abbey to the ground with every single witch I could find inside it. Killed everyone who dared to whisper her name. And for decades I hunted every member of the coven who’d touched her. None survived.
Most believed she’d died, that in one of my blind rages I may have killed her in that first purging.
And yet, no matter how many bodies I buried, I could never silence the question.
What if it wasn’t true? What if she’s alive?
A dangerous thought. Hope is poison to creatures like me.
Hope for a renewed, prolonged retribution? Even worse. Because it keeps the hunger sharp, the thirst fresh.
I pour a measure of blood into my glass, watch it slide thick and dark as the devil’s honey. I drink it for the power and not the pleasure.
Nothing gives pleasure anymore.
I haven’t drank from a vein in…longer than I care to remember now. Don’t intend to. Unless?—
The door creaks open behind me.
“Forgive the intrusion,monsieur.” Jean, my oldest thrall, bows low. His mortal heart beats slow from years under myinfluence, his eyes perpetually glassy from the haze of my blood. “There’s a man here to see you. Says it’s urgent. From Venice.”
Venice.
Memories of the place claws down my spine. I haven’t thought of it in a century. My informants there deal only in the currency of secrets. Old, dangerous secrets that keep those that need controlling in line.
“What does he want?”
Jean hesitates. “He will only speak to you, sire.”
“Send him up.” I might listen. Or I might kill him to alleviate this ennui.
Choices, choices.
Another slight hesitation. “He insists you see this first.” He places a sealed envelope on the desk and backs away.
The scent of wax and salt hits me instantly.
Old wards. Witchcraft. I zip across the room and pick it up, my hand tightening as I break the seal.
Inside is a single photograph.
It’s grainy, the kind produced by cheap mortal technology, but even through the haze of exposure, I recognize the figure.
It’s one I’ve sought in crowds and reflections and the fever of my own dreams for far too long. Always coming up empty.
And as much as I’m braced for disappointment now—as I have been every single time—my unbeating heart still dares to simulate a quickening, betraying the hope I swore I’d buried centuries ago.
A cemetery at dusk. Candles burning between rain-slick stone. And standing among them…her.
Elara.
Unaged. Untouched. Her red hair a spill of scarlet fire beneath her hood, her face half-hidden by a veil. She’s placing white lilies on a grave.
