The digital age has made immortality more complicated. Every decade requires new documentation, new histories, new paper trails. I maintain seventeen identities across four continents, each with its own credit history, employment records, and social media presence managed by a team who believe they’re working for a reclusive tech billionaire with privacy concerns.
They’re not wrong. The threat is always there—it’s just usually from humans, not fellow vampires.
I type back:
ME: Good. Maintain surveillance. Alert me to any anomalies.
MARCUS: Already running facial recognition on all entry points. If Damien shows, I’ll know before he clears the lobby.
I pocket the phone. Poppy doesn’t need to know that somewhere in Los Angeles, a man she thinks is my driver is watching her through forty-seven different camera angles. Granted, I bet she looks amazing in all of those cameras as she places her hand in the crook of my elbow.
She’s been touching me since we left our suite—small, deliberate contacts she thinks look natural. They don’t, not yet, but she’s learning. Her fingers press against my forearm. Threecounts in, four counts out. The breathing technique I taught her on the plane.
“That’s my sister,” she says. “The one in the white sundress.”
Violet Gable has perfect blonde hair, perfect tan, and a bright smile when she spots us. Her natural confidence is like someone who’s never questioned her place in the world.
“She seems nice,” I say, because it’s true and expected.
“She’s perfect,” Poppy corrects. “There’s a difference.”
A waiter passes with glasses of rum punch garnished with hibiscus flowers. I recognize him—or rather, I recognize his grandfather’s face in his. Clarence Williams served drinks at a resort here in 1987. I spent a month here recovering from an incident in Port-au-Prince, and got to know him and his family. His grandson has the same broad shoulders, the same easy smile.
I turn, angling away before he can get a clear look at my face. It would be extremely hard explaining how a man who is 32 years old could have been here in ’87. The odds he’d recognize me from an old family photograph are minimal, but minimal is not zero, and I’ve survived this long by treating minimal risks as unacceptable ones.
“Something wrong?” Poppy asks.
“Just avoiding the rum. Doesn’t agree with me.”
Violet approaches with a man in tow—the groom, I assume. Handsome in that generic way that suggests good genes and better dental work. Christopher “Chris” Morgan, according to Poppy’s briefing documents. Investment banker. Cornell graduate. Proposed with a flash mob in Central Park.
“Poppy!” Violet’s voice carries across the terrace. Several heads turn. “You made it!”
Poppy’s smile brightens. Her shoulders drop. Her grip on my arm loosens. “Of course I made it. I wouldn’t miss your wedding for anything.”
They embrace. I watch Poppy’s face over Violet’s shoulder—eyes closed a fraction too long, tension visible before she pulls back.
“And you must be Julian.” Violet turns that smile on me. “Poppy’s been so mysterious about you. I was starting to think you were imaginary.”
“Very real,” I assure her. I extend my hand. Her grip is firm, confident. “Thank you for including me in your celebration.”
“Are you kidding? I’m dying to meet the man who got my sister off those dating apps.” Violet laughs. “She’s been so private about her love life. We were starting to worry.”
Poppy’s fingers slightly dig into my forearm. I cover her hand with mine.
“I prefer to keep certain things private,” I say. “At least until I’m certain they’re worth sharing.”
“And now?” Violet’s eyes sparkle.
I look at Poppy. She’s watching me with hope and terror in equal measure. “Now I’m certain.”
The words come easier than they should.
Chris introduces himself. We shake hands. He has the grip of someone who read an article about power dynamics and took it too seriously. I adjust my pressure to match—firm but not threatening, confident but not aggressive. He relaxes.
“Poppy mentioned you’re in tech,” Chris says. “What sector?”
“Various interests. AI development, primarily. Some biotech ventures.” Vague. Specific details invite follow-up questions. “Nothing as exciting as investment banking.”
