"Yes. Not the same as what you're describing, but, yes. People who knew me, trusted me, had my back." I look down at my glass. "I can't contact any of them now. They think I'm dead or disappeared. And even if I could reach out, what would I say? 'Hey, remember me? I'm a vampire now. Want to grab coffee?'"
"The isolation is one of the hardest parts of this existence." He moves from the desk to the chair across from me, settling into it with the unconscious grace of someone who's had centuries to perfect every movement. "Humans age, die, move on. Vampires remain. The connections we form are either fleeting or complicated by power dynamics."
"Is that why you keep everyone at a distance?"
The question is more direct than I intended. I see him tense slightly, then force himself to relax.
"Partly." He swirls the whiskey in his glass, watching the firelight refract through the amber liquid. "I've learned that caring about people creates vulnerability. Weaknesses that can be exploited."
"You sound as if you’ve learned that the hard way."
"Yes." The word is clipped, hard. "Luciano. The vampire who turned me." He takes a drink. "Among other things he taught me."
I want to ask more, but I can feel the wall going up. So I offer something instead, a trade. Vulnerability for vulnerability.
"You know the facts about my mother," I say. "The overdose. When it happened. But you don't know…" I stop, surprised by the tightness in my throat. "You don't know what I've never told anyone."
He waits, not pushing, just... present.
"I was supposed to have dinner with her that night. She'd been asking for weeks. But I told her I had to work late, and I told myself I'd see her the following week." The words come out flat, controlled. "I didn't have to work. I just didn't want to go."
"You couldn't have known."
"That's what people say. What I tell myself." I look up at him, and something about the firelight, the whiskey, the late hour makes honesty easier. "But the truth is worse than just not knowing. The truth is I didn't even need an excuse. I just didn't want to see her."
His expression doesn't change, doesn't judge. Just listens.
"She'd been struggling for years. Relapses, broken promises, the constant waiting for a phone call telling me she was dead. I was exhausted by it. Exhausted by her." My voice drops. "She died alone. And the worst part is that underneath the guilt, there was relief. Relief that I didn't have to watch her destroy herself anymore."
The silence stretches between us. The fire crackles. Somewhere in the distance, I hear footsteps in the corridor, but they fade without stopping.
"When Luciano took me," Maximus says finally, "I was returning to camp alone. I could have sent a messenger. Should have. It was dangerous to travel without escort, and I knew it. But I was tired of the weight of fifty-three men depending on my every decision. I wanted an hour to myself. Just one hour without being responsible for everyone else's survival."
I look at him, surprised by the parallel.
"He found me on that road. Alone, vulnerable, exactly where I shouldn't have been. And because of that moment of selfishness, my men lost their commander." His jaw tightens. "I don't know what happened to them. Whether they died in the battles thatfollowed, or survived, or…anything. I've spent six centuries not knowing, because knowing would make it real."
"You can't blame yourself for being taken."
"Can't I?" His eyes meet mine. "You blame yourself for your mother's death, and you couldn't have saved her. I blame myself for abandoning my men, and I couldn't have prevented being taken. The guilt doesn't respond to logic."
He's right. I know he's right. But knowing doesn't change the feeling.
"One of my soldiers wrote poetry," Maximus continues, his voice softer now. "Marco. Terrible poetry, objectively speaking. He wrote a poem for his wife and asked me to critique it before he sent it."
"What did you tell him?"
"That it was beautiful. That she would treasure it." The ghost of a smile crosses his face again. "It truly was awful. Rhymes that didn't quite work, metaphors that made no sense. But he was so proud of it, so hopeful that she would love it."
"Did she?"
"I don't know. I never saw him again to ask." The smile fades. "That's what I think about sometimes. Not the battles, not the glory, not even the men who died. I think about Marco's terrible poem, and whether his wife ever received it, and whether it made her smile."
Something shifts in my chest. A loosening, maybe. The realization that this powerful vampire carries the same kind of weight I do. The small losses. The unanswered questions. The guilt that doesn't respond to logic.
"I only contacted my sister once, and that was via text, since I was turned," I hear myself say. "To tell her that I took a job in Miami."
"Why?"
