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Prologue
Paris, France 1916
The boulevard was silent as the grave. A mist rolled in from the Seine, coating everything in ghostly white fingers. Any human abroad at this time was asking for trouble, thought the black-clad man who loitered with intent near the entrance to the park. In a country at war, any God-fearing citizen was abed, conserving fuel and rubbing their empty bellies. It was only a matter of minutes though before he heard the click of heels on the street, expecting a woman but instead finding a man, a tall, dark figure wearing a hat and carrying a walking cane, looking rather like he had altogether too much money in these times of austerity.
The man whistled to himself, sauntering along with carefree steps as though it was the middle of a sunny afternoon and not the dead of winter on the streets of Paris. Something about his manner irked the man who waited in the shadows. He stepped clear, falling into step behind his prey, his shoes virtually noiseless on the pavement.
Within fifty yards though, the man had sensed his presence despite the lack of noise and turned around, more curious than afraid. He tipped his hat, stumbling a little and that was when the stalker realised his intended victim was drunk. Curse it. It would not do at all. Then again, intoxication was but transitory and after a few hours sleeping it off, the man’s blood would be fit for the intended purpose after all. It all helped.
“Hello,” the man said. “You gave me a fright.”
The shadowy figure behind him smiled, letting the moonlight illuminate his sharp teeth. “Sorry about that.” He stepped forward and gripped the man’s neck, pulling his head back before he drove his fangs with some pressure into the man’s tender young throat.
The man cried out in mortal terror. His knees buckled and his attacker went down to the French pavement with him, cradling him in his arms as he drank. He felt the tainted liquor swarm through his veins, instantly making his head swim with intoxication, and he lifted his head, licking his lips.
Enough. After all, this man hadn’t been for him, but for someone else.
Chapter One
Budapest, Hungary, 1921
Samuel Bevan awoke as the wan winter sun slid below the horizon. He lay in his bed in the little courtyard off Castle Hill in Buda, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dark. The last five years of his life had been difficult. At times he regretted everything that had come with fighting for his country in France. Meeting Stephen, then meeting the Hungarian vampire, Istvan, before ending up undead himself and here in Eastern Europe, his parents presuming he was killed in action—or worse, a deserter.
It had started off as the three of them, mutual lust and Istvan’s friends Severin and Nikolaus thrown in at times for good measure. Then it had ended up with the crackpot German vampire Emil fancying his chances at killing them all and Stephen cutting his head off. After that, it was Istvan and Stephen alone and Sam out in the cold, newly made and floundering.
Stephen remained human five years later and Sam would never understand as long as he lived how Istvan had retained such icy control of his own nature all this time and not killed his lover. A man to be admired in so many ways. He hadn’t shown the same control when it came to killing Sam though, he reflected at times with bitterness. Then he had to remind himself that Istvan had merely taken the last drops of his blood while Sam was dying in a shell-hole on the Somme and actually, saved his life.
Was it a life worth saving? Sam tried his best but at times he wondered.
He climbed out of bed and stretched, took a brief wash before he dressed in a dapper suit. He did all right for himself, although people talked about why he was never seen in his second-hand bookshop with the dedicated English section during the day. His manager, Imre, ran it five days a week; Sam sometimes helped out in the evenings, taking over earlier in winter when the sun disappeared. It was barely a hundred yards from his apartment, near the Holy Trinity monument, popular with travellers and the disenfranchised.
Tonight the shop would remain closed and Sam felt his blood thrill as he slicked some brilliantine through his hair and rinsed his hands. He fancied himself as Rudolph Valentino, but then who didn’t these days. Sam would have killed for a piece of the Italian, that was for sure. His olive skin and soulful eyes had Sam quivering in the dark at the back of a movie theatre duringThe Four Horsemen of the Apocalypsetime and time again.
He sighed and lamented as always that he couldn’t preen before a mirror before he left the apartment and descended the stairs to the courtyard.
The evening was bitterly cold. A flurry of snowflakes stung his face and he turned the collar of his coat up and put his head down. He usually went the same way. Down the hill and over Chain Bridge to Pest. Istvan and Stephen lived near the Basilica, in an apartment on the square. Sam went to see them from time to time. They were always welcoming, sometimes in more ways than one if he was lucky, but he was under no illusion as to the strength of their relationship. He wondered how it worked, Stephen sleeping by night and Istvan sleeping by day. How did Stephen reconcile knowing what Istvan was doing at night? More to the point, did he think about that inevitable human lust that usually surfaced with the bloodlust? Was Stephen worried about other lovers?
It didn’t matter to Sam. He had to get on with his own life as best he could, alone. The bridge was nearly deserted; such was the cold. A couple of hardy pedestrians and a lone car braved the elements. Sam wasn’t concerned he wouldn’t find a drink. There was always someone.
He headed towards the Basilica as he knew he would. People thronged to the cafés and restaurants framing the square and there would be people about, never mind the post-war slump or the weather. He passed around the side of the Basilica and beyond the fountain. In the icy night, the church rose white and magnificent into the black sky, lit strategically to show it to its full advantage. Saint Stephen’s right hand was in the crypt. Sam wasn’t sure what had happened to the rest of his body, but tourists were interested in seeing the king’s fist anyway.
A boy on a bicycle rode through the square. Behind him, an elderly man slipped on the ice and regained his footing. Sam dismissed both. He wasn’t so hungry that he couldn’t afford to be choosy. Funny how he had got more and more discerning as time went on. There was nothing quite like drinking from the neck of a young, attractive man. Feeling his life-force spurt into your mouth and your cock harden simultaneously. If Sam could satisfy both lusts together, then it was a good night. He was stiff now at the prospect, his dick twitching and his mouth full with saliva.
He saw a young man come around the other side of the Basilica, heading towards him. Sam smelled his scent on the breeze. His blood was heady but ran rich with alcohol. Sam sighed. He had learned long ago to avoid those who had imbibed but the man was handsome, dark-haired and dark-eyed and fine of figure. He made Sam ache. Sam guessed a few sips wouldn’t hamper him too much. After all, the man was able to walk, so he couldn’t be that drunk.
He approached the stranger, speaking in bad Hungarian. “Excuse me.”
The man stopped. Interest lit his dark eyes as soon as they alighted on Sam’s face. His allure to humans never ceased to amaze Sam. They all fell at his feet so easily. “Yes?”
“I’m lost. My lodgings are around here somewhere. I’m disorientated in the dark.”
The man smiled, looking amused, perhaps at Sam’s poor attempt at the language. “You could freeze to death,” he said and stepped closer, gaze intent on Sam.
“I could,” Sam agreed. “Perhaps you could...”
The stranger took his arm. “Come with me.”
Sam smiled to himself all the way across the square to a doorway not far at all from Istvan and Stephen’s. He waited patiently as the man unlocked the heavy outer door and swung it open and then as the stranger made to climb the stairs to the first floor apartments, Sam’s patience ran out.
