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A week passed, and every night when Kambyses visited with the mortal who captained his lair, he received the same news. Nothing out of the ordinary had occurred during the day. No one had gone missing at sea. No ships had gone off course. Nico had vanished. Had he reached another shore? Or…?
Kambyses cursed under his breath in the ancient tongue of his people, which was no longer spoken—or even remembered—by anyone but him. Never had he known betrayal of this magnitude. Without an understanding of Kambyses’s true power, Nico might well believe that a multitude of modern-day firepower could cripple or even kill him. It was the vilest of treachery, one that deserved the most severe of punishments. Even death.
Every night, he stalked along the beach where Nico had committed his duplicity, where he had compelled Inspector Ramos to launch an armed human horde at Apokryphos. Palm trees, hotels, tourists…but no vampires.
Eventually, Kambyses’s fury cooled enough to acknowledge a grudging respect. To the end, the willful youngling surprised him as no other. Despite his crime, the possibility of Nico reduced to a pile of ashes left an uncomfortable heaviness in Kambyses’s chest. There was no other, and no others he would make. Only humans crowded his awareness now, beings as plentiful and temporary as flies—and mostly useless beyond their blood.
In a desperate moment, he returned to his most recent prospect, and considered trying to complete the process himself. However, it had been three nights since the would-be convert had last felt his bite, and the man was now well on his way back to health. Even if not, even if a transformation attempt hadn’t been doomed to failure, there was no point. This youngling would have been nothing like Nico and never could be.
Kambyses was alone.
His fingers twitched impatiently as this thought circled like a hungry shark. He, too, was hungry. Since the night after Nico’s disappearance, he had pierced no veins and consumed no blood. It was time to remedy this, but not too fast. He needed the prey to be exquisite and marinated in terror, seasoned just the way he preferred. This would require time. It would force him to put his troubles aside to focus on the hunt.
In some ways, old San Juan soothed him. Much like himself, the cobblestoned alleys and colorful buildings with their narrow doors and cast-iron balconies were steeped in time and reeked of history. They, like him, remained unmoved by the tides of cheerful Latin music and laughter surging all around them. But unlike him, they became part of each age as treasured homes to generations of families. Kambyses was part of no time, nor any of the untold little lives swarming through the centuries. He was a still, immutable point among brilliant flashes of existence. And he was alone…
No, if Nico still lived and Kambyses found him, he wouldn’t punish the wayward youngling. He would embrace him, cherish him, forgive him—so long as he was back by his side.
Kambyses was on top of his prey before he even realized he had made a choice. It was her hair that drew him. Thick and a deep auburn red, it gleamed in the ambient lights, bouncing and flowing across her bare shoulders as she strode down the street, absorbed in the handheld technology so prevalent in this age.
Entranced, he ghosted some distance ahead and tucked into the shadows of an alleyway. From there, he studied her at leisure. Willowy as a goddess, she didn’t so much walk as glide across the cobbles on sandaled feet, her flawless young body on display in a frayed pair of jean shorts and a draping white sleeveless top. A pink glow on one side of her arms and legs betrayed the touch of the sun on delicate skin.
A tourist, then. One of thousands, but to his eyes, like no other.
Prey.
When she passed, he would call to her, compel her before she even saw him, bring her under his spell, alter her perceptions. Once she was in his arms, once his teeth pierced her skin, he would pour into her mind, let her know what was happening, stoke the horror of being fed upon. Her fear would rise like a fine spice to satisfy his jaded pallet.
It was what he always did. It was what always happened.
But then she looked up…and saw him.
Her stride faltered. A strange expression rounded her artfully outlined eyes. Kambyses couldn’t recall the last time he had seen a look like that. Of course, neither could he recall an uncompelled human seeing him at all.
At least none he intended to let live.
She stopped at what she no doubt considered a safe distance, just past arm’s reach, her gaze taking him in from the toes of his worn shoes to the crown of his head. The rest of him was covered in a charcoal-gray cloak, a comfortably obscure style he had adopted two or three centuries before.
“Oh. My. God.”
Curious, Kambyses waited in perfect stillness. Whatever she did, if it wasn’t agreeable, he could and would take control in an instant.
“Oh, my God. You’re a…” Breath leaving her in a rush, she sucked it back before dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You’re a vampire.”
Another first. No mortal had ever uttered those words to him with anything other than well-justified anxiety oozing out of their pores. This female’s cheeks bloomed with color, her blue eyes glittery and dark. What oozed from her was nothing short of arousal.
Despite himself, Kambyses smiled.
“I knew it,” she said, triumphant. “I’ve seen every movie there is. Read every book ever written. I knew there had to be some truth buried in all that. Please tell me you don’t sparkle. Do you sparkle? No, forget I said that.” She frantically waved the question away with both hands. So alive. So young. Barely a woman. “What a stupid thing to say. Please forgive me. I’m just so…I mean…I’m Monica.” Rallying, she held out a long-fingered hand. A thin gold bracelet circled her wrist, matching the hoops in her ears.
Kambyses didn’t touch her. She knew him. This human knew what he was, and she wanted to know more. In a deep, deep corner of his darkest heart, an invisible hand plucked a powerful chord.
“Um.” She withdrew her hand. “What’s your name?”
He recalled himself enough to cast a silent compulsion that made them both unnoticed by the mortals streaming past. “Kambyses,” he said.
“Kambyses,” she repeated, as though tasting the syllables. “I like that. It sounds…wise. And it goes with your rumbly voice.”
Small talk was a human skill for which he had neither gift nor need. The temptation to compel her, enjoy her blood, erase her memories, and then send her on her way tickled the back of his throat.
