Denara stared blankly at the dark contents

of the glass, idly turning it in her hand. It

seemed art to her. So many memories, lives,

details were shared through this...medium of

mortality. How different it could be each time!

The pain, the agony of death. The ecstasy of

life flooding once again through her veins.

Warmth of life and light fading to cold of death

and night.

She focused now on the man before her, who

twitched nervously at her every movement,

from the tap of a finger to a blink of her eye. So

Arian had led her to another cowering, fool

mortal. If blood was her medium, mortals were

her canvas. Mortality. With it, she might create

or destroy, give life or take it. She could mold

life to her liking or annihilate it. Heal, poison.

Cleanse, taint. All with one simple offering of

her slashed wrist. It was all her choice, and

decidedly,

a heavy burden.

Such a price for such a gift.

A cursed blessing.

Denara sighed, blowing loose strands of her

wavy brown hair away from her face. She

brought the crystalline glass to her lips and

tilted in back, her eyes still fixed on the man,

letting the warm liquid slide down her throat.

She nearly spat it back in the man's face, but

reluctantly swallowed it down. Catching the

flash of hope in the man's eyes, she realized he

thought his plan had worked.

"Dog?" she asked in a low voice. "You would

have me feed on the blood of a dog?" Denara

threw the glass at him.

His trembling hands could not move fast

enough to catch it. Hitting the worn marble

floor, it shattered, leaving glittering pieces

strewn across the floor. Panic coursed into the

man. Denara could smell it on him, rank and

heavy, almost like fear.

"Mistress Denara, what do you mean?" he

replied, wetting his lips anxiously.

"Arian told me of your loyalty, said you could

be trusted. Will you make a liar of him, Jason?"

she asked, rising from her reclination on the

red upholstered couch.

"Of course not, Mistress--" he began, backing

away as he wrung his hands. No doubt gray

hairs were being added to his head.

"Fool man," Denara hissed, seizing Jason by

neck and lifting him nearly a foot off the

ground. "You already made a mockery of him."

The man gasped for breath, clawing

impulsively at Denara's hand. She released him

finally, haphazardly letting him crumble to a

heap on the floor.

Denara straightened her skirts and returned

calmly to her seat on the couch. She folded her

hands neatly in her lap, watching the livid red

scratches fade away to again match the pale

flesh of her hands. "You have a son, do you

not?" she asked the man as he regained his

breath and his feet. "And he can recite

Homer?"

"Yes," he replied shakily, afraid now.

"Bring him to me."

"Oh, please Mistress! Not my son!" Jason threw

himself to her sandaled feet. "You have my

most deepest apologies for--"

He trailed off as Denara picked her feet up and

out from under him with an air of disgust,

folding her legs beside her. "You will not bury

your son. You have my word on that," Denara

assured.
The man stood but paused, hesitant.

"Is my word not enough to end your fears?" she

asked.

"Of course it is enough," Jason answered. He

hurried out of the room.

"Of course it is," Denara repeated reflect fully.

"Of course it is."

Jason returned shortly, pushing his son before

him. The latter looked to be about eighteen

years of age. Denara had become quite adept

at placing ages on faces and figures. Back

then; he should have been married off years

ago. Denara pondered this curiously for half a

moment as she stood. “What is your name?”

she asked.

“Alexander,” he replied, bowing slightly.

“After Alexander of Macedon?”

Jason remained silent. His son glanced at him

and hesitated before replying, “I like to think

so.”

Denara too looked to Jason in his silence. The

contrast of his fear-smell with his son’s lack

thereof was almost overwhelming. She was not

yet used to scenting emotion, a result of her

death and rebirth, a variation of Arian’s Dark

Gift. “You may leave us, Jason,” she said finally.

Jason glanced at her anxiously, if briefly. The

man had yet to meet her eyes. He was wise in

that respect.

“My word?” Denara raised her eyebrows.

“Return in ten minutes.”

“Yes, Mistress,” Jason complied, bowing his way

out of the room.

Denara studied Alexander, sizing him up. When

her eyes reached his, he did not look away.

Never before had he seen such eyes—a deep

green rimmed in almost black, glinting harshly

in the candlelight. Denara smiled slightly to

herself. The boy had courage; foolish courage,

but courage nonetheless.

“Come here,” she said slowly, unblinkingly, not

letting his eyes slip from hers.

Alexander obeyed, transfixed by her gaze. He

stood before her now, perhaps a foot away, still

searching in those eyes.

“Answer me truthfully: why does your father

not permit you to marry the woman you love?”

Reading minds was Arian’s Dark Gift, yet she

could receive thoughts, ideas, through one’s

emotions as well as he could read them.

“She was a prostitute,” Alexander replied

mechanically.

“And she is no longer?”

“No.”

“Do you love her?”

“I--” Alexander somehow tore his gaze away

from Denara and studied his feet intently. “I do.

With all of my hear, every fiber of my being—“

“She’s nothing,” Denara interrupted, leaning

towards him.

“Don’t say that! She--”

Denara’s kiss silenced him. He resisted at first;

they always did. But she held him still in her

arms until he finally gave in. The Thirst pulled

at Denara, begged her to take him now, let the

life reenter her veins. Yet she waited, sending

him visions as Arian had taught her. Make it life

to the end, extend it, draw it out so they do not

know death is near until it comes, he always

said. So Denara gave him the images he

wanted to see, him marrying and fucking his

beloved little whore, earning his way into high

society, becoming a Roman senator, all

meaningless notions to her. When the time was

right, she let her lips travel to Alexander’s neck

and finally, gently, pressed her teeth into his

jugular, fulfilling her Thirst at long last. He

shuddered against her, the last of his life

flowing into her. His body now cold, she let him

fall to the floor, wiping the blood from her chin.

Sensing more than seeing someone at the

door, she turned and confirmed Arian’s

presence. She knelt next to her victim, biting

her wrist to offer Alexander its precious gift of

new life.

“What are you doing?” Arian asked before she

could place her wrist to Alexander’s lips.

“I told his father that he wouldn’t bury his son.

I keep my word,” Denara replied.

“You have already,” Arian said. He slid

something heavy into the room.

Denara tilted her head to see Jason’s body at

Arian’s feet. She smiled endearingly at him and

dropped her arm back to her side, letting the

wound heal it-self.

“Come,” Arian said. “We must leave this place

now. I grow tired of Rome, and I believe Rome

grows tired of us.”

Denara, obedient, joined him at the door.

“Where will we go?” she asked as Arian

wrapped an arm around her.

“North, I think,” Arian said. They stood in

silence, sharing their Warmth. Soon they were

but two cold immortals on their way to a new

place and new Warmth, leaving more than two

corpses Cold behind them.

Denara and Arian traveled north over the

course of several decades, watching the fall of

Rome the way mortals watched a sunset. They

saw Byzantium rise and grow as it wrested land

back from the Germanic Barbarians.

Constantine built his Constantinople, and

Roman emperor-deities gave way to

caesaropapism as Christian emperors cited

divine sanction for their reign and immersed

themselves in not only politics, but

ecclesiastical affairs as well.

Arian kept their coffers full, rising through the

Byzantine bureaucracy by his wit and intellect.

The empire passed to Justinian and Theodora,

and Arian worked his way in with them, sharing

a background of poverty and hard work, which

Arian fictionalized to serve his means. Several

years passed until one night, when Arian

brought Denara to meet Justinian and

Theodora. Women, at the time, rarely came

into the male realm of politics and the state,

and accordingly, Denara caused quite a stir

with her appearance in the emperor’s court.

“Have you ever tasted royal blood?” Arian

whispered to Denara as they proceeded

towards Justinian on his throne.

“That was your purpose in all of this?” Denara

replied.

“We cannot live solely on the money.”

Denara patted his arm but did not speak, as

they had come into earshot of Justinian and his

wife.

Arian bowed deeply three times before kissing

the imperial hands and feet as was due.

Denara stood still, studying this mortal in his

deep purple robes and ridiculously jeweled

crown. Arian glared back at her, a question in

his blue eyes. She returned a quick look that

only Arian could interpret. He nodded slightly.

Guards inched towards Denara. She held her

ground, locking her eyes onto Justinian’s.

“Stop,” the emperor ordered of the guards,

looking bemused. What nerve this woman had!

Nonetheless, she had piqued his interest.

“Cantinius,” he addressed Arian, for that was

the name he went by at the time, “who is this

woman who does not humble herself before

me?”

“Her name is--” Arian began.

“Almora,” Denara cut in. Arian did not need to

speak for her.

Arian gave her a false look of disapproval. “She

forgets her place.”

Denara dropped into a deep curtsy. “And she is

highly honored to be in your Highness’’

presence.”

“Tell me, Almora,” Justinian said, “have you

ever seen the splendor of Hagia Sofia when it is

lit by lamps?”

“No, I have not,” Denara replied. “I have yet to

visit Hagia Sofia at all.”

“Then I should like to show it to you

personally,” Justinian announced, rising.

“Come.” He descended his throne, took Denara

by the hand, and began to lead her out of the

throne room.

“Husband?” Theodora called after him. “May I

show Cantinius your personal library?”

“Do as you will, Theodora,” Justinian replied

without turning back.

There was no love in his voice, nor could

Denara smell any on him. It was saddening, for

she could make out traces of love lost long ago

as a result of this man’s newfound power and

responsibility. She sighed deeply and wished

the blood she shard with Arians did not prevent

from scenting his emotions.

==*==

“It is magnificent,” Denara breathed, gazing up

at one of the domes of the church of Hagia

Sofia. “Holy wisdom,” she translated. The gold,

silver, and jewels inset in the walls glittered in

the light of hundreds of lamps, blinking like

stars fallen from the heavens.

“Indeed,” Justinian replied, following her gaze.

Denara looked to Justinian, his neck extended

upwards. There was the opportunity—would

she take it? The Thirst told her to, commanded

it of her, but Denara ignored it. “I must be

leaving. I make it a point to be home before

dawn.”

“I can have you taken to your residence,”

Justinian offered.

Denara shook her head. “It is a beautiful night.

I shall walk. It is not far to go.”

“Very well,” Justinian said. He accompanied her

to the door. Here he paused. “They say these

doorframes cure miraculously.”

Denara stroked the smooth stone. The

doorframe would not miraculously cure Death,

or even the Cold. She smiled sadly, turned

away from Justinian and his royal blood, and

set out for what was home at present.

==*==

Arian was waiting for her. “Did you--”

“No,” she interrupted. “I couldn’t kill him.” She

dropped onto the arm of his chair.

“Nor could I kill Theodora.” Arian sighed. “Her

thoughts…she has a brilliant mind. It didn’t

seem…right.”

“I scented something on Justinian. Perhaps it

was…hope? I know not,” Denara said. “What

has happened to us?” she asked suddenly,

turning her face to Arian’s.

“What do you mean?” Arian asked.

“We kill indiscriminately, whether we chose our

victims or not. What changed that tonight?”

Denara elaborated.

“I don’t know, Denara. I just don’t know.” Arian

looked sadly at Denara, trying in vain to read

her thoughts. He gave up, shaking his head. “I

fear I have been careless tonight due to the

Thirst. Justinian’s Corpus iuris civilis will have

me dead if I am found out. I would reveal our

true nature if I am put to death. I cannot let

that happen. We will leave tomorrow night.”

“Byzantium will not last anyway,” Denara

replied. “We learned the limits of self-

sustenance from Rome. But I doubt Byzantium

has.”
“Have we learned our personal limits of self-

sustenance, as you say?” Arian asked.

“Have we?” Denara questioned.

“Ask me something I know the answer to for

once,” Arian scolded.

“Fine. Do you love me?” She was afraid of what

he might say, but she had no cause to fear.

That night, Arian’s actions spoke more in reply

than his words ever could have.

It was a warm, surreal summer night, and the

kind of night when the dry air almost crackles

with electricity as crickets chirp a melancholy

serenade to the moon and anything else that

will listen. Denara and Arian sought solitude

atop a prominent hill overlooking the small

town that, for the past week, had been home.

Denara sat propped against an ancient oak, the

seeming sentry of the village. Arian laid with

his head in Denara’s lap, looking almost

peaceful for once, his eyes closed to the

stretching tree branches above them.

“I think there is one thing I don’t know about

you,” Denara said abruptly, shattering the

silence around them.

“Just one?” Arian asked without opening his

eyes.

“Yes,” Denara confirmed. “I do not know how

you became a vampire.”

Arian sat up suddenly. “Why would you need to

know such a thing?” he snapped.

Denara reached out to him and gently laid a

hand on his shoulder, expecting him to pull

away. Instead, he softened beneath her touch,

releasing a sigh that seemed to come from the

depths of his soul.

“I did not mean to be short with you,” Arian

apologized quietly, turning to look over his

shoulder at Denara. “I do not like to bring up

that time of my life.

“Then I shall not press you,” Denara replied,

lowering her eyes. She settled back against the

tree and Arian again rested his head in her lap.

He searched her face with his icy blue eyes as

she idly stroked his dark hair.

Arian closed his eyes again. He did not need to

look at Denara to know what he should do.

Catching Denara’s hand, he pressed it to his

lips before enclosing it in his own hand and

bringing it to rest on his chest. “It was fifty

years before I made you what you are. He

called himself Osiris, and I should have known

better.”

“You do not have to--” Denara began in protest.

“Shh,” Arian hushed her. “It is time I told

someone.”

“My father and mother had been fully initiated

into the cults of Osiris and Isis, respectively.

They denied the existence of their formerly

beloved gods and goddesses: Bast, Anubis,

even Amun Ra himself. They would not allow

my sisters or me to worship as we chose,

keeping us prisoners of their religious craze,

always attracting the wrong kind of attention to

themselves. It had come to the point where we

had to take to hiding to avoid the Pharaoh’s

detection.

“One night when my father and I were at the

Temple of Osiris, a man entered claiming to be

Osiris Incarnate. We were skeptical, of course.

But he drank the blood offerings we made to

Osiris and did not incur the god’s wrath. He

even demonstrated how he could bring the

newly dead back to life.

“Fools that we were, we believed. We believed,

Denara. In the weeks that followed, more and

more people began to believe that this man

was indeed the reincarnated Osiris. He began

to request human offerings, and we provided

them. At first we gave to him criminals and

beggars off the streets, but this did not satisfy

him. Then he cajoled my father into offering

our family: my mother, my two sisters, my

father, and myself.

“The night that it was our time, we stood

before him in varying mentalities. My mother

and sisters accepted this self-sacrifice as a way

to honor Isis by succumbing to her husband,

Osiris. My father was eager to make the

ultimate display of loyalty. And I—I will not lie,

Denara, not about this—I was afraid. I knew

something about this was not right, yet I was

powerless to stop it.

“I was the last. I had to listen to their screams.

I had to watch them all die, their blood drawn

out to feed this…this… blood-drinker. I refuse

to even call him a vampire, you see.

“I stood there watching them die and doing

nothing. For the first and only time I remember,

I was…helpless.

“Once my father was Cold, Osiris Incarnate

came for me. I tried to run from him, but he

was too fast, full of new young blood yet

craving more, craving my blood. He caught me

easily, ripped my throat open, all the while

sending me visions of my family in their final,

dying moments of sheer hell and torture—not

the pleasant visions as I have taught you to

show. I was killed before he drained me of my

blood.

“When he offered me his blood, I had not the

strength to resist. It wasn’t my choice to

become what I am, and you must remember

that. But remember also that I have come to

accept it. You fail to realize that not everyone

had the experience you did in your Taking.”

Arian finally opened his eyes. “So now you

know.”

“Oh Arian,” Denara breathed. Never before had

she considered Arian capable of this pain, this

fear. Her thoughts were interrupted as she

caught a scent on the night breeze. “Arian…”

she trailed warningly. “Hate,” she said,

determining the emotion.

Arian rose swiftly to his feet, pulling Denara

with him, still clutching her hand. “It is one who

hunts me,” he said after a moment. It took him

some time to read thoughts of minds not in

close proximity.

“Hunts us?”

“No. Hunts me.”

“Arian…”

“Denara, I want you to run. Now.”

“What about you?”

“I must face him.”

“Not alone!”

“He doesn’t want you. He wants me.”

“I will not leave you here to die alone!”

“I am not asking you to leave me to die. I’m

asking you to leave me for you to live!”

“Arian, this is foolishness!”

“Denara, please. Go! I will find you again!” he

said urgently, releasing her hand.

“I can’t!”

“You must!”

Denara looked at him, confused and upset,

shaking her head stubbornly.

“Go. Run!”

Her eyes begged with his as tears welled up

and threatened to fall. But she knew this

resolution. Hating herself for obeying, she

turned and ran, leaving Arian to face alone

what he refused to face with her.

Two hundred and sixty years passed since that

night, and Denara had yet to see Arian. She

knew he had not been killed, though she did

not understand how she could be so sure of

this. Denara continued on with her life, and

while she did not give up on finding Arian

again, he was not first in her mind with so

much to consider about her survival and

secrecy.

After Charlemagne had come Louis the Pious, a

failure militarily and politically compared to his

predecessor. But Denara had come to know

exactly how to manipulate politics and failures

to her advantage. Thus, when the Carolingian

Empire finally dissolved in 843, she found

herself with a sizeable piece of land, though no

records would ever show her as the owner.

The lords of manors such as Denara’s relied

heavily on Roman military tactics and forming

complex alliances with other nobles.

Accordingly, Denara was in good standing

despite being female. She had learned much

from Rome and its troubles, and she had come

to be quite admired and quite a figure of

mystery, leaving the confines of her Manor

house only at night and never seen in daylight

hours.

At night she would walk her Manor, her Ibizian

hound at her side. The serfs were required to

be inside their houses by nine each night. In

fact, serfs rarely saw Denara, if ever. She had

her retainers deal with all but the most

pressing feudal matters. If the serfs saw her

only at night, they would talk, and Denara

knew silence and absence were better than

talk and sporadic presence.

This night was like any other as Denara and her

hound strode through the fields and meadows

and forests of the estate. All was well here for

now, yet Denara worried of the rise of

monasticism now that Christians were not

persecuted to such an extent, as they had

been earlier in her immortality. Religious

movements were never to her advantage.

Denara turned down a small path amidst the

serfs’ houses. At her side, the hound growled

suddenly, a warning sound unaccompanied by

the usual raising of hackles. She opened

herself to the scents of emotions, having

learned how to temporarily unemploy her Dark

Gift a year or so after leaving Arian to his

hunter.

The dog growled again and Denara scented the

air. Fear. She wrinkled her nose. Unnecessary

fear was a detestable smell. In the pitch-black,

moonless night, Denara could see a girl

running towards her unknowingly. The ability to

see perfectly in the dark was another gift of the

immortal blood in her, and a useful one at that.

Denara hushed the dog and stood silently,

watching the girl. The girl looked back over her

shoulder just as she ran into Denara. She

staggered backwards, emitting even more of

the fear scent. Denara caught her by the

shoulders, bending down to the child’s level.

“What might a girl like you be doing out at

night? You look old enough to know my rules

for serfs,” Denara said.

The girl gasped. “Lady Amelia,” she breathed,

for that was the name Denara went by at the

time.

“Well? Answer my question, girl.”

“I was running.”

“I saw that. From what?”

“I-I should not say.”

“Come, you must tell me. Perhaps I can help

you,” Denara coaxed, trying to catch the girl’s

eyes with hers. The girl refused to meet

Denara’s eyes, as would be proper of a serf at

the time. Denara could not smell reluctance on

this girl. This puzzled her immensely.

“If I tell, my father will only hit me more and--”

the girl cut off suddenly, knowing she had said

too much.
“Your father hits you?” Denara asked. She was

not unaccustomed to the evils of which

humans were capable.

“No. Yes. No—I am sorry my lady. I must go

home.”

“I thought you were running from home,”

Denara said.

“I will go back. And I will accept any

punishment for being out this late,” the girl

replied.

“What is your name?”

“Ilissa.”

“Ilissa, I want for you to come to me the next

time your father so much as thinks of hurting

you or your mother and sisters. Yes, I know

about them. Do not look so surprised. But do

you understand me? Any time at all, you

come.”

Ilissa nodded.

Denara shook her head. “You must promise.”

“I promise,” Ilissa said. Denara released the girl

and she ran back the way she had come.

Denara and the hound turned as one back to

the Manor house.

The next day, Ilissa came to Denara as she was

waiting for dusk. During the daylight hours,

Denara would retreat to the cellar of the Manor

house. Here she had had a winding hallway

created that led to a large, windowless

chamber. Doors stood every ten feet

throughout the hallway as a precaution against

sunlight. Only one of her house servants was

allowed to come to the chamber during the day

if the need arose. His name was Noah, and

while he did not know what Denara was, he did

know better than to ask questions. In this way,

he fetched himself a comfortable living.

And so, as dusk fell, Noah led Ilissa down the

twisted cellar corridor, closing each door as

soon as they had passed through. He knocked

cautiously on the last door. “My lady, there is a

girl here to see you,” he announced.

“Let her in and wait outside the door,” Denara

called drowsily, having just awoken.

Noah pushed open the door and Ilissa stepped

into the darkness reluctantly. As soon as she

entered, the door closed resolutely behind her.

Denara could see the girl perfectly in the

darkness of the chamber, but out of

consideration for the girl, she lit a single

candle. This she did quickly, so she would not

let the flame climb to her pale fingers. She

shook out the match and threw it into a basin

of water.

“What did he do?” she asked finally.

The girl closed her eyes as if even saying this

pained her. “He hit me for running away. And

he overheard me telling my mother about you

and he hit us both.”

Denara sighed. She was about to speak when

she heard the slightest noise outside the door.

She opened herself to scenting the emotions

outside and found only fury. Noah was Cold.

The door burst open and a man stalked in. He

passed Ilissa and slapped her without so much

as a backward glance. She fell to the floor,

pleading for her father to stop, to not hurt Lady

“Amelia”.

“What the hell did she tell you?” he demanded

of Denara.

Denara calmly told him everything.

“She lies!” She makes up these stories to get

attention!” the man protested.

Denara turned to Ilissa. “Go. This is between

me and your father now.”

Ilissa ran for the door.

“And do not step in Noah’s blood. He was a

good man,” Denara added. She turned back to

Ilissa’s father.

“I have never laid a hand on my wife or

daughters!” he yelled. “Ilissa lies!”

Denara shook her head. “You see,” she began,

walking around the man slowly. “I know when

people are lying to me. I can smell it coming off

them in waves. And you are the one lying to

Me.”

“How dare you accuse me of being false!” the

man growled. He drew a dagger, still red with

Noah’s blood and threw himself at Denara.

She caught his arm, and in a manner of

seconds pushed it backwards to this throat and

slid it across his jugular. The man fell gasping

to the floor, crimson blood bubbling a sadistic

pink at his throat as he tried to draw breath.

Denara picked up his dying body and let the

blood flow through her mouth and into her

veins, giving her Warmth again. She threw the

body carelessly to the floor. The next morning

they would find the corpses of two men in the

chamber, one drained of his blood, and

numerous other bodies in the Manor’s

dungeons.

Wiping the back of her hand across her chin,

Denara half-smiled. “Waste not.”

“So you stopped running,” the man said.

“So you finally caught up,” Arian corrected.

The two stood less than a meter from each

other, neither moving. Arian folded his arms,

his back rigidly straight. As a child, he had

always had good posture. His sisters, Anubis

guards their hearts, were the ones who instilled

this in him. They told him to carry himself

regally even if he never amounted to anything

near regal. How one presented oneself was

everything, they said. “Well, good sir,” he said

finally, “are you going to stand there staring

forever?”

“I never thought it would come to this. I never

thought I would come face to face with you--”

“Oh, so you imagined staking me in the back?

Or perhaps as I slept….” Arian took a step

forward.

His hunter stepped back, maintaining the

distance between them. “I--”

“You are a coward,” Arian said simply.

“I am not!”

“Yet you have not tried to kill me even as we

stand so close.”

“I am no coward!” the man repeated.

“Then kill me. Here, a free shot! Take your

aim!” Arian flung wide his arms.

The man looked horrified at first, but his look

turned quickly to one of resolve. A silver-plated

stake clenched in his hand, he approached

Arian warily. The tip of the stake touched

Arian’s cloak.

“Wait,” Arian said. The hunter froze. “I want to

know the name of the man who finally killed

me.” Of course this was all for show. Arian

knew everything about this man, even that he

had no real desire to kill Arian, and instead had

a strange curiosity in Arian’s state of being.

Unfortunately, the man had to die. Letting him

live would only complicate things.

“They call me Lazarus,” the man said.

Arian laughed at this. Amusing, the name the

man had just chosen for himself. Did he expect

Arian to notice the allusion and make it truth?

The man drew back his arm to deliver a fatal

blow to the heart.

Arian disappeared as the man brought the

stake down. The hunter spun around, searching

for Arian’s form in the darkness. Cold hands

seized his head, forcing it sharply to the side.

Lazarus fell to the ground, neck broken.

Arian eyed the man nonchalantly. “Her lies one

Lazarus who will not rise again.” He crossed

himself in the way the Christians did. “I am no

Christ,” he spat bitterly.

“Milord?”

The boy’s voice drew Arian from his thoughts.

His eyes flashed in irritation. “What is it?” he

snapped.
“My mother sent me to fetch you. She says you

will catch cold in the rain.”

Arian suddenly noticed the precipitation as it

dented the river below his feet as they dangled

off the bridge. He stood quickly. How long had

he been sitting here, lingering over memories

like a fool mortal? He knew better than any

that the past could not be undone by holding

onto it. “Lesser beings might ‘catch cold’,”

Arian scoffed.

“Milord?” the boy enquired, confused.

“Tell me, child. Have you ever thought of being

immortal? Of having eternal life?”

“Eternal life? Perhaps through Christ--”

Arian waved him off absently. “Suppose there

is no Christ?”

“Then I guess death is the end.”

The Thirst tugged at Arian, though he had fed

just the night before. It was something about

the boy’s thoughts that drew his intrigue as he

read them, trying to keep pace with their

rapidity. Perhaps Arian should show him death

did not have to be the end?

No. He shook his head firmly. “Get on home. I

will not be returning with you. I cannot stay

here any longer. Thank your mother for her

hospitality.” Not as if she had had a choice.

“Milord?” the boy asked again, but Arian was

already gone.
One hundred twenty years later, Arian was still

searching for Denara. He was becoming

careless again, and quite without meaning to.

For some reason he did not quite understand,

he would kill his chosen victims but not drink of

their blood, leaving them to rot where they fell,

never thinking twice about them. He gave up

reading mortal thoughts, finding them frivolous

and, quite frankly, boring. It had now been so

long since he last used his Dark Gift that, had

he not known it was impossible, he would have

feared forgetting how to use it.

Truth be told, he was lonely. It was not

company Arian lacked; with his wit and his

looks and his charm, he was never without a

slew of paltry women hanging on his every

word, attending to his every need. But it was

Denara he wanted—no, needed—and they

could not give him that. In all his searching, he

had not found so much as another Walking

vampire. The few he found underground in Rest

he dared not awaken to satisfy his need for

companionship of his own kind, of those who

understood.

In 962, the Catholics’ Pope John XII proclaimed

Otto of Saxony emperor, thus creating what

Adolph Hitler would later call the First Reich—

the Holy Roman Empire. But, as Virgil would tell

Arian in France in later centuries, the Holy

Roman Empire was “neither holy, nor Roman,

nor an empire.” Arian could not disagree.

Constant fighting plagued the land, but not the

kind that killed men. Religious leaders and

political leaders found like Siamese fighting fish

in the same puddle of a rice paddy. It was

enough to drive Arian away from politics for

once. The meddlesome Church made him wary

as it was. He became a merchant and made a

handsome living in dealing death.

He looked down behind him at the body

sprawled out on the bed, Cold. Her father was

one of his business associates. No doubt he

would put a price on Arian’s head once he

discovered his precious daughter dead,

wrapped in blood-soaked sheets.

Arian had wasted no time in killing her, though

he had not intended to do so initially. But the

look in her eyes had been pure carnal desire;

almost the bloodlust Denara’s eyes would take

on when the Thirst took her. Mortals were not

supposed to have that look! It had sickened

him to the point where he had almost vomited

up the girl’s blood, but he had forced it back

down his throat. He had not been feeding

regularly, even when the Thirst coursed

through every fiber of his body and he quivered

any time a mortal came within so much as a

mile of him. Arian was getting weaker, but by

no means weak in the mortal sense of the

word. He had needed the girl’s blood. It pulsed

in his veins, but the Warmth had no effect on

his melancholically frigid mood.

Straightening his cloak, he headed for the door,

sparing one glance back for the girl. She looked

peaceful. Arian felt a desperate longing to

remember what it felt like to be peaceful. With

Denara, he had come close to peace, or what

he thought was peace. Were could she be? It

was not fair that he did not know where to find

her, his own creation, his own love!

He decided there and then that if he could not

be near Denara, he needed to be near her

Essence, the little piece of her mortality

trapped in the air of the place where she had

been taken, where he had taken her. It had

been long, long ago under the statue of Nero

near the great Coliseum that he had stolen her

mortality to feed his lack thereof. Arian sighed.

Was he regretting what he had done to

Denara? Should he have let her die like all the

others?

No.

Arian looked up immediately. He found himself

halfway to the livery stable where he had left

his horse. The streets were empty. Reluctantly,

he reopened his mind to intercepting mortal

thought. Still nothing. But he felt something,

some intangible thing swirling in the air. He

spun around, hopelessly trying to find the, the

thing that was in his head and everywhere

around him all at once. Finally he stood still,

cursing himself for his foolery. It is the blood,

he reasoned. I am not used to it.

You have always been used to it, Child of

Darkness.

Arian hung his head, clenching his hands into

fists. “Why must my mind torment me so?” he

demanded of the still night air.

It is not your mind, Child of Darkness. Find your

creation and return to Romania. Know that I

have called you, Arian. Know and obey.

Arian lifted his head again. He continued down

the street, purpose renewed. Three longings

filled him now; one for Denara, the next for

blood and more blood running through his

body, and the third to follow the commands of

the thing in the air and his mind.

So this, he thought, is what it feels like to be

summoned.

It was midnight, and technically the first

morning of the new millennium. Arian was

watching the statue of Nero from the window in

the room of an inn as he had been for the past

month. Never yet had he approached it

directly. He took roundabout routes to find his

victims and to return to the inn. Arian felt

foolish, having longed to arrive here and seek

out Denara’s Essence, and not having done so

yet.
 This night was different. He found himself

drawn to the Flavian Amphitheatre, the name

by which the Coliseum was once called, and its

accompanying statue.

It occurred to him now how ironic it was

that he had Taken Denara here, under the

colossus of Nero as the god of the sun. He

walked slowly around the bronze statue,

surveying its every detail with his enhanced

vision. Arian stopped in front of it, gazing up at

the once emperor.

Something moved, and Arian looked down.

A figure became visible at Nero’s feet, her

knees drawn up to her chest and encircled by

her arms. She tilted her chin up to look at

Arian. “What took you so long?”

Denara rose silently and stepped away

from the state. In the starlight she was just as

Arian remembered her, dreamed her. Having

just fed, she still had the living color in her

flesh, her usually pale face seeming to be

flushed slightly. She stood very still now, a

meter or so from him, decked out in the finery

of the age. Her dark hair fell loose in wisps

around her face, pulled along by the night

breeze. Here she felt mortal again, atop her

very Essence. She remembered that night long

ago when she was but a mortal of twenty-eight

years, out late again with her insomnia, for

weeks having dreamt of this maddeningly

beautiful creature coming to take her from the

tedium of her mortal life. Nero’s statue had

cast a shadow long over her in the moonlight.

A man had stepped out of the shadows. She

remembered it now.

“You are the one from my dreams,” she

said softly, unafraid, for in this man, this

creature, who could find fear?

“Yes,” he replied simply in a voice that

coaxed her to answer.

“I thought they were but dreams--”

“Never,” he interrupted, “undervalue your

dreams.”
 “Your name is Arian,” she said. “You asked

me to join you every night for the past three

weeks and always just before I was to answer, I

would awaken.”

“Nothing can awaken you now that you are

already awake. Do you have an answer for me

now?”

She nodded.

“And what is it, Denara? What is your

answer?” he asked in that hypnotic voice, so

full of pain and ecstasy all at once.

“Yes. A thousand times, yes.”

No longer could Arian bear her staring at

him in silence. He reached out to her, took her

in his arms, held her tight against his Cold

body, the last of her Warmth ebbing away and

into him. She wrapped her arms around his

neck, laying her head on his shoulder, her

breath cool on his skin. He let his vampire

nature take over and again marred Denara’s

throat as he felt the pinch of her eyeteeth in

his own pale neck. They stood as one,

connected by blood, bound together anew by

this crimson contract.

Arian stiffened suddenly. With his Longing

for Denara and blood assuaged, the third

Longing took stronger hold of him. Denara

backed away from him and looked into his eyes

anxiously. “What is it?” she asked in a low tone,

studying his face. She could see a Longing in

his eyes, and it worried her.

“I have been summoned.”

Her eyes widened. “Your creator was

summoned. He never came back to you.”

“For that I am glad, Denara.”

“I know this, Arian. But I would not be glad

if you never came back.”

“You are to come with.”

Denara looked down at their joined hands.

“We must go to Romania,” Arian said.

She looked back up at him and blinked

slowly, thoughtfully, before nodding

Before the sun rose that evening, Denara

and Arian sought refuge in Rome’s catacombs.

Though it was quite different from the daytime

arrangements they usually had, the depths of

the winding passageways would prove

impermeable to the daylight. They walked

cautiously through the catacombs as if they

might wake the dead with any noise. Denara

could not help but to feel uncomfortable with

this sacrilege of Christian burial grounds,

having herself been a Christian before she was

Taken.

They soon reached the very end of the

labyrinth-like halls of death, a dead end where

the shelves of rock were ironically empty of the

prevalent yellowed, ancient bones. Denara felt

the sun break over the horizon and watched

Arian drift off to sleep. Being younger than him,

she could stay awake a little longer. But soon

she felt her eyes close and her body relaxes

into the deepest sleep next to death.

She stood in a valley enclosed by mountains

gray and harsh. The sky was tinged pink in the

east; above, it was a gentle violet. She knew

what that meant. Why wasn’t she inside? Why

was she here? Where was here exactly?

Denara turned her head at a rustle of silk

to her left. Beside and slightly behind her stood

a man she had never seen before. It was clear

he was a vampire, but she could not scent his

emotions as she could for any vampire or

mortal not somehow related through the

crimson contract to Arian and thus, herself.

“Child of Darkness,” the man said in a

voice like crumbling leather and rotting autumn

leaves. “Would you like to walk in the light?”

Denara felt the first half-rays of the sun

touch her flesh, felt her eyes burn as if she

were with fever. The pain now was

excruciating. In a few minutes it would be

unbearable. She shook her head violently and

tried to run, but remained rooted to the

ground.

The vampire laughed, a sickening noise

more full of sadism than humor. “Come, don’t

be foolish.” He brought a long fingernail to his

wrist and let the blood trickle down his arm.

The Thirst took Denara suddenly, and she

was drawn to the blood. But her mind fervently

refused to allow her to satisfy the Thirst.

“Never from an immortal other than myself,”

Arian had warned her long ago. He had made

her swear.

She had laughed and asked why. Arian

would not reply; he just looked at her gravely.

Her smile faded and she had returned his

serious gaze, understanding what he asked of

her.

The vampire interrupted her thoughts. “Ah,

the sun. I hope you enjoy its Warmth.” The

creature disappeared as the sun found its way

over the mountaintops.

Denara darted back into wakefulness. She

must have cried out, for Arian was sitting up

beside her, his eyes full of concern. She buried

her face in his chest and he held her close until

again she fell into fitful slumber.

Denara ran lightly down the twisted stone

staircase, one of countless many in this

formerly abandoned castle. Her last victim was

now in the moat below the highest parapet, the

ripples from the corpse’s fall still scrambling

the moon’s reflection into shards of light. With

bare feet, she padded down the carpeted hall,

the hanging portraits watching her

unblinkingly. She paid them no mind, turning at

the end of the hall to another corridor leading

to Arian’s study.

“Arian, I am bored of this place,” she

complained as she opened the door to the

room and entered.

“Denara, not now. Do you not know that I

have a guest?” Arian replied from an armchair

before the fire.

“I know,” she said, observing the mortal

seated opposite Arian. Crossing her arms, she

sank into another chair and pouted, “And I do

not care.”
 “Denara, now is not the time,” Arian

continued quietly, raising his eyebrows.

“There is plenty of time. In fact, there is so

much time and so little to do that I grow

desperately weary of this place,” Denara

retorted.

“I will speak to you about this later. I have

business to attend to,” Arian said, turning his

attention back to the mortal. “Continue.”

Denara watched the pair in their

negotiation for a time, not paying much

attention to either Arian or this man and

whatever it was he was saying. Would Arian

really ignore her this way? The longer she sat

there, the more likely it seemed to be so. She

stood finally, silent in black velvet, and strode

out of the study, slamming the door behind

her.

To her quarters she returned, with no hint

of Arian following after her, not that she had

expected him to do so. I would be out of

character for Arian to respond to outbursts,

and it was out of Denara’s character to have

one. But it was something about this place that

disrupted Denara. They had been in Romania

for at least five years since Arian’s Longing had

led them there, and now he had yet to receive

further Summons. And so they waited. For

what, Denara did not know, and she was fairly

confident Arian did not know either.

 Denara had gone into her room and now

drew back the curtains around the bed with

such force that she almost pulled them down.

She barely noticed.

She lay back on the pillows, staring at the

plain stone ceiling and thinking of nothing.

Soon she heard footsteps amongst what she

had deemed “ambient perpetual noises”, doors

closing and opening, echoes of dripping water,

creaking wood, and the like. Arian was showing

the mortal out. Strange that he had not killed

him.

Arian’s footsteps traveled to her room. He

knocked lightly, fully knowing that she would

have heard him coming. “Denara,” he called.

 Denara did not reply. Let him understand

through this.

Arian opened the door. He came in and

towards Denara, perching himself on the edge

of the bed. Denara rolled over, pressing her

face into the pillows.

“You must forgive me. I had to take care of

some things. The man was nervous enough as

it was before you came in. But you probably

scented that.”

“What ‘things’?” Denara mumbled into the

cushion.

“Some things,” Arian repeated. “They are

not important.”
 “Yet more important than I, obviously.”

Denara knew she was being selfish and childish

now, and again she did not care.

“Denara, listen--”

“No, Arian. You listen,” Denara interrupted,

righting herself and sitting up. “I would tell you

a story now, of a vampire who loved her maker

more than anything and would follow him

anywhere and trust him with every pint of

stolen blood in her veins. And this vampire

grew tired of waiting for something—perhaps

nothing—to happen despite her creator’s faith.

And I would tell the story, but I do not know

how it ends yet. How would you like it to end,

Arian?”
 For a moment, Arian studied her face,

running a hand through his hair. “I have been

avoiding this for too long,” he said finally, half

to himself. “I have determined that I was

summoned by one of the Elders. When that

happens, one is drawn to a general location.

Once there, it is up to the vampire to find the

one who has summoned him within ten years. I

do not know why. That is the way it is and has

always been.

“I have been searching for the Elder that

summoned me since we arrived and I have yet

to find so much as a trace of him in this

country. So I have hired the little mortal to find

him for me.”

 “Why the mortal?”

“He is a hunter. Still concealing our true

nature, I told him to find any vampires he could

and report to me about them so I might study

them in their ‘natural environment’.” Arian

laughed. “He will do it, and much faster than I

could, as he can Walk in the daylight.” He

looked at Denara, awaiting a reply.

“I need to go out,” Denara said, swinging

her legs over the side of the bed and sliding to

the floor. She stepped into her shoes and went

to the glass doors that opened out onto the

balcony. She pulled the doors ajar and stepped

out into the night. With a jump, she landed on

the balcony railing. She could feel Arian

standing behind her.

“No,” Denara said, not looking at him. “I

need to go alone.” And she stepped off the

railing.

Arian rested his hands on the gray stone

balcony railing as he watched Denara land

lightly on her feet and stride toward the livery

stable. It seemed he would never quite

understand Denara. One moment she would

demand his attention, and the next she would

push it off completely. And recently she had

been even more capricious than usual.

A throat was cleared behind him and he turned

quickly. "Argande," he addressed the vampire

Elder, bowing slightly.

"Why do you not tell her the truth, Arian?" he

asked in a voice like crumbling leather and

rotting autumn leaves. He came to stand

beside Arian in the light of a half moon. "Tell

her Argande the Elder has summoned you and

you have found him."

"It is not so simple," Arian replied, trying to

maintain a respectful tone of voice. He turned

to face the Elder, looking directly into his gray

eyes. "It would require me to indulge her with

the details of your Summons."

"Yet it must pain you to not complete the

simple task I ask of you," Argande said.

Arian shook his head.

"That can change."

Arian felt his insides wrench as if clasped

tightly in some invisible icy hand. He clutched

his abdomen, reeling in pain. As suddenly as

the torture had begun, it ended. Arian gasped

for breath, angry at this humiliation and that

Argande knew how to block his thoughts from

Arian so he could not have foreseen this. "I told

you already," Arian rasped, attempting to pull

himself off the stones. "I will not yield her to

you as if she were some possession of mine."

Argande pushed Arian back to the floor with his

foot. "I though I was doing you a service, Arian,

asking you first. I find your ingratitude

quite...distasteful." He smiled at some joke only

he understood before his features returned to

their pale stoniness.

Arian pushed Argande's foot from his chest and

leapt to his feet, baring his fangs. "Go ask her

yourself," he spat. "Trouble me no more with

your hierarchal nonsense."

"Nonsense? There is obviously much you do

not understand about our society, Arian,"

Argande replied smoothly as he climbed to the

balcony railing. "You would do best to

remember your place."

"After trying so hard to forget it?"

"You walk a fine line, Child of Darkness. My

benevolence alone permits me to forgive you

your statements tonight."

"By all means," Arian said resignedly as

Argande disappeared into the night, "do not."

Denara rode out far from the castle on her

small white mare. She needed to be alone now.

Time spent in Romania was passing slowly, and

she was beginning to feel as though Arian was

keeping something from her. She tried to

ignore all that now, and focus on her horse and

the crisp night air. In a valley surrounded by

mountains, she stopped her mare and

dismounted. A rustle of silk behind her made

her turn abruptly. Her horse danced nervously

at the end of its reins at the gaze of the newly

arrived man. Denara realized with a start that it

was the vampire from her dream in the

catacombs. “Child of Darkness,” the man said

in a voice like crumbling leather and rotting

autumn leaves. “Would you like to walk in the

Light?”

Denara glanced at the sky. “Dawn will not

come for another four hours,” she said.

The vampire laughed, a sickening noise more

full of sadism than humor. “Your dream was

merely a suggestion, not a prediction of the

future.”

“What do you want form me?” Denara asked,

soothing her horse with a pat on the nose.

“I come to ask you something, something

Arian would not answer for you.”

“Arian?”

“Yes. I summoned him.”

Denara’s eyes widened. “And he found you?”

“That is something you will need to discuss

with him,” the vampire replied. “Unless…”

“Unless what?” Denara asked bluntly.

“You join me.”

“What?”

“Join me. Together who know what we can do

to change our race.”

Denara eyed him warily. “Change is not always

good.”

Dragging a fingernail across his wrist, the

vampire let his blood trickle down his flesh.

Denara felt a pull to it, like the Thirst, but so

much stronger, so much more urgent.

Slowly, with difficulty, she turned away,

climbing back up on her horse.

“Think of what I m offering to you, a chance to

walk in the Light—to be the most powerful

creature the world has known!”

Denara shook her head, Arian’s words of

warning drumming in her brain. Never from an

immortal other than myself. “Dracula is the

most powerful creature the world has known

and will know. To suggest otherwise is treason,”

she hissed.

“Dracula is dead,” the vampire scoffed.

“Unseen for nearly three hundred years.”

“Unseen does not always mean dead. You have

my answer, now let me and Arian be.” She

kicked her horse to a canter, heading back to

the castle.

“Remember my offer! I will be waiting if ever

you change your mind,” the vampire called

after her.

Not looking back, Denara said to herself, “Do

not count on it.”

Denara walked slowly up the winding

staircase, quite unsure of how she should be

feeling, what she should be thinking. She

entered her quarters silently; sure that Arian

would not have moved since she left.

 Quietly, she sat down before her mirror and

picked up her silver-plated brush. “I am…

disappointed, Arian,” she said as she drew the

brush through her hair, tousled by the night

wind.

On the balcony, Arian started. He strode

into the room, closing the doors behind him.

“Denara….” Arian came to stand behind her,

watching they’re murky half-reflections in the

mirror.

“I-I must explain. I never intended--”

“How can you possibly know what I

meant?” Denara interrupted.

“Whatever you meant, I must explain. I

should never have kept this from you. I did find

the Elder who summoned me. His name is

Argande--”

“So that is his name,” Denara mused. “But

Arian, it is fine.”

“What?”

“I said, it is fine,” Denara repeated. She set

her brush down and rose to her feet,

attempting to circumvent Arian. He stopped

her, grabbing her hand.

“No, Denara. It is not fine. It is

unacceptable for me to--”

“Shh,” Denara hushed, putting a finger to

Arian’s lips. “I do not want to hear any more

about this. Is that clear?”

Arian nodded reluctantly.

 “Now come,” she said, tugging at his hand.

“The night is still young.”

“What are you reading?” Arian asked Denara,

seeing her in the library as he entered.

“Antigone,” she replied, not looking up

from her book.

“Socrates? I never did like that man. All he

wanted to do was study humans. Humans,

humans, humans, day in, day out. And he

never said what he meant, just asked these

ridiculous questions--”

“Arian,” Denara tried to interrupt.

“No, I am not done. He wanted everyone to

reflect on his or her purpose in life. I myself

have never found one. And I told him that

perhaps there was no purpose in life other than

to live it. Then he would ask me about death,

and what it would mean if there were no

purpose in life to be achieved before death.”

“Arian,” Denara tried again.

“The only thing that shut him up was the

hemlock--”

“Arian!”

“What?”

“Antigone is by Sophocles.”

“Oh.” Arian studied his hands. “Never

mind, then. I will be in the great room if you

need me.”

Later that evening, Denara walked down

the flight of stairs to the great room, another

book open in her hands. “‘…We may well hope

that death is a good thing. For the state of

death is one of two things,’” she read. “‘Either

the dead man wholly ceases to be and loses all

sensation; or…it is a change and a migration of

the soul unto another place. And if death is the

absence of all sensation, like the sleep of one

whose slumbers are unbroken by any dreams,

it will be a wonderful gain…For then it appears

that eternity is nothing more than a single

night.’”

Denara had made her way down the stairs

and was now pacing across the room, Arian

following her with pensive blue eyes.

 “‘But if death is a journey to another

place,’” she continued, “‘would a journey not

be worth taking if at the end of it…we should…

find the true judges who are said to sit in

judgment below? It would be an infinite

happiness to converse with them, and to live

with them, and to examine them…for besides

the other ways in which they are happier than

we are, they are immortal.’” She stopped

reading and looked at Arian.

He thought for a moment, and then

nodded. “Sophocles?”

Denara snapped the book shut and tossed

it to Arian. “Socrates.”
They went to Egypt, having no particular desire

to go anywhere else or stay in Romania.

Denara was surprised at how eager Arian had

been to return to his homeland. For centuries

he had refused to return in order to avoid the

vile demons of his past, but now he seemed to

acknowledge and accept them, or else fight

them back into the dark recesses of his mind.

They traveled as the nomads did, joining

caravans that utilized the cool desert nights to

cross the arid lands that would come to be

called the Sahara. Before the sun rose each

morning, Arian would manage to find some

sheltered cave or abandoned building in which

they might sleep. Soon, at least in their sense

of time, they arrived in Egypt, coming to stay

in an obscure burial valley used by the priests

and priestesses of ancient times.

As they slowly passed through the valley,

leading their camels, Arian scoured the sand

banks for the familiar hieroglyphics that

marked his tomb. He found them quickly, the

years not clouding his memory in the slightest.

“There,” he said, pointing to his burial site.

Denara handed her camel’s lead rope to

him and stepped closer to the sand, clearing it

quickly away from the stone slab sealing the

tomb. She looked back at Arian. He nodded and

she placed her hands on the slab, pushing it

aside with little effort. The scents of perfume

and incense reached out into the night before

being carried away by the breeze.

Arian left the camels and came to Denara’s

side.

“Will you go inside? We have come so far.”

“Yes,” Arian decided. “But I must hunt first.

The night will be cold if we do not feed.”

Denara nodded. “I will wait for you inside.”

They usually hunted alone, as it was. Without

another word, she slipped into the tomb,

sending another wave of perfume and incense

to Arian’s nostrils. Then he turned to the north

and was gone.

Denara turned in a circle inside the tomb,

marveling at the still-colorful hieroglyphics and

paintings on the walls, the solid gold statues,

the intricate design of Arian’s sarcophagus, the

sheer amount of effort worked into this place.

She gave a little sigh before setting herself to

making a fire. As beautiful as this tomb was in

the dark, it deserved to see light.

Fire was a risk, but one Denara was willing

to take. She was Cold after not feeding for two

days and needed some Warmth, even if its

source could destroy her. Light soon filled the

tomb, casting shadows on the walls and

glittering off the statues. Denara smiled at her

little creation and stood, letting the warmth

touch her skin. Then she began to dance, to

some inaudible music raging in the air. She

heard Arian enter; yet continued.

Arian watched her dance, her movements

swift and fluid and transfixing, movements no

mortal could imitate. Her shadow followed her,

growing and shrinking with the changing angle

of firelight on her body. To him it was both

torture and rapture at once to watch her.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Denara

stopped. Her gold bracelets clinked together as

her arms came to rest at her sides. The two

held each other’s eyes for a long moment.

“Did you feed?” Denara asked, breaking

the silent ring of music in the perfumed air.

 “There is a village not five miles north of

here,” he replied, nodding.

“Good,” Denara said, brushing past him as

she went towards the door.

“Dancing in my tomb? Have you no respect

for the dead?” Arian asked with a grin.

Denara paused at the tomb’s opening.

“Come to think of it, no. I do not,” she replied

in complete seriousness before she

disappeared into the night.

She came back half an hour later, Warm

from her feeding. Arian had let the fire go out.

He never cared for flame, finding it

unnecessary most of the time. The sun was

threatening to peek over the sand dunes, so

Denara pulled the stone slab back over the

entrance to the tomb, shutting out any last hint

of daylight. Her eyes adjusted quickly and she

walked over to Arian’s sarcophagus.

He laid with his hands clasped behind his

head, eyes closed, and the engraved lid of the

stone coffin only half-covering him. “I cannot

close it,” he said softly.

“Cannot? Or will not?” Denara asked as she

stepped barefoot into the sarcophagus beside

Arian.

“Will not,” he admitted in a faint voice. He

felt Denara’s Warmth as she settled into the

sarcophagus.
 “Let me help you,” Denara whispered. The

stone lid slid into place, casting them into

complete darkness. Arian felt Denara’s weight

on top of him, the last of her Warmth ebbing

into him. He tasted the blood of her prey on

her lips as she kissed him.

Denara rested her head on Arian’s chest,

listening to the absence of sound.

“I have not been the man you deserve,” Arian

said.

“I will not dwell on what you did, but what

you do,” Denara replied.

“What have I gotten into?” he asked.

“So today you question our existence?” she

answered.
 Arian was silent.

“I love you and that is what you got yourself

into,” Denara said. She could feel Arian relax

under her, and she smiled as he drew her

closer to his body.

Denara awoke as soon as she felt the sun sink.

Arian’s arms were still wrapped around her and

she pushed herself up with some difficulty,

sliding open the lid to the sarcophagus.

Arian stirred at her movements. He pulled

her back down, running his hands down her

back as he kissed her neck, his lips traveling

across her puncture wounds.

 She pushed herself away from his touch.

“Arian,” she warned. “Time to get up. Carpe

diem, as they say.”

“The night is young,” he mumbled, drawing

her back down to him again.

Denara sighed. “No, Arian. Stop.” Again

she distanced herself from him, this time

getting to her feet before he could catch her.

She sat on the edge of the sarcophagus.

“What is it?” Arian asked, sitting up. He

brushed her hair back from her face to catch

her eye. “What is bothering you?”

“Nothing,” Denara lied. She stood up and

walked to the entrance of the tomb. “Let us go

feed. I want to do something for once, not just

lie about all night.”

“Of course,” Arian nodded, joining her. “I

need some Warmth. Desert nights are cold.”

They walked the few miles to civilization in

silence, Arian’s arm encircling Denara’s waist.

Descending a sand dune, Denara pointed out

desert roses with a smile.

“So like human life, their existence a blink

in the stare of eternity. The sun will wither

them,” Arian remarked. “Death catches all.”

Denara sighed. It was just like Arian to find

his morbid meanings in anything she found

beautiful. She did not reply and they continued

on, soon reaching the clustering of buildings,

finally separating to hunt and agreeing to meet

in the town’s square.

Arian wasted no time in finding a victim.

Tonight he killed rather than leave just enough

blood for life to continue. The last ounces of

blood flowing through mortal veins were what

gave him the most Warmth, the most strength.

In his early years, he had killed with every

hunt, though as time continued, he had found

it unnecessary and done so only occasionally.

No longer in the mood to feed, Denara

wandered about aimlessly, listening to snippets

of conversations of those still awake in their

homes. She found herself arriving in the town

square as Arian did, and they came to meet by

a fountain trickling lazily, almost running dry.

Arian could tell she had not fed as surely as

Denara could tell he had taken life. He was

about to question this when a quiet commotion

caught their attention. Simultaneously they

turned to locate its source, and saw a man

beating a miserable excuse for a dog in a side

street.

Denara, a soft spot in her heart for any

animal, and especially dogs, immediately

stepped forward. But she felt Arian catch her

arm, and when she turned to look at him, he

shook his head. “Do not trouble yourself,” he

said softly.
 She could smell the man’s anger and the

dog’s fear, a combination that infuriated her.

Violently she pulled her arm from Arian’s grasp.

“This is how you like to see me, is it not?” she

demanded. “Some weak, delicate thing with no

purpose other than to be yours, your little

possession, your omnipresent companion, your

goddamned prostitute!” Arian tried to interrupt

her, stepping closer. She stepped back,

maintaining their distance. All along this was

how Arian had been. She had ignored it after

their time apart, desiring only to be with him

again. Yet she could not put this aside any

longer.
 “I have stood by saying nothing for too

long, Arian, and I cannot take it any longer. You

see a dead world where living, where life is

worth nothing. You are cold, Arian. As good as

cold.”

Leaving him speechless, she ran to where

the man had been beating the dog, the sad

creature alone now. She approached it

cautiously where it lay with a broken leg and a

mess of blood on its head. Yet still it wagged its

tail, this animal with no reason to trust, did.

Denara carefully took it up I her arms, ignoring

the fleas and mane that covered it matted fur.

Arian watched her, knowing what she

would do, what she would say to provide some

solace. He knew because he had been there in

her arms in his times of need. Turning towards

the fountain, he studied the hazy reflection

from the pool. An expressionless face, cast in

shadows, eyes…cold. She was right. He was

cold, even towards her, the one thing he had

ever truly loved. Where had his arms been

when she needed them? Where had he been

those nights when she needed him only to

listen? She did not even come to him anymore

with how she felt, what was on her mind.

Quickly he spun to look after Denara, to

call her back, to attempt to explain himself, to

repent, but she and the dog were gone. In vain,

he searched the town before returning to the

tomb in hopes she had gone there. But he

arrived to an empty tomb. Sitting by the door,

he waited for her until the sky pinked at the

hint of sunrise. He cursed to himself as the first

rays cut across the sands, forcing him to seal

the tomb and seek the protection of his

sarcophagus. Now he had done it. He cursed

again as sleep stole over him.

Denara cradled the mutt in her arms, stroking

its dirty coat. She could feel the life draining

from it. The poor thing was simply at its end.

Turning, she saw Arian gazing into the fountain.

Decidedly she moved away from him and out

of the town, holding the dog close to her chest.

 The flat land of the town gave way to sand

dunes. Denara climbed to the top of one and

sat down, laying the dog besides her. It

dragged its body closer to her, despite the

coolness of her ungorged flesh. She smiled at

the limp creature, its eyes closing, its breathing

slowing. Within the next ten minutes the dog

was dead and cold. Denara buried it in a

shallow grave. Brushing the sand from her

hands, she looked east, searching for the first

hints of dawn.

She honestly did not know what to do with

herself. With Arian, she had followed blindly.

Without him, she had been in search of him.

But now she was without him, and had no

desire to search for him and his Cold. Denara

knew she would not go far, in case Arian came

to his sense or she, hers.

Back she went into the town, finding an

abandoned building with a cellar that would

suit her purposes. She curled up in a corner of

the dank cellar, surrounding herself with rotting

wooden crates and molding furniture. As the

sun rose, she found sleep easily, Arian the last

thing on her mind.

When night fell and Arian awoke, he lay staring

at the stone lid over him. If he could only read

her thoughts! He could hear anyone’s mind at

a moment’s notice, yet could do nothing to

read Denara’s. Where was she? Would she

come back? Or had that been the last he would

see of her?

He couldn’t recall later how long he

thought of her. At some point he angrily

pushed aside the top of the sarcophagus,

sending it to the floor of the tomb. He stood up,

eyes flashing. Fuck her, then. If she wouldn’t

come to him, why should he go to her? This

was who he had always been, and she had said

nothing before. He told himself that he didn’t

need her, whom he could make someone else

—no; find someone else—someone who

wouldn’t remind him of Denara, someone who

would accept him. There was too much left

unfulfilled in those one had taken, too much

room for error.

Smiling now, Arian exited his tomb, sealing

it again. Gauging that he had at least five

hours until sunrise, Arian went north.

Denara did not awake—she was awoken.

From her slumber in the musty corner, she

heard someone enter the room and

immediately rose to her feet, sinking further

into the shadows. Footsteps drew near here

now, leaving her cornered. A million things

raced through her mind until she realized the

one who had entered was one she had met

before.

“Argande?” she asked.

 He was not a creature to be avoided now

that Arian was gone. “Never from an immortal

other than myself.” What if that too was a lie?

Emerging into view came the very Elder

Denara had named. “Denara,” he said simply

in acknowledgement. His voice seemed more

human now; the crumbling leather and rotting

leaves that had been so vibrant in Denara’s

memory were gone. “Come,” he beckoned,

stopping a few feet away from Denara where

she stood in the corner.

Denara obeyed him, though she did not

know why. Stepping over a half-disintegrated

crate, she found herself face to face with

Argande. Before she knew what she was

saying, she asked, “Are you going to enquire as

to if I wish to walk in the Light?”

Argande smiled at her, his fangs showing

non-threateningly. “Since you so seemed to

despise that question when first I asked it,

Child of Darkness, no, I will not ask you that.

Ah, but I will ask you, where is Arian?” He fixed

her in his steady brown-eyed gaze.

Denara attempted to scent him

unsuccessfully. This irked her, as she did not

know whether Argande already knew of their

separation or not. She returned his gaze. “I do

not know and I do not care.”

Argande seemed slightly surprised at this

reply but did not further question her. He

stretched a pale hand towards Denara,

plucking a cobweb from her hair that lie

tangled about her shoulders. The back of his

hand brushed her cheek gently and she turned

her head away.

“Why are you wary of me?” he asked

Denara.

For a moment she was confused, but then

she realized Argande’s Dark Gift was mind

reading. She still remembered her dream and

previous encounter with the Elder. That was

what made her wary of him.

Argande perceived this. “I mean you no

harm, Denara. Before, I was not in proper sorts.

I had lost something very dear to me and I

became obsessed with trying to strengthen and

purify the vampire race. You and Arian were

strong forces, seeming to draw from each other

so much in your early years that your

individual strengths grew even stronger. I

wanted to harness that power, mix it with mine

own.

“After you refused I practically went

mad with this obsession and then I myself was

summoned, by Dracula. He brought me, or

rather, forced me, to come to my senses. What

I wanted to achieve with your blood, I learned

from Dracula, could not be achieved yet. As

technology of the mortals advances, we

ourselves will be able to manipulate the traits

that so characterize us. Until then, I must

wait.”

Denara did not want to believe this, to

believe an encounter with Dracula would

change Argande completely. But the longer she

thought on it, the more she could see how he

had changed, his voice only part of the whole

metamorphosis.

Argande watched her before suddenly

whispering, “Come stay at me estate with me.”

Denara almost leapt at the chance though

again she did not know why. After all, she was

not too fond of men at this point, and until

recently she had been terrified of Argande and

his purpose for her. She hesitated before

replying slowly, “Argande…I…cannot…scent

you.”

He looked relieved at this, though why he

had not foreseen it in her thoughts Denara did

not know. “Apologies,” he said, and as he did,

the scents of his emotions flooded her senses.

Most of his emotions she had expected, his

arrogance, his faint anxiety, his slight

persistent confusion. But what Denara had not

expected was his desire for her. It was not the

lust she always saw in Arian’s eyes; it was a

genuine concern and want for her to be safe

and content, melded with a belief that he could

provide this for her. Denara could not help but

smile. “I should consider it.”

Argande nodded, slipping her a piece of paper

with the address of his estate written in his

neat script. They parted on such terms and

Denara kept the paper with her the nights

following, sometimes forgetting it, and

sometimes pulling it out just to look at it.

Three years later, Argande answered a

knock at his manse’s door to find Denara on

the doorstep.

Arian had no difficulty finding a companion

to his liking. He found her in Turkey, blonde-

haired, blue-eyed, selling herself on the streets

to catch her meals. Her name was Ada and she

adored Arian, or at least his wealth, as much as

he adored her, or at least her body.

There was not much to Ada, Arian had realized

one evening after living with her at one of his

various estates for three years. He told her

this, and not to insult her. Of course, being a

woman, Ada exploded at this.

"You wonder why she left you?" Ada screamed,

throwing anything she got her hands on at

Arian. He sat calmly in an armchair, brushing

shards of glass and wood from his dark suit. So

she had known. Arian had attempted to keep

Denara a hidden part of his life, yet inevitably

he slipped on his own words. Ada had left the

room and Arian watched her thoughts. She was

leaving him now, after packing some of the

things he had lavished upon her. "Until we

meet again," he said as Ada stormed out the

front door, carpetbag in hand, trailing two

servants connected by their task of

maneuvering her trunk.

"Go to hell, Arian."

"Gladly," Arian muttered when the door

slammed behind her. At least Ada had not

appeared to have known how he had been

searching for Denara. Standing up from his

chair, he reached to the bookshelf and took

down a thick volume. He resettled himself and

opened the book. Inside, the interiors of the

pages were cut out, creating a nesting spot for

a stack of documents.

They were reports from his spies and the new

breed known as private investigators.

Supposedly there were about Denara:

sightings, which were unreliable; information

on her whereabouts, also unreliable; and the

small bit of history that could be found,

unreliable as well, and most of which Arian

already knew. Arian sighed and closed the

book. He had already memorized all of the

documents.

Arian knew he had told himself he would not

search for Denara, and he knew he was now

being hypocritical. But he refused to allow

himself to part permanently from her on those

terms. He was, or had come to be, a

respectable man, in his opinion, and however

insincerely, he would apologize to Denara, then

allow her to part permanently from him, if that

was what she wished.

Finding her to apologize was the problem. She

seemed to be everywhere, or nowhere. Where

could she--. Arian stopped his thought,

realizing the only place she would be if she

were not dead, and he knew she wasn't dead.

Argande.

Consequently, the night Arian managed to find

Argande's estate in person was the night

Denara arrived. He saw her walk up the front

path from his place in the street, leaning

against a short brick wall with his face hidden

by a newspaper.

The moment Argande opened the door, Arian

was next to Denara. "Denara! Don't!"

She swiveled to look at him. "Arian?" She could

hardly believe her eyes. Remembering him and

why they had parted, she folded her arms and

said stiffly, "Why in the hell not? Argande has

changed from when he Summoned you. Can't

you tell?" Denara looked at Argande again and

blinked hard. Something was not right, despite

what she had just said.

"Yes, Arian, can't you tell?" Argande repeated,

in a voice like rotting leather and...

Denara took a step back. "Argande?" His eyes

glazed and burned with some strange

madness, his scent overpowering her with so

many feelings that she took another step back.

"What..."

"You thought I changed? Oh Denara, you are a

fool." Argande laughed. Before she knew it, he

was two inches from her face, a cold hand

gripping her neck.

She slapped his hand away as Arian threw

himself between the two, shoving Argande

back with both hands and all his strength. The

Elder stumbled but caught himself at the

doorframe.

"You are weak," Arian remarked, slightly

surprised. Never had he seen an Elder reduced

to this at his hands. Wisely, Argande had

blocked his thoughts from reading, as Arian

had much earlier.

"Who is really weak?" Argande rasped. Pushing

off the doorstep he leapt into the air, landing

behind Denara. "Merely an illusion, as

everything else," he hissed, before sinking his

fangs into Denara's neck.

She tried to scream and found herself unable.

She tried to move and found herself unable. All

she could do was lie helpless in Argande's arms

as he pulled all the stolen life from her.

Arian ran towards Argande immediately, doing

any and everything he could to try to free

Denara from the Elder's clutches. But the more

Argande drew, the stronger he became,

ignoring Arian's blows as if he were a pesky

insect.

Ultimately, he let Denara's body fall, paler than

ever it had been. "What now, Arian? Isn't this

what you wanted?" Argande asked, blood

dripping from his jaws. Denara's blood.

"Yes," Arian said.

Argande felt a sharp pain in his heart and his

hands explored his chest, finding a wooden

stake protruding, Arian's hand on the other

end. He turned to ash before even falling to the

ground.

Arian ran to Denara, cursing. He sliced his wrist

with his own fang and pressed it to her lips,

kneeling at her side. She was too weak from

her blood loss even to drink at first, but as his

blood pulsed into her she healed quickly,

clinging to Arian's wrist as she came back form

near-death.

She knew his limits, or rather, remembered

them, and stopped herself just before Arian

thought to shake her from his arm. He helped

her to sit upright as color flooded into her face.

Denara looked at him with shame in her eyes.

"You were right," she said hoarsely. "You were

right all along." A tear rolled down her cheek,

more threatening to spill from her sodden eyes.

Arian shook his head, rubbing her hand

between his. "No, Denara, I was wrong. I have

always been wrong." She made a sound as if to

interrupt him, but he continued. "Listen, you

are...everything."

This time Denara succeeded in interrupting him

"I know, Arian. I know that now," she

whispered.

Arian was about to protest when he realized

that she did indeed know. She had learned it

from his blood.

Denara threw her arms around his neck,

pressing her face into his shoulder. Arian

wrapped his arms around her. She felt so

wonderful in his arms again, so right.

A cloud covered the moon, for a moment

casting the scene below it into utter darkness.

When it passed, the yellow glow illuminated a

pathway, occupied only by a pile of ashes,

skittering away on a dark breeze...

The End

"Do you find me dreadful? What a shame,

such a sad disgrace. Such a pretty face, but

she's not regretful. Am I beautiful? Am I

useable? It's killing time again. Put on your

face and let's pretend these killing lights won't

kill us all again."

 Hey There, If you like this book you would

love my others (The Prince of Le-Ronian

[coming out soon], The Life of Ian Oond [out go

to www.LuLu.com and search for it.]) and there

are my books.

I am currently Fourteen years old, I live in

Toledo Ohio, I started writing books two years

ago, and now I’m working on my biggest novel

(The Prince of Le-Ronian) I have been working

on it for almost half a year, its not going nearly

as smooth as this one had, The Prince of Le-

Ronian is about a Boy that was born into a

village and not royal ness like he should have

been, well his mothers kidnapped (the queen

is) and if I told you the rest it wouldn’t be much

of a book to read… 

Cya later friends.

Jeremy Lewis.