Chapter 1

The rain poured down like God's own deluge. That this comparison was justified could only be known to Lucius White, the oldest living blood-drinker in the world.

Hard silver sheets pelted his swaying coach and turned the rutted Northumberland road to mud. Braced to keep his balance in the creaking carriage, Lucius pulled the shade from the window and peered out. He found little to admire. This was sparsely peopled land. No charming village of rose-strewn cottages met his gaze, no isolated country estate. One would never guess it was May, much less midafternoon. The sky was dark, and clouds as gray as Lucius's eyes piled up behind the sharp-ridged hills.

Lucius's companion saw none of it. Edmund was a shape-changing immortal just like himself. He slept with his shoulders wedged in the corner and his long legs stretched across the black leather seat, as insensible to his surroundings as one felled by drink. Even so, Edmund managed to look the very picture of a fair-haired medieval lord.

He had been traveling with Lucius since the elder changed him more than four hundred years before. From that night forward, Edmund had made Lucius's comfort his central care. Because Edmund was unintrusive and quick of wit, Lucius had never wished to change the arrangement. He did, however, wonder how he had inspired it. It had been ages since he felt moved to obey anyone.

He was glad—so far as he was able to be glad—that they had come here for Edmund's sake. Edmund's human descendants still dwelled in the area, and every so often he liked to assure himself they were well. Had the younger upyr been awake, no doubt he would have felt the charm of home scenery. It was day, however, and he slept. Because there was not a scrap of sun to avoid, this was more from habit than need.

Ancient as he was, Lucius had few needs left: blood now and then, sleep, a run in his wolf form. Friends were a luxury he believed he could do without. They served a purpose, but what he felt for those he had was more the memory of affection than the thing itself.

Why should I live? he wondered so distantly the rain seemed to speak the words.

There had been a time when upyr needed no enemy but themselves to keep their numbers sparse. With the formation of the Upyr Council to maintain order, their survival was much increased. Others besides himself could carry the elder torch.

Lucius's only claim to importance was that he was the last of the first upyr, the sole member of his race who recalled any world but this. The planet of his birth had been wet and green, a jungle whose sun filled half the sky. More than that, he could not say. As for his life here, he did not remember much beyond the last thousand years. Still, was not the death of any unique creature a sad event? Would not Lucius be missed if he disappeared?

He tried to care, but the coachman's rain-drenched misery had more substance. When the carriage lurched to a halt halfway up a hill, the human's disgust cut through his thoughts.

"Stay," Lucius ordered Edmund, though the other barely stirred as Lucius shoved the windblown door open. Lucius's Hessians sank to their ankles when he stepped outside. Rain pummeled him in sheetlike gusts. The cold did not discomfit him. In truth, the drumming was a mild pleasure. He was a cold creature himself. For the moment, he was at one with his surroundings.

"Horses can't get up this slope," the coachman shouted when he judged Lucius near enough to hear.

Soaked through, the many capes of their driver's greatcoat wrapped slick and black around his hunched shoulders. Because Lucius and Edmund had forgone the usual complement of footmen for the sake of privacy, the coachman was the only human there. Judging him wet but well, Lucius turned his attention to the four wretched equines who were harnessed between the coach's shafts. His heart squeezed with unexpected pity. Not only their tails but their noses hung to the mud. They had no knowledge of inns and stables short miles away. They only knew they felt terrible.

"I will walk with them," he called to the coachman. "Spare them my weight. Maybe with encouragement, they will get on."

Ignoring the human's skeptical thoughts, Lucius touched each beast in turn, allowing his power to flow through their shivering hides. Had the atmosphere been less thick, the coachman would have seen a soft gold glow. Lucius excelled at weaving glamours and could appear as mortal as any man, but over the years, his strength had grown so great its use was difficult to hide. When he reached the lead horse, he put his mouth to one ear.

"There's a boy," he whispered, sending soothing images of stalls and hay. "I'll keep you warm until we reach the yard."

He clucked to get them going, taking the shaft in hand so the only weight the horses had to drag was their own. With an exclamation of surprise, the coachman slapped the ribbons across their backs. Not hard, thankfully. The human might be unsentimental about his partners, but he was not cruel.

No worse than other humans, Lucius mused. And better than plenty of upyr.

This thought had barely left his mind when he heard a hail and, through the gloom, spied a frantically waving lantern.

Highwaymen, thought the coachman, come to slit our throats.

Copyright © 2005 by Emma Holly