Chapter 1
Another morning. Just like all the others. How many had there been in her life? She had long since stopped counting—the days, the years, the centuries. Why bother? Time held no power over her. She would never age. Never fall ill. Never die. She was eternal. And not just any immortal—she was a Lyut, of the Ferrata clan, and the former wife of its chieftain. Former, but her status was no less important among the clan of executioners. She had given the chieftain an heir. It mattered little that it was only a daughter—the child was pureblood, not a half-breed. Her daughter was the clan's hope and its strength. That had been absolute for seven hundred years. An eternity for a mortal, but Zarina was no mortal. She was a vampire. A special one.
— You're watching the sunrise again? — came a voice from behind her.
Her meal. For two years now, she had fed from only one human—a boy she had picked up off the street. Lately, the boy had grown arrogant, believing he meant something to a woman who had long lost all humanity. If she had been kind to him, it was only for practical reasons. Hunting had become dangerous. The Inquisition had been sticking its nose into clan affairs. The treaty signed three hundred years ago was being questioned for the first time. A few more attacks by vampires, and war would break out. And it could not have come at a worse time—not when the clan chieftains were about to elect a new High Ruler. Once every thousand years, this council convened. The reign of Clan Sargano was ending. There was every hope that the next ruler would be Marcus—her former husband and eternal master. All they needed was to avoid any incidents. Then ten centuries of rule would belong to Clan Ferrata.
The boy's arms wrapped around Zarina's white shoulders. His lips barely brushed her neck.
— Come back to bed, — Leo whispered.
She turned to face him. Her cold green eyes swept over her lover and breakfast rolled into one. A faint smile touched her lips as her gaze paused on the pulsing vein in his throat. Love—she did not want it. After seven hundred years, she had grown so weary of love that the mere thought of such foolish human emotions made her sick. Marcus had told her it would pass with time—the older a vampire grew, the colder the blood. But with Zarina, it was different. With each passing century, the loneliness cut deeper. And when Marcus had rejected her, the pain had only intensified, consuming her hollow existence. How many boys like Leo had there been? None had filled that void. They were all just shadows of the centuries—nothing more.
— Do you love me? — Zarina asked, smiling.
— Yes, — Leo answered without hesitation, already caressing her body.
— A pity, — she whispered in his ear.
Her hand tangled in the boy's thick curls.
— Why a pity? — he asked, pulling back in confusion.
In that last moment, realization dawned. Her eyes flashed with malice, and her fangs sank deep into his soft young flesh. He could not even fight back—his dangerous lover was several times stronger, far more savage. Zarina did not stop when she was sated. She drained every drop of life from Leo and only released him when his heart had stopped beating.
The bloodless body slid slowly to the floor. Zarina turned back to the window. The sun had already risen above the horizon. Damn it! She had missed that precious moment because of breakfast.
— Angie! — she called loudly. — Angie!
A faithful servant hurried into the room. He had served his mistress for some five hundred years now. The giant of a man, frozen at twenty-five, stood adjusting his coat. Seeing the corpse of yet another unfortunate, he sighed heavily. The body would have to be dumped in the Tiber tonight. The Inquisition took a particular interest in bloodless bodies with neck wounds. If only the mistress had slit his throat with a knife and then drunk her fill—that would have been simpler. No one would have paid much attention to the body; who knew in which den he had been stabbed? Every night, someone got their throat cut and ended up in the Tiber. And it was vampires who drank the blood. Panic would spread, and a new hunt for servants of hell would begin. That was the last thing they needed. Just the other day, she had berated her son for his bloody rampage—and now she goes and kills her favorite meal.
Angie approached the body and gave it a nudge with his foot. A small red stain spread across the Persian rug. Such a shame, ruining such beauty. It would have to be thrown out now; blood never washed out.
— Get rid of it, — Zarina ordered, her back still turned.
— Why kill him? I thought you liked him? — the servant asked, grabbing the dead Leo by the legs.
— He bored me. I grew tired of him, — the mistress replied without emotion.
— You could have just wiped his memory and thrown him out. Why kill him? If anything happens, Marcus will destroy us. We need to keep our heads down right now, — Angie lectured, dragging the remains of breakfast toward the door.
— Enough, Angie. Marcus is no better, — Zarina said, turning around.
— What shall I do with him? — her servant protested for the first time, dropping Leo's legs at the door. — Last month it was Irina with her feast. A week ago, Miroslav. Now you. Tomorrow the Black Brothers will come knocking—and Marcus won't save us.
Zarina's laughter rang through the chambers. The Black Brothers! What could they possibly do against vampires? Nothing! Holy water and crosses were fairy tales for fools! A vampire could only be killed with silver through the heart and immediate beheading. But while the holy fathers were swinging their swords, she would drain them dry before they even noticed. The Inquisitors were only dangerous in numbers, catching their prey by surprise—but that tactic would not work here. And to lay a hand on the former wife of the Ferrata clan chieftain, on her son, on Marcus's daughter—meant starting a war. A war that humanity would lose. The new world would not be negotiated on favorable terms. There was much to think about. The life of one boy, or the lives of thousands!
Irina was Marcus's only heir. The rumors of a new wife had remained just that—rumors. So dear Papa guarded his daughter like the apple of his eye. He had left Zarina all the privileges of a lawful wife. After all, in five thousand years, she alone had given him a pureblood heir. Zarina was the last of her kind—which meant no other pureblood vampire would ever have heirs.
That truth warmed Zarina's black soul. No matter how hard Marcus tried, he would never be rid of her. Sooner or later, he would crawl back, begging her to return. And she would return. She would! For Zarina had paid far too dearly for his immortal love.
— Bury him in the garden and plant roses over him, — the mistress advised, still laughing.
— What kind of roses? — the servant asked, picking up Leo again. — White or red?
She looked at the sun, draping a shawl over her shoulders, and said:
— Red, Angie. Only red.
The servant hoisted the lifeless body onto his back and closed the door behind him. Zarina was alone again. And the emptiness inside her spread deeper and wider, leaving no corner of her untouched. If she had been human, she would have killed herself long ago—but she was not human. Not anymore. Sometimes she dreamed of the past: a little girl running toward the sun. The sun warming her face, the wind gently caressing her hair. It was so pleasant, to feel alive again. If only in a dream, still alive.
