Simon leaves the boots and walks on slow, silent feet to find his maker. Shadows melt away as he reaches the living quarters. The first level is still underground but decorated. Comfortable. Not medieval prison-chic like the coffin chamber. Simon hasspent the past thirty years crafting this estate into his solitary home.
He finds his sire on the first floor above ground, in one of the libraries. Dima stands next to the record player, looking up at the mural that stretches above the shelves. Painted birds and butterflies dance from flower to tree, encircling the library in a sunlit garden. Beneath the bright colors, Dima is a statue of winter.
“Are you ever going to finish it?” Dima asks without moving.
As always, his voice drags Simon centuries into the past. Back when he was newly fledged, struggling to control his instincts, please his sire, and retain some semblance of self. Controlling his instincts used to be harder. Pleasing Dima used to be easier.
Sire is a term of respect, not parentage, among vampires. Dima is Simon’s lord and creator. That bond persists even if their other bonds fade away.
There are gaps in the mural. Meadowgrass fades into patches of blank whitewash, where Simon intended to add people. Only he’s never decided what or who to add. Maybe it’s already finished with the blank spaces.
“Twenty years,” Simon says quietly. “Why return now?”
“You needed me.” Dima moves, shadows seeming to gather in his wake. He towers over Simon, and concern softens his face. “My little firebird, you look dreadful.”
Dima touches Simon’s chin. Familiar power wavers in Simon’s blood, his shadow-gift recognizing his creator. For a moment, everything is as it was. Simon’s glorious first decades as Dima’s fledgling. They shared a coffin. Dima taught him to hunt, then kissed the blood from his lips. Simon was new and special and treasured—not patheticand needy.
Aside from his modern suit, the centuries haven’t changed Dima. His skin is paper-white, and his lank blond hair falls to his shoulders. If his eyes ever had color, they faded with the centuries. Dima is the oldest vampire Simon knows, already a folktale by the time he made Simon. Well over a thousand, according to the earliest records.
Simon is Dima’s last remaining fledgling. Some died before Simon was born. Rebecca didn’t survive her fledgling years. Tania was murdered, Francisco worse than murdered.
Some people draw closer in grief. Others grow distant.
“Where have you been?” Simon asks.
“Twenty years, you say?” Dima tilts his head, like the shift of light over stone. “That’s but a moment. Don’t be impatient. You’re not a fledgling anymore.”
Simon doesn’t flinch. That would make him look even more like a fledgling. “Sorry.”
Dima softens, echoing old emotions like concern. “Sit down. You shouldn’t be out of your coffin like this.”
Simon perches on one of the plush reading chairs. He’s even slower than he usually feels with Dima. He can’t keep up with the rapid shifts from scolding to affection. But Dima’s words don’t matter as much as his actions. Simon called, and Dima came. That truth burrows beneath Simon’s cold heart.
“You were right to call me,” Dima says. “I don’t even recognize the poison the hunter afflicted you with. Did he say anything about his allegiance?”
Simon shakes his head.
“I assumed not.” Dima sounds direct. Businesslike. “I’ve already handled the cover-up. Kimiko was happy to help. Not happy to see me, of course. I do hope she owes you a favor, or you’ll oweher. For now, nobody besides Kimiko, her assistants, and me knows you killed a human.”
“I don’t need to cover it up,” Simon says, trying to focus through his dizziness. “Self-defense is permitted under the treaty.”
“Of course, little firebird,” Dima soothes. “But there’s no rush to confess. I want to pursue my own investigation before stirring up malcontents. Treaty criticism is at a high, you know.”
Simon winces. A man is dead, and worrying about optics is unseemly. The optics are bad, though. “I didn’t think you cared about the treaty.”
“You care,” Dima says, as if honoring Simon’s concerns is obvious. Easy. As if Dima hadn’t disappeared for the last twenty years. “Trust me. We won’t hide the incident forever—just long enough to gather some evidence.” His voice hardens. “They dared to hurt my fledgling. I will resolve this.”
Simon’s cold heart clenches. Both of them must be thinking of another moment, yet unresolved. Twenty years ago, Tania was murdered by a human hunter. The killer was never caught, and a faction of vampires nearly shattered the treaty over it.
The new attack could be a coincidence. Or a second chance.
But Simon doesn’t want a resolution tonight. He’d rather have Dima stay, at least a month, and he can’t help asking, “Does that mean you’re leaving?”
“Don’t worry, I won’t leave you alone in this condition.” Dima smiles—but Simon’s foolish hope is short-lived. “I’ve hired a bodyguard to protect you in my absence. He’ll arrive in three nights, along with a team to install your new security system.”
Exhaustion blunts Simon’s panic into unease. The last thing he wants is strangers infiltrating his home. “I don’t need a bodyguard. I can protect myself.”
“Yes, you’re very good with a firearm, apparently,” Dima says indulgently. “But how long has it been since you drank live blood? Can you muster even a spark of magic right now?”
