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“And this Cristofer is just a friend?”

“Yes. Never has been and never will be my lover. We don’t connect that way.”

“Fair enough. Is he gay?”

“He’s… impartial. He’s had a broad spectrum of lovers from every walk of life.”

“So he’s a slut?”

I chuckled. “I won’t tell him you said that.”

Ensley trailed his fingers lower on my abdomen, brushing the fine hair that grew below my navel. My cock stirred, defying postcoital exhaustion, already eager for more. It was the first time in my existence that I’d ever lain with a man after sex and gotten to know him.

All my pressing responsibilities seemed distant and unimportant. Ensley asked about my family, so I told him about Mother, Father, and all my siblings. About Abeta and her traumatic death during childbirth. Although common at the time, I remembered it clearly. It had imprinted itself in my memory. The baby hadn’t survived more than a few hours after birth.

I told him about the plague that took the rest of my family while I was away fighting. I recalled our quaint homestead on the Thames that no longer existed. The barn and animals. Father’s carpentry. The weekly markets. About how I defied my parents’ wishes and joined the militia. How I fought alongside my uncle to reclaim the city of Amiens from the Spanish. I recounted everything I’d shared the night I’d unsuccessfully wiped his memory. The stories I’d told while he slept.

“Is it the same uncle you’ve come to rescue?”

“Yes. Uncle Iulian. My father’s older brother. Half brother. Different mothers. Uncle Iulian’s from Romania. When his mother died, my grandfather traveled west with his seven living children and married my grandmother. She was a young bride. Fifteen, if I remember correctly. My grandfather was in his late forties, I believe.”

“Gross.”

I chuckled. “It was normal back then. They had eight children. Three survived childhood. My father was the youngest. I didn’t meet Uncle Iulian until I was thirteen. He came pounding at our door one night in a dark traveling coat under the light of a full moon. I remember being terrified of the stranger who had shown up at random. He was tall and broad. Formidable. He was already changed by then, but the family was not wise to his secret. He had a mission.

“My father suspected he was not right. My mother hated and feared him. For years, he lingered on the outskirts of our lives, showing up on random evenings. He favored me. I didn’t know why.”

Ensley’s wandering hand returned to my chest, and he flattened a palm over my unbeating heart. Ashamed and embarrassed, I clasped his wrist and relocated it to my belly. “Please don’t.”

“Sorry.” He shuffled closer and kissed the skin beside my eye. “Keep talking. Your uncle had a mission?”

“Yes. He had no children. I was the oldest boy. He wanted someone young and malleable. We grew close. He taught me to fire a musket and use a straight sword. Of course I was intrigued. Father was a gentle man who disliked fighting, politics, or war.

“At twenty-one, I joined a local militia with Uncle Iulian. Father was outraged. Mother cried and begged. They wanted me to stay home and take a wife, continue training in carpentry, but I was eternally frustrated with how I felt and who I was inside, and it wasn’t something I could explain. Joining campaigns and fighting seemed like the answer.

“Little did I know that Uncle Iulian wanted to secure the line of succession. My fate was drawn the day I left with him.”

“Wait.” Ensley’s fingers, which had resumed their wandering path over my skin, stilled. “Line of succession? Does that mean… You said your uncle was an important figure. You said you were royalty. Oh my god.”

“No. I said I was royalty in a manner of speaking.”

“You said you succeed him.”

“I said I don’t want to succeed him. Hence my need to rescue him and return him to his place of power. Iulian is an elder. Our rightful leader and king. He’s an immediate descendant of the great elder, our first king, and yes, I am in line to succeed should anything happen to Iulian, but—”

“What happened to your first king? I mean, I know immortal is a relative term, but did he die?”

“Yes. He was mortally wounded in November of 1893 outside our home in Transylvania by an uncoordinated group of amateur hunters who learned of our weaknesses and exploited them.”

“Wait. Do you mean—”

I rolled to my side and pressed a finger to Ensley’s lips. “Never say his name. It is a curse to speak it.”

“But… Are you serious? It’s fiction.”

“No, Ensley, it’s history.”

“No shit. Wow. But… I don’t understand why you came to rescue your uncle. If you’re next in line, wouldn’t they want to protect you? Keep you out of harm’s way? They should have sent others or at least given you backup. This is a ten-man raid at least. You can’t solo it.”