She glanced out the window at the lights of New Orleans again. Thought of Tsumi and the other vampires from the club. “Not much chance of that,” she said. “I don’t know what I’m going to do, where I’m going to go, but I’m starting to think the farther from a major city I can get, the better chance I have of staying alive.”
Peter leaned forward now, fingers stroking his goatee as he looked at her intensely. It made her uncomfortable, but in a way, she liked it also.
“You’re wise to want to leave,” Peter told her. “But I want you to know that you’re welcome to stay here as long as you like. We’re a family here. We call it a coven, but that’s only to illustrate the ties that bind us. You’ll be protected as long as you’re here.”
“I’m kind of used to protecting myself,” Nikki said, surprising herself with the tiny sting of angry pride in her voice.
Peter smiled. “Of course. I can see that. But the world is changing, and I thought you should know what we’re about here.”
“What are you about?” she asked.
“Living,” he replied simply. “Surviving. Trying to live with what we are, trying to stop the vampires from killing us, or from spreading any further. We’ve done a poor job of that, I’m afraid.”
“Vampires,” she said, chewing her lip slightly. “I understand, and I think I can even accept, that your people here aren’t like the rest. But I guess what I don’t understand is why.”
Peter smiled again.
“I’m not sure you’ll believe me,” he said.
“I think I’ve got a pretty open mind,” she said, gesturing to indicate the room around them, the convent itself, and the indisputable truth of its residents. “Try me.”
So he told her. About the first vampire, a claim that challenged her childhood faith, but made a great deal of sense. About a war with the Catholic church that lasted nearly two thousand years. About the Venice Jihad, and how for a time even the most savage of shadows were forced to behave with the spotlight of the world’s media shining down on them. And about Hannibal, and his quest to return to the past. To the terror and the dark mythology of another age.
“And no matter how badly the U.N. and the president want to destroy us all, they can hardly be expected to track and kill a race of beings who can be literally anything,” he said.
Nikki only stared at him.
“What about you?” she asked. “Tell me more about yourself.”
“My father was the last emperor of Byzantium,” Peter said proudly. “Though he never acknowledged having sired me. The night before Constantinople fell to the Turks, I met a man, a shadow, who offered me a way to have vengeance upon the enemy. They wouldn’t be able to kill me, he promised. But I could kill hundreds, thousands of them.
“How could I say no?”
Peter held his hands up, a small, sad smile on his face, as if part of him regretted that decision of long ago.
“History was never my best subject. What year was that?” Nikki asked. When the answer came, she wasn’t prepared for it.
“1453.”
“Fourteen . . .” She put a hand to her forehead and let her hair fall in front of her eyes again. “I don’t think I can handle this after all.”
“Actually,” Peter said, “I think you’re doing remarkably well. I suppose when a person’s life is in danger, it becomes a lot easier to accept the incredible.”
“I’d like to know more,” Nikki said, surprised at her curiosity—and at her own candor. “About you. About all of you, but about your own personal history as well.”
“Anything you like,” Peter replied. “But it’s past nine o’clock, and you really haven’t eaten anything since last night. Why don’t we have dinner first? I know a little place just off Jackson Square with the greatest jambalaya in town, and they do these Creole boiled potatoes that are amazing.”
Nikki blinked several times. “Are you . . . ?” she began, but let the question go
Peter leaned forward now, fingers stroking his goatee as he looked at her intensely. It made her uncomfortable, but in a way, she liked it also.
“You’re wise to want to leave,” Peter told her. “But I want you to know that you’re welcome to stay here as long as you like. We’re a family here. We call it a coven, but that’s only to illustrate the ties that bind us. You’ll be protected as long as you’re here.”
“I’m kind of used to protecting myself,” Nikki said, surprising herself with the tiny sting of angry pride in her voice.
Peter smiled. “Of course. I can see that. But the world is changing, and I thought you should know what we’re about here.”
“What are you about?” she asked.
“Living,” he replied simply. “Surviving. Trying to live with what we are, trying to stop the vampires from killing us, or from spreading any further. We’ve done a poor job of that, I’m afraid.”
“Vampires,” she said, chewing her lip slightly. “I understand, and I think I can even accept, that your people here aren’t like the rest. But I guess what I don’t understand is why.”
Peter smiled again.
“I’m not sure you’ll believe me,” he said.
“I think I’ve got a pretty open mind,” she said, gesturing to indicate the room around them, the convent itself, and the indisputable truth of its residents. “Try me.”
So he told her. About the first vampire, a claim that challenged her childhood faith, but made a great deal of sense. About a war with the Catholic church that lasted nearly two thousand years. About the Venice Jihad, and how for a time even the most savage of shadows were forced to behave with the spotlight of the world’s media shining down on them. And about Hannibal, and his quest to return to the past. To the terror and the dark mythology of another age.
“And no matter how badly the U.N. and the president want to destroy us all, they can hardly be expected to track and kill a race of beings who can be literally anything,” he said.
Nikki only stared at him.
“What about you?” she asked. “Tell me more about yourself.”
“My father was the last emperor of Byzantium,” Peter said proudly. “Though he never acknowledged having sired me. The night before Constantinople fell to the Turks, I met a man, a shadow, who offered me a way to have vengeance upon the enemy. They wouldn’t be able to kill me, he promised. But I could kill hundreds, thousands of them.
“How could I say no?”
Peter held his hands up, a small, sad smile on his face, as if part of him regretted that decision of long ago.
“History was never my best subject. What year was that?” Nikki asked. When the answer came, she wasn’t prepared for it.
“1453.”
“Fourteen . . .” She put a hand to her forehead and let her hair fall in front of her eyes again. “I don’t think I can handle this after all.”
“Actually,” Peter said, “I think you’re doing remarkably well. I suppose when a person’s life is in danger, it becomes a lot easier to accept the incredible.”
“I’d like to know more,” Nikki said, surprised at her curiosity—and at her own candor. “About you. About all of you, but about your own personal history as well.”
“Anything you like,” Peter replied. “But it’s past nine o’clock, and you really haven’t eaten anything since last night. Why don’t we have dinner first? I know a little place just off Jackson Square with the greatest jambalaya in town, and they do these Creole boiled potatoes that are amazing.”
Nikki blinked several times. “Are you . . . ?” she began, but let the question go
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