( Spain, 1521)

The rain was coming down in sheets, beating on the roof. Inside, the air was stifling. People crowded every inch of space in the small inn, talking, eating, drinking. The smell of greasy food and sour wine mixed with the odor of unwashed bodies.

In the corner, a scrawny monk was whispering to his companion, a fat man in the guards uniform.

"I can spot them any time. Look, there is one. Look, but don't stare. The blond man in the muddy cape."

"How can you tell?"

"He was here yesterday night, too. He orders wine and food, but he doesn't touch his cup or his plate. You know why. He is alone. He is waiting for a horse. The innkeeper told me he has been asking for a sturdy horse, he's traveling to France, he said. The innkeeper sent a boy to the village for one. But he will not leave anytime soon."

"Why?"

"Don't you know anything? He can't leave till the sun goes down. I know all about them. Now go and get at least two more men. He is armed, I've seen his sword and a dagger in his belt, perhaps another in his boot. If you want more proof, just go to him and -" The monk unwrapped his rosary from his thin wrist. "Ask him to kiss this. He will refuse."

"Why would I ask him to kiss a rosary?"

"Say something. Say your mother died and you made a wow to have a hundred men kiss her rosary."

"This is stupid."

"Doesn't matter, just do it. Stupid or not, he will not touch it, you'll see. Believe me, I can spot them."

"I'll be back with two of my men."

The monk nodded and watched the man leave. "Morons," he sighed. "They have morons for guards around here. A miracle they are still managing somehow." He kept an eye on the blond man.

He was young and pleasing to the eye, his garments good quality, if a bit worn and caked with mud. The sword he wore was expensive and obviously excellent. Occasionally, he picked up his spoon and stirred his food, but never once tasted it. He'd swirl the wine in his cup, but wouldn't drink it.

As the monk waited, the innkeeper's boy arrived. The traveler gave him coins, and went with him to the stable, to look at the horse. In minutes, he was back, sitting down again.

One might think you don't want to travel in the rain, the monk mumbled to himself. I know better. You are waiting for the sunset. I know what you are, my fine young knight.

The guard came back, with two others. He went straight to the young man and held out the rosary. "Kiss this, if you are a good Christian."

The man rose and backed away.

"Arrest him!"

Suddenly, the inn was a lot less crowded. Everybody cleared away from the guards and the man, who drew his sword at once.

"I have done nothing," he said clearly. "What do you hold against me?"

"We know what you are, devil's spawn!" the guard bellowed." Dare to deny it? Go ahead, prove yerself! Kiss the rosary! Here's a fine piece of roast pork, eat it!"

The monk stepped closer. "I know all about you, you Godless worm. You came yesterday, at sundown, and I bet you've planned to leave today, at sundown. I know why; because your kind cannot travel on the Sabbath."

The young man stared at the monk, at the guards, and suddenly began to laugh, as if he had lost his mind. "You think I am a Jew?"

"And what else? You ate not, for you think our food is unclean, you would not kiss the rosary, yes, you are one of the Christ killers, masquerading as a Christian, wearing a sword even! Perhaps you could fool enough people in Toledo or Madrid, but here, you are finished! Take him away! Let the inquisitors talk to him about his crimes." The monk was triumphant. "Laugh, Jew, you won't laugh again for the rest of your life!"

The blond man was still laughing.

"Maybe he's not a Jew," the innkeeper offered.

"Well, then let's see him eating your stew and kissing that rosary," the guard grinned. "Will you now?"

"God damn you to hell!" the man said. "Come, take me, if you can!"

Sword against sword, he was too good to be taken; but one of the guards pierced his side with a lance and the other got behind him and hit him hard on the head with a heavy footstool. He went down then. The three guards were on him, three pairs of studded gauntlets hitting him, the monk had heard ribs cracking.

"Enough! Don't kill him, tie him up."
 
 

Nicolas stopped resisting when they dragged him outside. The heavy rain helped against the daylight, and once he was shackled securely inside the black prison coach of the town magistrate, he was safe. Safe, he thought, seeing the bitter humor in the odd ways how he measured safety. His side was already healing, his ribs mending, but he was too weak to break his bonds. He'd need to feed soon. Very soon. More important, he had to decide what to say about himself. Being born a Jew in itself wasn't an offense - the Holy Inquisition was only interested in those who had been baptized but still observed their faith in secret. His clothing marked him as one of those. Accepting baptism and practicing the Jewish faith was heresy of the worst kind. They called it Marrania. Yet what else could he do but admit to it? His other choice was letting them find out he was a vampire. As a heretic, he would be tortured, imprisoned, eventually condemned to the fire -- but as long as they took him for a human being, he had a chance to escape. Heretics were imprisoned "murus strictus", in underground dungeons. For a vampire, that was definitely better than a regular country jail with a window. "Murus strictus" meant bread and water as well, now that wouldn't make any difference to him. His best bet, his only bet was to admit to Marrania, or any other sort of heresy they had in mind. Would they discover what he really was...he wouldn't live past the hour.

It was long past sundown when the coach arrived to the prison, where the Inquisitors took residence for the duration of their stay -- as long as it took to cleanse the town of heresy. The townspeople usually cooperated with them, perhaps out of fear, perhaps because most of them genuinely believed that heresy was the scourge of Spain, the cause of all their troubles, the cause of God's displeasure.

It was late, but the Inquisitor was still awake. He was a small, round man, with a soothing, soft voice.

"Do you admit to heresy?" he asked Nicolas.

It would have been foolish to do so at once. Nicolas shook his head.

"How do you explain your behavior then?"

"The rain forced me to stay in the inn. I had to order food, if I wanted a place at the table, but I wasn't hungry," He forced himself to stay calm. Wasn't hungry, he said, hell, he was hungry enough to hear the heartbeat of every person in the room, to smell the blood in their veins.

"Your accusers say you've refused to kiss a rosary."

"I don't have to kiss every rosary somebody holds out to me," Nicolas said.

"How about my cross then?" A pudgy hand offered him an ornate silver cross, with the body of Christ inlaid in ebony. It was a beautiful object of art, but Nicolas could not help recoiling.

"Well," the Inquisitor sighed. "I think I've seen enough. We are going to please our Lord: one heretic less to soil our country." He turned to the scribe. "Mark this one murus strictus." To Nicolas, he said: "We need your name."

There was no answer.

"If you think to protect your family, you will be sorely disappointed. You will tell us your name, and the name of anyone sharing or hiding your heresy... soon enough." The Inquisitor nodded to the scribe. "Add double shackles and bread and water in affliction. I have a feeling this one will be trouble. Check his clothing for weapons, money or any object he could use."

They left him his shirt and his hose. Shackled hands and foot, he was led down to the dungeon, a large, windowless chamber already occupied by several prisoners. The rank smell of the stale air assaulted his senses. The heartbeats sounded louder, the blood coursing in human veins callled to his hunger. His fangs lenghtened painfully.

A single torch illuminated the stairs, leaving most of the chamber in total darkness. Nicolas stood there, looking at the other prisoners: a terrified old man, and two men sitting in the corner, both rough-looking. Nobody spoke to him. The straw on the floor was filthy. Nicolas was reluctant to sit down.

It could take days before he had an opportunity to escape - when will he feed? He couldn't think of anything else.

"A lordling," one of the rough men remarked. "Look at the fine shirt. I bet the seating arrangements aren't to his liking. Sit down, excellency, or are you afraid of dirtying your pampered arse?"

Nicolas flashed blazing eyes at the man. "Watch your tongue." The warning was soft, but the man turned away and remained silent.

God, he was weak. God, indeed, Nicolas scowled. How many centuries have to pass before he stopped calling His name routinely, like a mortal, who had some slim hope to be heard by Him. The night passed, he felt the sun rising, and even with the hunger clawing at his whole being, he was sinking into the daysleep, collapsing on the damp straw, torchlight playing in his hair.

"Young sir, your food is here."

Nicolas forced his eyes open. The old man knelt beside him, with a pitcher of water and a heal of dry bread. My food, he thought, you are my food, don't you know? "I am not hungry. You can have it. Just let me sleep."

"You are most generous."

Nicolas closed his eyes, but the song of the man's blood was loud, very loud.

"Are you a heretic, signor?"

"Yes. Now will you let me sleep?"

"Sorry...but they'll come for you soon. Sleep, signor, while you can."

Go away, Nicolas thought, move away.

The door creaked open. They've come for him.

There was nothing he could do. The weight of the day dragged him down, the sound of human heartbeats deafened him, he could barely hear the questions, couldn't answer, didn't dare to answer, knowing how his fangs would show if he opened his mouth. His silence earned him harsher tortures, more lashes, live coals on his pale skin. He endured it. There was an advantage to the hunger; he didn't heal right in front of their eyes. And the pain they could inflict on him was nothing compared to the pain of the bloodlust. He knew it was impossible to hold it back much longer. He'd feed, and they'd discover what he was...unless he fought his way out, they'd soon hold him with better chains than those he had now, forged of iron.

"This one is weak," they said, when he allowed his body relax with the day's leaden lassitude. "We will start on him again tomorrow."

He woke with a low growl, raising himself on his elbows. Less than a yard from him, the body of the old man throbbed with the rhythm of a living heart, sung with the power of red blood. Slowly, very slowly, Nicolas moved closer. I hunger, he thought, I will take this life. Sooner or later, the man would be killed, either by torture or by the fires of the auto-da-fe. I need his life more than the priests need another victim. Silently, with deadly softness, he sunk his fangs into the emaciated neck. The blood was sweet and rich, every drop a miracle, as the borrowed life filled his veins, brought color to his ashen face. Dear God, he sighed, content like a child , dear God, how can such pleasure be the lot of the damned? Or there is truly no God, just a jumble of events happening by the will of soulless beings, mortal or immortal, equally insignificant in their blind cravings, no grand design, no judgement, no redemption. Oh, but it mattered not. He was fed, his pain gone, his body healing fast. He rolled away from the corpse, too content to care about anything. Hopefully, nobody would suspect that the old man died of anything else but the combination of his age and the torture.

Nicolas stirred.

The door opened and the guards thrust another prisoner into the room.

A boy of uncommon beauty, Nicolas saw, dark, curling hair falling below his shoulders, eyes of midnight blue, the face of an angel dragged from Paradise to Hell. Nicolas wouldn't have been surprised if the boy had wings. But the slender back bore not wings, just a torn shirt, flecked with blood. The boy's wrists were shackled, with light irons.

Nicolas saw him clearly, his night-sight sharper now, since he had fed. Saw the terror in his eyes, the desperate defiance in his stance.

The two men who mocked Nicolas the day before, turned to the boy. They saw him, too, if only for a moment, when he passed under the torchlight at the door.

"Come here, tasty morsel," one called out to him. "Cheer us up in this pit of misery. Be kind to us, and we'll roast a rat for you!"

Nicolas came to his feet at once, without thinking. "Leave him. He is mine."

"Yours, your lordship? Will ya fight for him then?"

Nicolas stepped closer to the two. "I might enjoy the exercise."

They were on him, both of them, in an instant. With shackled wrists, the fight was awkward, but no less savage, the irons were weapons, hitting hard. Yet they were no match for the strenght of the vampire, even with half-healed wounds, Nicolas was faster, stronger and efficiently cruel. The two men lay on the straw at his feet mere minutes later.

Only then did he look at the boy.

He was standing still, his dark eyes bright with fear.

"Don't worry," Nicolas said. "I will not touch you."

"I am Felipe Zara."

"Niccolo Della Mare," Nicolas bowed slightly, offering the name on his traveling pass. "Sit down. You are hurt."

"Just a glancing blow. " The boy tried to see Nicolas' face in the darkness. "What are you accused of?"

"Marrania."

Felipe's smile was gentle. "You share my faith."

"I am afraid not." He couldn't lie to an angel.

"They accuse you falsely, then?"

"I can't prove otherwise. And you?"

"The charge is the same, signor, but it is true. I will not deny it. Many have died for the Lord, I will merely follow them."

"A martyr," Nicolas said bitterly. "Your life for your faith."

" I am no hero. There are witnesses, they have proof. Servants had seen me praying. The choice was made for me. "

"Surely you believe you'll go to heaven."

"I do not know that, signor. If you are a Christian, it was your Savior who promised Heaven. My people do not claim to know what is beyond this life."

"And yet you are willing to go."

"Willing? Not willing. I merely accept the inevitable."

Nicolas listened to the heartbeats, fast and frightened. "So young and already so wise. But you are afraid."

"You are mocking me, signor."

"Upon my word, I don't."

"I owe you my thanks," the boy said. "You've saved me from those men."

"They are not fit to touch you."

"I am afraid I will not be able to repay the debt. We won't live long enough."

Not if I can help it, Nicolas thought. I will lend you wings, if you let me, dark wings, damned flight, but I will do my accursed best to set you free. And myself, in the bargain.

Felipe shifted on the straw, his manacled leg touching the dead body of the old man. "There's a dead man in here."

"Yes. Actually, three dead men."

"You didn't kill those two... aren't they merely unconscious?"

"No. A blow to the head with double irons, courtesy of the Inquisition, is more than sufficient to still a man forever." Nicolas wondered why he was so deliberately cold, hard and honest. Perhaps he wanted to let the boy see who - what he really was. Hours ago, he hungered for blood. Now, a brighter hunger consumed him, a need for beauty and gentleness. This cursed dungeon is getting to me, he thought. As if I were fit to touch him!

"You must be very strong, " Felipe said, dread and admiration mixing in his voice. "Had they... have you been tortured?"

"Once."

"Is it very bad?"

Nicolas thought about it. "It is just pain."

The fear racing in the boy's veins was audible. "Signor, I am very afraid. Could you...kill me, please? with one blow, very quickly?"

"Now?"

"I'd pray first."

"Felipe. I do not want to kill you, but I promise this: if I cannot set you free, I will give you a death far sweeter than a blow to the head."

"How could you set me free?"

Nicolas brought his manacled hands together, then snapped them apart with a violent movement. The chain broke. He reached down to grab the leg irons, twisting the chain till the links separated. He still had the irons on, but that was nothing. Felipe watched him with incredulous eyes.

"Give me your hands."

He held the fine fingers in his palm for a moment, savoring their touch. The boy's chains were light, easy to break. "Listen to me, Felipe Zara. Do you have a place to go, a place to hide, if I take you out of here?"

"I know of a secret place."

"Good. Now swear on the name of your God, that no matter what you see, no matter what I do, you will obey me until you are safely away from this place."

"What will you do, signor?"

"Whatever I'll do, however I do it, whatever you'd think of me, stay beside me. I can save you." Unless you run from me in terror, he thought, unless you'd think the Inquisitors a better company than a vampire. "Do not fear me, Felipe. Follow me, stay at my side and you'll be out of here tonight. We must be safely away by daybreak."

"Are you a mage?"

"Don't ask what I am!" Nicolas hissed. "I am a chance to regain your freedom! and damn all else!" He turned his back to the boy and walked up to the locked oaken door, banging on it with the irons on his wrist. The sound reverberated through the entire dungeon.

A guard peered in through the spyhole.

"Come in," Nicolas cried. "There are three corpses in here."

Two guards entered minutes later.

The hell that followed was surpassing anything Felipe had ever imagined. The blond man in torn clothes transformed into a demon so terrifying, so powerful, that the guards whimpered in terror at the sight of him. His beautifully sculpted lips parted to reveal hideous fangs, the eyes blazed with unearthy flames as he flung himself at the guards, snapping their bones as if they were kindling. More guards came, with lances and maces, clattering down the stairs, but this demon took their blows with no more than a sharp hiss, his fangs tearing flesh. He needed no weapons: blood run down his side and his face yet wounds didn't slow him down. He was horrible to see, a dark spawn of hell, a demon of destruction. Felipe saw him stagger when the captain of the guards plunged a sword in his abdomen to the hilt - but the demon didn't fall, merely backed away, leaving the captain with the bloody sword in his hand, gasping in disbelief as the demon grasped the sword by the blade and twisted from the man's hand, threw it aside. Felipe saw the devil's eyes flash with demonic hunger, fangs sinking into the captain's neck. The boy watched in terrified amazement. The demon was feeding and as he fed, his horrible wounds healed visibly. Among mangled corpses, this demon was suckling like a child on his mother's breast, Felipe heard his little sounds of satisfaction. The hellish light faded from the eyes, the bloody fangs withdrew, and it was a man's face now with no more than a drop of blood staining the beautiful mouth.

"Come, Felipe," he said. "I don't think there are any more guards left."

The boy was almost paralyzed. Nicolas looked at him. "Do not fear me."

"What kind of a demon are you?" Felipe whispered.

"One who's in a hell of a hurry, so move!" Nicolas grabbed the boy's arm and dragged him upstairs. As he passed by the cells of others prisoners, he broke the locks on the doors with the ease of a child picking dandelions.

Felipe stepped on corpses, felt the sticky pools of blood under his feet. He followed the bloodied demon who looked entirely human now, scarce a scratch on his body, a well-healed scar where the sword skewered him.

At the top of the stairs, a priest waited, holding a cross. "Vanish, demon, in the name of the Lord!"

"Step aside," Nicolas snarled, his eyes flashing again.

The priest didn't move.

"Take the damned cross from him, Felipe," Nicolas said.

The boy reached out. "Give me the cross, father, you don't know what he can do."

"I've seen enough. He is but a lesser demon, the cross will vanquish him," the priest answered.

Nicolas was beyond reason. The killing rampage left the vampire wanting more. He had tasted his power and his beast was craving freedom. He tore the cross from the priest's hand, his skin seared, smoking at the touch of it, but he held it long enough to laugh. "Such trifling pain," he said with contempt, throwing the cross aside. "That's not a lesser demon inside me, father. Remember that: 'twas your tortures calling him to life."

He turned. "Come, Felipe. We must leave."

"We were flying." The boy's voice sounded soft and dreamy. "I thought only angels fly."

"I've never seen angels, Felipe. I begin to doubt there are any angels at all." Nicolas licked at his seared palm. The burn refused to heal: blackened bones showed through cracked skin.

"You are a strange demon, Nicolas."

"I've frightened you."

"Yes. But not anymore. Do you know of the mysteries?"

"What?"

"God. Satan. Life and death. I think a demon should be familiar with those."

"I know no more than you do. I live. Days pass, years, centuries. I live. I know nothing." Nicolas spoke without emotions.

"You are immortal?"

"After a fashion. I can be killed."

"Are there many like you?"

"Enough." Some of the bitterness seeped into his voice now. "You are tired, Felipe. It was a long night. We are safe here. Nobody lives in this house. A long time ago, I've stayed here once. Now it's only spiders and bats. I will sleep when the sun comes up. Sleep beside me. Leave the shutters closed. Sunlight would burn me as badly as the cross."

"I will guard you."

The simple sentence shook the vampire to the marrow of his bones. It's been centuries since anyone offered such kindness to him. The boy had seen him at his worst and made no move to leave. His sweet mortal heartbeat showed no fear. It was that sound Nicolas listened to as he drifted off to sleep.

"How very heartwarming, this domestic scene. The vampire and his mortal pet, if I read it right... Don't worry, he will sleep for a while."

Nicolas vaulted upright. LaCroix stood in the doorway, raindrops glistened on his heavy velvet cape like diamonds. The master vampire looked royally displeased. "You must be out of your mind, Nicolas. You put yourself in danger. And all of us. Up to now, the Inquisition was very busy chasing heretics. Now, they are looking for vampires and demons in every corner. You've scared them far too much with that spectacular massacre." LaCroix glanced at the sleeping boy. "How lovely. Indeed, he is very beautiful."

"Leave him alone. He is not a toy."

"What is he then? Obviously not food, or your hand wouldn't look quite this bad. Oh. Is it love?" LaCroix touched his heart with a gloved hand. "Such beauty deserves a second look. I am tempted to sample his charms."

"If anybody does, it'll be me," Nicolas said.

"I'll bring him across and give him to you, Nicolas. My gift. Do you want it?"

"No."

"No? What do you want from him then? The gentle mortal touch, the short-lived infatuation? The inevitable tragedy, when an affair of the heart turns into a hearty meal?"

"I have no intention to touch him. I want something else than the savage coupling of two vampires."

"You used to enjoy that."

"Not with him! I don't want that with him. Would I want fangs tearing into me, I'd know where to look."

"Would you?" A black gauntlet reached out with unearthy speed, pulling him up by his torn shirt. The other hand grabbed his hair to clear his neck. Sharp fangs sunk into his vein. Every drop of his blood surged to respond. LaCroix's bite wasn't gentle at all: the wound he had torn bled copiously, crimson rivulets run down Nicolas' neck, thin ribbons of blood coursed on his chest, brilliant droplets adorned his nipples. LaCroix abandoned the neck and moved down to savor the scarlet feast. Light, superficial bites rewarded him with a few fresh drops as he followed the crimson ribbons down to Nicolas' abdomen. Nicolas twisted, trying to get his fangs closer to the marble-white neck of his Master. LaCroix batted him away.

"Quod licet Jovi," he said. "My privilege."

"I thirst," Nicolas hissed.

"Hush..." The gloved hand encountered the hose and began to roll it down, the fangs scraping the revealed skin. Blood flooded the golden curls. LaCroix tasted that, too. "How good you taste."

He peeled the hose off completely. "Have I ever complimented on your legs, Nicolas? You should have been born a Roman. This sick obsession nowadays with covering every inch of the body... A pity, really." He bit deep, just above the nest of gold hair. "You can't help enjoying this, you see." Again, he pushed away the other's hungry mouth. "I know. You thirst."

"Damn it, you are bleeding me dry!"

"A little more passion and a bit less complaining, Nicolas, if you please. All I want is to give you more than the, oh, how did you say, savage coupling of two vampires." The soft leather of his gauntlets was slippery with blood. "How does this feel? Gentle enough?" He stroked Nicolas' straining cock with exquisite caresses. "Is this the love you crave? something above the hunger? a touch, more satisfying than blood?"

Nicolas closed his eyes. "Yes..."

He had never believed his Maker could be so tender. Yet LaCroix had not removed his clothes, not even the gloves; his kisses alternated with bites as he continued the pattern of bleeding marks around Nicolas' waist, turning him over, marking the curve of his buttocks, biting deep into the taut flesh till blood run down between Nicolas' legs. Only then did he free his cock. "A most satisfying lubricant," he whispered.

Nicolas shivered under him, aroused and hungry, past knowing which was the more agonizing need. "Lucius," he cried.

"Oh, yes. You should call me Lucius more often." He entered Nicolas with a single thrust. "You know I have been advised to kill you, for exposing all of us to danger. But I can't. I am too fond of you. Still, your careless behavior must be controlled. You are a child, always asking for the moon. I am not interested in children, Nicolas. I want to see you as you really are. You see, I prefer the savage coupling of two vampires..." His fangs sunk deep into the exposed neck and he drank.

Nicolas screamed, driven past reason, drained to the point of losing any semblance to a human being. He twisted wildly, freeing himself from his master's embrace and now he pinned LaCroix to the bed, frantically seeking the neck, tearing lace and velvet. He was allowed to feed now. The pleasure of the blood flowing into him was more intense than anything he had ever felt. Only now did LaCroix remove his glove to touch him with his naked fingers.

"Such fool you are, Nicolas," he said, with something close to genuine wonder.

LaCroix reveled in the savage power of this vampire he had created, letting him feed till hunger and lust both were fully sated and Nicolas fall into heavy, mindless sleep. "Now would a human being do this?" LaCroix asked himself, as he licked off the last ruby drops from Nicolas' body. "We are not human... and I like it this way..."

He rose and studied the two sleepers. "And what about you, little mortal? Should I keep you or send you away?" It would have been immensely satisfying to kill the charming creature, he thought, but he doubted Nicolas would take that in stride.

A touch was enough to wake Felipe from his unnaturally deep sleep.

"Who are you?" he asked, "What have you done to the demon?"

"Nothing. He sleeps." LaCroix bowed slightly. " I have to ask you to leave. You may take my horse."

"I'd rather stay. I want to say farewell to my...to the demon."

"To your demon?" LaCroix laughed. "No, my child, he is definitely not your demon. He, too, has to go now."

"Where is he going?"

"Oh, where demons belong... you know, to the realm of the night, the valley of shadows..." LaCroix enjoyed the conversation. " To hell."

"He is a good demon."

"Indeed? Now that's a heartwarming thought. Leave, before something happens to change your mind about him."

He watched as the boy took a long, sad look at Nicolas and left, amazed by the magnificent stallion LaCroix had so casually given to him.

When Nicolas opened his eyes, LaCroix was seated at the table, drawing circles in the dust, drinking from a bottle. " Have a drink. There's more in the bags. Alas I don't have goblets."

"What have you done with the boy?"

"Told him to go home. We are leaving, Nicolas. I better take you far away from here. I think I mentioned that you've caused considerable consternation with your careless... damn, I can't think of another alliteration."

"He has a safe place to go, he told me. He will be all right."

"I gave him a horse worth a king's ransom. He said you are a good demon. You've charmed him, Nicolas."

"What did you tell him, why he cannot stay?"

"I merely told him you have to go back where all demons go... where you belong. In fact, I think I'm going to take you to that interesting new world across the sea."

Nicolas barely heard. "Where do I belong, Lucius?"

"To me."
 

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