Ascent of Blood, The Red Veil Series Book 2

By Elizabeth Marx

Love is conceived in the mind of a vampire long before it is ever realized.
Vampire prince, Sebastian Pearce, has waited six hundred years for the right human mate. While vampires no longer require live donors for sustenance, Mother Nature has played a cruel trick on them making breeders a rare commodity.
As numbers in Sebastian’s imperial house continue to dwindle, his virgin bride eludes him. That is, until he happens upon a young woman searching for a secret vampire text, the Book of Descent. Sebastian’s need for her is more potent than anything he’s felt for another woman, but Everleigh Marbut isn’t innocent. Worst of all she’s an American with a mind of her own, and has no desire to carry an immortal being.
But fate has forged connections between vampires and human mates in the form of the Red Veil for generations. As the Red Veil descends over Sebastian and Everleigh they fight their attraction to each other, but neither of them realize they’re being lured into a battle pitting ancient myth against the power of modern science to recreate life until it’s too late.

The destiny of his lineage, and the bond forged between them, now rests in their acceptance of each other as they are. Can a modern woman endure an eternity of devotion from a sexy, old-world vampire?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Elizabeth Marx
• Release date: Dec 2, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301302772

Elizabeth Marx

Windy City writer Elizabeth Marx writes deeply emotional romances that take her readers on a roller coaster ride through desire and despair. Elizabeth’s cosmopolitan flair for fiction makes her unafraid to push you over that first drop just when you think you know what’s going to happen next. Her writing is described as hilarious, heartbreaking, and heartwarming. Her characters achieve the ‘happily ever after’ through a journey of poignant and passionate moments.In her past incarnation she was an interior designer—not a decorator—which basically means she has a piece of paper to prove that she knows how to match and measure things and can miraculously make mundane pieces of furniture appear to be masterpieces.Elizabeth grew up in Illinois but has also lived in Texas and Florida. If she’s not pounding her head against the wall trying to get the words just right, you can find her in her garden. Elizabeth resides with her husband and an Aussie wigglebutt.Elizabeth has traveled extensively, but still says there’s no town like Chi-Town.You can contact the author at [e-mail] or visit her website www.elizabethmarxbooks.com

Book preview

Prologue

The parchment was as dry as a desiccated corpse. Tapping the quill against the blood-well, he recorded the Year of Our Lord 1990, Cardiff, Wales. He coughed at the ancient dust swirling between the pages as his palsied fingers trailed down the neat column totaling their deteriorating numbers. He sighed as he tallied the three hundred and thirteen year crimson calculation. Another old ally gone to ash .

The binding of this volume had only been cracked open from decade to decade to note the date of death. There have been no new births to record since knowledge of the secret plan to reengineer breeders was stolen by the conniving nosferatu hell-bent on overthrowing the House of Imperials. Gods only knew whom they shared the information with and how much longer he had to accomplish his goal. There were rumors among vampires that dhampir children had been conceived and born in the Americas or in third world hovels, but none had been born to his imperial house, leaving it weakened and exposed to threats from the other houses.

Severian wondered how many lifetimes would he guard the secrets of the contract he negotiated so long ago. How long would he alone carry the burden of keeping vampires hidden from the mortal world? He had grown weary of the ministrations of the other houses, always upstarting or plotting against the House of Imperials. He had grown wearier still with the loss of his beloved and the undisclosed reality of the dark plague he had pressed upon her for their survival. Or the countless number of lives taken in pursuit of imperial secrets.

He had grown so tired of this burden he turned to science.

He had hoped to have a new story to inscribe to crisp vellum. The breeder should certainly be old enough by now to fulfill her destiny and do what she had been designed to do, but still she eluded him. Perhaps the nosferatu had her, perhaps she was dead, perhaps she knew what she was and she hid from the dark desires and the call of the Red Veil, which would forever change her worldview.

After witnessing his lines decline for decades, and with only one daughter left to surrender to the cause he was determined to locate the breeder. He conducted extensive interviews, some under extreme duress, and some information came from other sources he can hardly lay claim to having contact with. But finally the first breeder found after many years of hopeful expectation is being lured here. Mayhap with this new possibility Severian Pearce can redeem himself and he too can find peace, or perhaps if he is lucky he may be reunited in the next life with his love again. For he is as he ever was and ever will be, he is nothing without his guiding light, his beloved Meridian.

1

Upon The Book Of Descent We Have Good Fortune

June 3, 1990 6 p.m.

Even in the twentieth century, London was a dirty city, and Southwark had always been home to grittier types of city blight: run down factories, taverns, houses of illicit pleasures, theaters, and cock pits. Sex, drugs, and urban decay were the flavors of the day. Exactly the sort of location where a brooding vampire would have a little hidden den of iniquity, but Sebastian Pearce never brought women here. Instead it was more of a place of solitude and meditation, a place where he could be alone with his thoughts without the increasing pressure of ruling a house on the decline .

Sebastian turned away from the floor-to-ceiling leather books, and looked out the bay window catching his own expression in the glass. Hoping the grime drossing the windows would obscure his glower, but the nighttime beyond the window was blurred. The sashes were blanketed with a thin film of soot, making them a mirror reflecting back his dour expression rather than offering him a view of the Thames.

‘There was never yet fair woman, but she made mouths in a glass,’ his father, King Severian Pearce, often said when he caught Sebastian in the company of a beautiful vampire woman. Right before he barked implicit orders for Sebastian to locate a special someone to settle down with, someone not of the vampire kind but a human capable of breeding an immortal. It was the combination of the ‘settle’ part that always stuck in his crawl and the fact that no one had stumbled across a breeder in at least fifty years. He’d certainly never found a human special, well maybe the first one, but his attraction to her had ended badly for her.

The phone rang, and he ignored it, more often or not it was someone selling something a vampire never needed. Now if he’d ever gotten a call offering a virgin bride capable of carrying immortal seed, he’d snap the opportunity up on the spot, he thought.

The black rotary phone continued to ring making his desktop vibrate. He pushed some of the old mining ledgers out of the way and picked up the receiver and cradled the phone at his shoulder. His fingertips brushed a glass ashtray and he scooped out a copper farthing. After so many rings, he snapped, Yes.

Milord, there is someone here asking for reference materials about the history of the Pearce family, Philabe said. Sebastian could imagine the pustules on the old keeper’s face expanding and becoming inflamed as his hair, a sure sign of his agitation.

We do get researchers from time to time, Sebastian said. Concoct some story and send the old man on his way.

"The thing is she has asked about the House of Imperials."

There was a fizzling sound through the phone line, some sort of static but it buzzed in Sebastian’s ear like a high-pitched siren’s call from a far off land. He didn’t reply, trying to siphon off the psychic sound.

She is one hundred percent mortal, but she carries no scent. Philabe cleared his throat and dropped his voice to a whisper. Nor is she old milord.

His father, the king, would want him to retrieve and deal with the woman asking questions no human should ask but he had no desire to go out into the rain. The reverberation of his copper farthing spinning across the lacquered surface, the metal sung for a few moments echoing through the phone line, before being slapped into silence. Sebastian couldn’t help remembering that in his childhood he often spun coins across his desk when he did not care for Philabe’s lessons. Once he had reached ten summers he’d often thought of Philabe, his first tutor, as the insignificant coin meeting its demise under his fist as he swatted the copper into shimmering pieces of glitter.

If she doesn’t carry a scent then it hardly seems possible she’s pure mortal. He let the phone cord move, a sure sign of imperial impatience, because he had been known as the stealthiest of his house. What about this woman has you in such an uproar?

Milord, although it was many years past, your father asked me to report anything—out of the ordinary. Philabe lowered his voice to a level human ears would never be able to pick up and spoke quickly. She is mortal, but her mind is consumed with erratic thoughts I cannot read.

What does she look like?

Beautiful, Philabe stuttered. One would think that after nine hundred years as a vampire Philabe wouldn’t have a weak human physical reaction, but his response was always heightened when an attractive woman was present. It must be beyond intolerable when ones fangs descended without command. Stylishly dressed with a perfectly formed neck.

How beautiful? Sebastian did not know why but the question escaped his lips on a hiss. He spun the piece of copper on the desktop, involuntarily indicating his own irritation, but he knew the phone line would pick it up.

"She exudes an old world elegance. All of that would have been curious, but then she asked me if I have ever heard of the Book of Descent."

The hairs at his nape rose and he sent another involuntary hiss through the phone that would probably make Philabe’s nose redden like the immersed end of a fire poker pulled from a flame.

As he turned back to his reflection in the dark night beyond, he watched in disgust, as his curiosity was peaked. He let the sound of the coin rolling across the desk fill the silence why he considered his options. Is this unusual human still in your drafty old book shop?

I encouraged her to stay, with a cup of quieting tea. Philabe cleared his throat. Even that seems to have little effect on her.

The House of Imperials hasn’t paid you a call in decades.

No, milord.

Shall I bring you some of my sister’s tonic for your face? He chuckled malevolently, something that was quite unusual, because he no longer cared to play with lesser beings. He was a disciplined and serious imperial vampire and keepers were boring and bookish. Perhaps, you’ll then be suitable enough for me to look at while we dine.

No! Philabe drew in a sharp breath as if somehow aghast at the very idea of harming the woman. When he recovered he said, Milord, while she is delicious, she would not do well for a meal.

Why not?

She puts me in mind of the Lady Meridian.

As the black receiver met the cradle of the phone, for the first time in Sebastian’s life he felt very much like the fly lured to a fizzling electrified light. Philabe’s words hardly mattered because they were lost in the sound of Sebastian’s door being slammed shut in his wake.

Sebastian Pearce, vampire prince, alone would decide on the similarities.

He and he alone would decide on whom he dined.

He and he alone would decide on whom he had in his bed. Where in Hades balls had that dark thought come from?

2

Shun The Fire For Fear Of Burning

June 3rd 7:30 p.m.

Sebastian Pearce had spent most of his life searching for a particular kind of human woman, but he had given up the hope of ever locating one long ago. He had pursued enough leads to know it was more likely he would catch the beast from Loch Ness at a Sunday School service, than stumble upon what he needed more than anything. The only thing he desired more than blood—a special woman—a breeder .

She was the one thing that could ensure the dynasty that would one day be entrusted to him. The only thing which would keep the other houses under imperial rule and squash all chances of a war against mankind, which vampires would inevitably lose since their numbers had dwindled to all time low.

Waiting for, and pursuing, this unknown woman had been an unfulfilled, lifelong tête-à-tête; the kind that never lives up to one’s expectation. He had convinced himself whoever she was she had not been interesting enough to capture his attention, and therefore he had missed meeting her in decades or centuries past. His desires ran with a dark possessive streak and a lifelong mate required a purity women today no longer possessed.

Those were all the reasons he assured himself this was a fool’s errand.

The silver bell at the top of the door heralded his arrival at Philabe’s Bookshop. He nodded at the old keeper behind his work counter as he shook out his umbrella and pressed the door closed behind him. He ducked into the antiquated stacks and drew in the deep scent of old books, damp paper, and decaying ink as he walked through the bookcases easily sensing another presence nearby. Actually, something about the other person made the hair at the nape of his neck come to attention.

He stood immobile and gawked at the sleeping female through the space between the top of the books and the next shelf. This woman, he had raced through the seediest streets of London to see, froze him in his tracks. His heart rate accelerated. The long column of her neck was exposed on the back of the cushioned chair. The faint tracery of a shimmering line drew his attention, as if it was a fragile hairline crack in a perfect Faberge egg. She had grown past the almost imperceptible scar running from one dangling diamond to almost the other. The jagged little tag at the end of the old injury was alluring, more tempting somehow than the sinuous neck and pulsing vein beneath it because he was certain that one of his own kind had scarred her. It was as if that one diminutive line of three inches was a border beckoning him to cross.

Necks he had seduced, veins he had devoured, but mortals, especially human children, didn’t walk away from the kind of injury that would produce a jagged blemish on her otherwise unmarred flesh. The little tag stopped right before the carotid artery. Making her and her scar’s spidery slash of survival into adulthood all the more mysterious.

He clenched and unclenched his fists. His nose twitched, trying to capture the scent of her blood. All he could smell was the citrus tang of her damp hair and rainwater; she had been walking the streets of London without an umbrella. There were traces of fresh starch and espresso beans seeping off her skin.

Philabe lay over the counter at an odd angle to watch the interaction; he’d already caught on to Sebastian’s preoccupation with the quiescent woman. Sebastian stepped out of the shadows and relaxed into the wing chair across from her, a large shipping trunk acted as a coffee table between them and he thought a strong cup of coffee might be the perfect thing for the damp night, coffee was always good, but blood would be better.

His throat felt parched.

He had not drank from a beautiful human in a long time, probably since the last world war and he was not about to start now. No matter how enticing the ivory flesh.

He gazed around the bookshop, gave Philabe a glare and set a perimeter with a simple thought; now even Philabe would not trespass upon what would only prove as another disappointment.

The bookshop’s interior hadn’t changed in the last seventy years; same cramped dusty shelves, same rolling ladder in need of oil, same pristine exterior façade and crumbling interior. The last seven decades had been similar for the both of them, except the bookstore had a companion—a crotchety bookseller. While Sebastian’s life had become incredibly dull, monotonous really and this place was as depressing as the inside of his head.

Before melancholy could settle in, he propelled his deliberations at the woman with the raven colored hair, touching her dreaming mind. As a dhampir he could easily read her by sensing her feelings. When the dark emotions wailed at him his heartbeat raced, almost exploding in his chest as his heart started beating in time with hers. Then choking smoke devoid of oxygen pressed against her lungs and expanded into his, making the images in her mind move too fast to completely comprehend.

He jerked his mind away from hers. The only thing he could reconcile her dreaming emotions with from his own experience was a battlefield strewn with blood-leached bodies. Even with one’s own ensured survival, the blood of your foes pumping through your system; you were left with the cloaking darkness of demise. It sunk into your soul, like the soil collecting the decomposing bodies, until you were almost swallowed into the sinkhole of lifeless flesh.

Most human minds were unguarded libraries of personal information, easy for his kind to peer into, especially when the human brain was unconscious. Nothing in hers was transparent. He couldn’t learn a thing about her, or her scar, while her sensations were raging through him. He had encountered similar occurrences when he would try to read people with mental impairments, drug addicts, the homeless, or those who suffered severe depression.

The novelty of what her beauty might be capable of producing was lost when he realized her mental scars were great enough to incapacitate him. The severity of the emotions firing her neurons had certainly damaged her mental capabilities. Finding her flawed he dismissed her importance just as she came awake on a startled heave of breath; her hand went to her throat and she coughed. The book slipped from her lap and thudded onto the old Turkish carpet, but his gaze didn’t follow the tome, instead he was captivated with the sinuous way her body moved and the way her breasts heaved under her blouse.

Her ebony lashes brushed her cheeks, and then she regarded him. Every hair on his body rose in response. He tried to read her fathomless teal colored eyes. They were like the expanse of the Mediterranean ocean and he was a ship adrift. He couldn’t help himself, he gaped at her exquisitely structured face; her strong brow marked her intelligence, her aristocratic nose marked her as aloof, and the pout of her lips marked her as a woman who knew how to have her way or how to hold out until her opponent capitulated.

When she focused on him, a spark of primal awareness leapt between them and pooled in his chest, before it traveled to his groin.

Her hand dropped to cover her heart, as if to protect it.

Was I snoring? she asked, bewildered.

He didn’t reply and she tilted her head, as if she were reciprocating the reading of thoughts. Perhaps she was mentally unstable, because bright beings instinctively avoided making eye contact or spoke directly to his kind. Unless compelled to do so.

He narrowed his gaze, willing panic to fill her eyes, which weren’t so much teal as they were turquoise. Alluring eyes, which were darker than the stone, surrounded by vibrant black lashes holding nothing akin to fear.

Sorry if I disturbed you, she said, dismissing him as she shucked her shoulders, and bent at the waist to recover her book. Jet lag. As she straightened up she ran her tongue over her teeth and he couldn’t help himself he thought of running his canines over her unmarred flesh. Or plain, bad tea.

Even with two yards separating them, he read the book’s title, and then he scanned the stack she had on the table while she adjusted her neck with her fingertips. It troubled him, how normal she appeared on the surface when her mind had just been in a battle.

He had not had a real conversation with a human in years, only speaking to them when moving in and out of their world, but he had flipped the coin and come—maybe there was a reason. Most importantly, he didn’t believe in coincidences or instantaneous connections formed between total strangers.

You have an interest in vampires? he asked.

She examined his empty hands, which were crossed over his belt. "You can speak? I thought staring your modus operendi," she replied, over the top of her conservative frames before crossing her legs. Her slacks refused to wrinkle and were starched as crisp as her reply.

She pulled her glasses down from a perch twisted in her hair and the long ropes cascaded around her shoulders. Her hair was a vivacious black-sable and blended with her light olive skin for an exotic flourish. Her white button-up shirt was so pure it could have been used in the sanctity of a cathedral to place the sacrament on. The only indecent thing about it was the fact that it was unbuttoned one button further than it should have been and he couldn’t pull his eyes away from examining the deep plunge. He blinked and swallowed hard so his teeth wouldn’t descend. Who knew what desires that might propel him into. When he’d composed himself he let his eyes skim her trim torso before traveling the length of her legs, certain those Prada’s had not pranced through a psychiatric ward.

He pushed at her mind again, willing her to answer his question about her interest in vampires, but she stared back blankly and then quipped, Answer what?

Definitely unhinged, she had confused his mental summoning and spoken words. She had extrasensory gifts. I asked you if you enjoy the company of vampires.

As a mythological group, I find them quite fascinating, but I enjoy ancient cultures and history.

"You’re covering all the bases, everything from Stoker to Rice. Even Carmilla?" he asked with an arched brow.

I’m not into that, she said and he silently thanked God. I had to order it, no one stocks it, she replied, not looking up from Dracula. "What are you reading?"

You, he thought as he pushed against her mind again. All he could hear was her sense of studying, absorbing. Why are you researching vampires?

I didn’t say I was. She gazed up from the page with a narrowed directness that was very American, almost as if she was still revolting against king and country.

Why should I care? Instead of voicing his question, he asked, But you are?

I’m trying to get some work done, she huffed, shooing him away with her red fingertips wafting through the air.

She thought he was some human male trying to ask her for drink or a date. He’d love to have her for drink, he thought. Where to bite first? He smiled a smile devious enough to lure the devil’s mistress to a baptismal font.

She rolled her eyes heavenward. She was accustomed to giving men the brushoff. What she didn’t know was he wasn’t a man. And he hadn’t been dismissed since childhood and certainly never by a human. You would like to work on vampires? He continued probing, knowing somehow it would annoy her, and liking the idea of getting under her skin. If she thought to treat him like an adolescent schoolboy with a hankering for her, then he would be a petulant one.

She snapped the book shut, removed her glasses, and glared. At him, a creature old enough to have lived through a vast amount of the history she seemed to be interested in. He had even created a myth or two of his own.

If you must know, I’m a cultural anthropologist doing research for a book.

Don’t you think everything about vampires has been said?

If that were true, would we be having this conversation?

What fascinates you, their immortality?

Fictionally, yes. She paused for a moment. The depraved blood sucker who is evil incarnate is a step beyond the Byronic hero. The ultimate bad boy, who with love can find deliverance, she said.

You think someone who kills indiscriminately can be redeemed? he asked.

That happens in movies and books, she said. I deal with facts. Since you’re so curious, a friend unearthed a golden box; there was a skeletal hand inside with this ring on it. She rifled through her papers and extended a few black and white photos.

He took the pictures, making sure their skin didn’t touch. After he examined the photos, one of which was a heavy gold ring with a prominent crest. He swallowed and wondered what exactly she was up to. Who sent you here and why? he asked, examining her flushed cheeks and in spite of himself he wondered what exactly she would be into. He stopped himself from that line of thought.

When I researched the family crest to the estimated time period, it led me here, but I also came away with tales of vampirism.

This woman was shrewd enough to stir his interest, but didn’t speak enough to bore him. He got to his feet, knowing intelligence and attractive packaging might be misconstrued as remarkable. It was a bad thing for him to find a human woman out of the ordinary, because the few he had all ended up withering away under moss-covered tombstones, too young to be gone from this world. Too lovely and too full of life to have succumbed to his dark desires.

He allowed himself one more parting glance at her exquisiteness. Nobility is often associated with hemophilia, the kings’ disease. He moved toward her, extending the photographs. Over the course of history hemophilia has been linked with vampirism.

As she took the photos back her hand grazed his and he received a shot of current making him fumble the pages and they wafted to the floor.

I never mentioned nobility, she said, blowing on the tips of her fingers before she shook them.

Only the nobility have coat of arms. He backed away, needing the distance. Needing fresh air. Needing to strike. He culled his mind for a distraction. Who is the great immortal you’re searching for?

You remind me of his portrait in the National Gallery. She cocked her head to one side. Same noble arrogance, untamed black-nut hair, prominent patrician nose, silver stakes for eyes, and a hunter’s grace.

He waited. When her gaze did nothing but stroke a primal awareness and conjure illicit fantasies he’d rather not entertain, he turned to leave.

Sebastian Pearce, she whispered, so softly he could almost convince himself he hadn’t heard correctly. But he had, and he was torn between dread and fear.

Lust and lewdness.

Desire and dark imaginings.

It felt as if a lance had been driven into his back; the pain was followed by a jolt of raw bloodlust. Just her saying his name sent him into a tailspin of emotions and he tripped over something that wasn’t there. He had not had a misstep in twenty-five lifetimes. No one in the House of Imperials was ungainly, least of all him. To cover for his blunder, he turned back and focused all his intention on her, uncaring that the bombardment might overwhelm her disjoined mind. He let centuries of violent slaughter, destruction, and debauchery flow through him and he directed it all at her.

I will be certain to remember the name, but perhaps you should forget it, he commanded.

She shivered for a barest moment before becoming steely eyed. I have this thing about names and faces. Once I put someone’s character together, I never forget them.

His stare had reduced vampires who were older than himself into groveling lumps. This woman had to be out of her mind—or maybe she had reached into his. It wasn’t unheard of for those with heightened abilities to draw out snippets, but if that was the case, then every other evil deed he had done was milling around on those same shadowy corridors of memory. She should have been horror struck. The things he’d had to do to keep the imperial house safe would make Vlad the Impaler’s genocide seem like a countryside picnic.

This woman didn’t even flinch with the onslaught. She wouldn’t back down. He couldn’t help but wonder what kind of psychic abilities or insanity she possessed. She had a core of strength which vaguely reminded him of someone he had known long ago, but he was filtering so much energy, pushing images at her and trying to pull thoughts from her mind at the same time, that he could not place the impression.

He gave her his blackest glare and considered hissing, the way he had discouraged medieval maidens and college co-eds attracted to him.

When she refused to capitulate, he spoke with precision. You’ve probably heard an often repeated saying, ‘There’s a fine line between love and hate’. But when it was translated by the ancients it was done so incorrectly, what it really read was, ‘There’s a fine line between life and death’. Sebastian drew a slash mark across his own neck mimicking her scar.

The young woman’s hand went to her throat, she had almost met the stroke of death at one point in her life and if she wasn’t careful she wouldn’t be so lucky again. She might run into the wrong type of vampire, the less civilized kind. One who trolls the planet looking for the curious spirit, to first amuse itself with, and in time feast off of until there was nothing left except the empty clump of dust.

He walked a few steps, sensing her following him with those fathomless eyes that made his heartbeat chant. He glanced over his shoulder and snarled before he disappeared into a column of red smoke.

If she had not been taught to not talk to strangers in her childhood, perhaps his disappearance right before her eyes would encourage her monitoring of that fine line.

3

Annuals Of Descent Of Blood: The House Of Imperials

In the time before history was recorded, when the vampire clans were still called the Clans of Cain, the House of Imperials was known as the Clan of Kingmakers. Kingmakers used humans throughout history to remain anonymous and to further their own causes. Before the dark ages, many vampires ruled cities, states, and provinces. Those who were prosperous treated their human subjects as well as their vampire brethren .

The kingmakers fared well because of their ability to easily co-exist with mortals. Their physical appearance is similar to humans, perhaps a bit paler than men, but otherwise they have heart rates and breathe air just as a human does. The other differences between these sophisticated vampires and human beings are their strength, intelligence, food supply, and inability to be easily extinguished. Decapitation or burning is the simplest way to take a vampires life, but there are other methods, both crueler and more painful.

The kingmakers are direct descendants of the original vampire and at the top of the vampire social order. They were nobility, although there is much speculation over who the very first vampire was, many believe he still walks among us. Imperials are most comfortable when residing on native soil, which is the reason they never ventured to the new world.

After my beloved husband, Severian Pearce, united all the Clans of Cain, the kingmakers became the House of Imperials. The most important role the imperial house plays is to keep in check the other six houses of vampires, which are much less civilized. My husband has had to make difficult decisions to keep the human world alive. In the time before our history was recorded, he did so for blood, for what shepherd slaughters his entire flock for a feast. But once Severian discovered what I was capable of, an imperial decree protected mortal woman thought capable of breeding vampire offspring. Unfortunately, only very special humans can conceive a vampire child. Fewer still can carry the child to delivery and only a small number can survive a vampire birth.

As one of these lucky women I have the love and protection of the most powerful of imperials, Severian Pearce, King of the Vampires. For a vampire’s love is not easily won, but once bestowed it is eternal and will never stray, it is said even death and disease will not break its yoke.

Some would count me unlucky, but when the Red Veil came over us we were incapable of anything other than surrender. With my capitulation came survival of a species so unlike mine but capable of a love much deeper and more abiding than anything experienced by a mortal. The bond of the Red Veil is so powerful those unfortunate enough to never experience it call it a curse. We hope all of our children will be strong enough to heed its call. We will prepare them, even as we prepare ourselves for the future.

---

Meridian Pearce 1465

4

All Unavoided Is The Doom Of Destiny

June 3rd 7:45 p.m.

Fifteen minutes after being lured to Philabe’s Bookshop Sebastian climbed into his Lotus Exige S and raced through the streets of London, taking corners at breakneck speed, disobeying traffic signals, and splashing pedestrians. Once he was on the motorway headed back to Cardiff, still unable to relax, he floored it. He refused to even glance in his review mirror, he’d never looked back before and now he