The vampire traced a finger over blood-red tesserae set into the intricately composed mosaic that lined the walls of his day chamber.
Sire.
Lover.
Mate.
Brother.
Friend.
Each one singular. Each unique.
Each one dead by his hand.
One after another after another, each tessera flashed in the light of his fire before dissolving into the shattered pattern that made up his endless night.
He spread a thin layer of cement next to the newest section of the mosaic—a jagged landscape filled with deep blues and greens—and placed a large glass tile onto the wall, red glass snipped and melted into the shape of a half-moon.
The new tile positioned, he quickly placed smaller tesserae around it, counting each like the victims of the vampire he’d helped to kill.
He turned the solitary moon tile into a burst of scarlet bleeding into the blues and greens.
After the tesserae were placed, he stepped back and looked at the rhythm and balance of his work. The pattern was even and blended well with the larger motif.
He would wait until the cement cured before he set the grout that would fix the glass tiles into place among the ceramic and stone tesserae he’d used over the centuries.
The cold stone walls of his castle in the Eastern Carpathian Mountains had been gradually decorated over centuries by his own hand. The fortress rose from a river valley and spread into the surrounding mountains, a grey stone citadel teeming with vampires and the humans who served him, all of them surrounded by the intricate art that covered the corridors and ceremonial rooms. Even his armory was decorated with mosaics.
But this particular chamber was his alone, and few had trespassed in nine hundred years. This chamber was locked against the sun, barricaded against those who might harm him, guarded by loyal humans during the day and his own fierce reputation during the night.
Oleg Sokolov, the fire vampire lord of Kievan Rus, heir of Truvor the Red, and anonymous head of numerous multinational corporations, stood shirtless in his day chamber, playing with a lick of fire that danced in his hand and contemplating how he would finish the border of the pattern that had occupied his mind for over a week.
The mosaic in his day chamber was a record of his life, the only one he hadn’t destroyed, and it covered two-thirds of the stone walls with scenes of blood, conquest, and victory over his enemies.
The chamber was as much studio as bedroom, the wall behind him lined with strictly organized shelves containing glass in all colors, ceramic tiles, and carefully cut stone. The tools of his art were a mix of ancient and modern, but most had been custom made for him and had lasted for centuries.
He heard a firm knock on his door. Only one of two people would disturb him in his private rooms. Walking toward the heavy oak door, he tossed the dancing flame in his hand toward the fireplace in the corner, then flipped open the wooden cover over the small window cut into the door.
The grim face of his current chief financial officer stared back. “I need to talk to you.”
He’d told Elene he wanted the week to himself, and she wouldn’t have disturbed him if it wasn’t important.
He let out a short grunt and snapped the window closed, then walked back to his workbench and pumped water into a basin to wash his hands before running a damp rag over his bare shoulders to remove any dust. Finally he forced a comb through his wavy russet hair.
Glancing in a small oval mirror tacked to the wall above the basin, he made sure his beard hadn’t grown wild in the heat and humidity of his chamber, then threw on a shirt hanging from a peg and buttoned it halfway up his chest.
Oleg kept no modern technology in his day chamber—the magic of the current world had its uses, but not where he rested during the day. This stone room was illuminated by multiple braziers he lit himself. He had no need for electric lights that would buzz and irritate him like summer insects.
Neither did he have need for hot water to bathe when he preferred the cold mountain stream water that soothed the elemental fire running under his skin. A simple pump carried the water to his chambers for washing and to keep his rooms damp enough to control his element.
Warm air was circulated by vents designed by a wind vampire four centuries before, and plumbing consisted of concealed drains along one wall.
“Oleg!” Elene shouted through the door. “I don’t have all night.”
“I’m coming.” He had no need for modern communication devices when he hired humans to keep in touch with the modern world so they could report to him.
The most important human was the woman on the other side of the door.
Oleg grabbed a bottle of blood-wine from a sturdy cedar cabinet before he walked to the door. He hadn’t fed in a week, and it wouldn’t do to let his fangs down around Elene. She’d only be irritable.
He fed on the blood of the people who served in the castle and filled his belly with game from the forest around him. Elene was a trusted adviser and partner, not a blood donor.
His life had changed little over the centuries, the biggest shock wave being the death of his mate a decade before, but he and Luana had been estranged and she’d never spent much time at his citadel in the mountains, preferring to be near her own element and live by the sea.
Oleg opened the door and stepped into the antechamber where Elene waited.
The competent human usually had a briefcase with her and a portfolio of papers for him to read and sign. There were contracts and tax forms and any number of legal documents involved in being a legitimate businessman in the twenty-first century, and he had to sign all of them with one alias or another. It was Elene’s job to keep all that straight.
That night there were no papers spread on the carved oak desk. No briefcase. No terse recitation of tasks he needed to accomplish to keep the human money and vampire gold flowing.
Elene sat on a velvet settee with her hands folded on her lap. “You need to come to Odesa with me.”
“Why?”
“To meet an accountant.”
His irritation was immediately pricked. Sitting across from Elene, he leaned back and stretched his arms across the back of the sofa as a servant brought in a tea service.
Oleg handed the servant the bottle of blood-wine, and the woman silently walked to the sideboard, opened it, and handed him a full goblet before she continued serving Elene tea.
“I’m sorry,” Oleg said. “Say that again because I think you’re mistaking me for someone who deals with minor financial issues.”
“Which is me?” Elene raised an arched black eyebrow at him.
“Which is your assistant’s assistant, Elene. Or do you need to hire more people?”
She sighed and took the tea the maid held out. “Thank you, Serena. You may go.”
The maid silently left the room, and Elene waited a few minutes as her steps retreated down the hall.
Oleg heard when the double doors to his wing of the citadel closed. “We’re alone.”
“You need to meet this accountant.” Elene sipped her tea.
“Why?”
“Because she might know something about your daughter.”
