Conviction
“Callisto and I had been together for a few centuries,” he started, “and, at first, we were happy. We were traveling around the world, discovering new places, new people, new tastes. For some time, we traveled with a third companion, Lucien, but one day we parted ways forever.”
“Lucien?” Myra gasped. “Count Lucien? The one Izumi mentioned at the Audience? Why did you separate?”
“He is a monster,” Vlad said.
Myra raised an eyebrow. “If the vampire who destroyed the world calls him a monster, I wouldn’t want to meet him. But why did you make him a noble after the Nightfall?”
“I had little say in what Lucien became. Anyway, after we parted ways, Callisto and I continued on our own. And, after a while, we both felt that something was missing.
“I had never turned anyone in my life as a vampire, and she had turned only me. We were traveling by ourselves, sometimes joining with other vampires for a while, but most of the time it was just the two of us. And so, after some time, we decided we wanted to adopt someone.
“We decided we would choose a young human. A girl or a boy—it didn’t matter. Only one thing mattered—the human had to be extraordinary, had to be special, had to be the one. We would turn them and teach them our ways. And so we traveled the world, looking through towns and villages, searching for our perfect creation.
“The vampire we wished to make had to be pure perfection, in looks and mind alike. And so looks were the first criterion we considered, for it was easier to judge. In our travels we encountered some stunning women and men, and we carefully observed them, trying to decide if any of them was the one.
“We watched each for many days before we made a final decision, but the verdict was always the same. They were happy the way they were and didn’t yearn for darkness. Perhaps if we turned them, they would learn to like it. And yet, while each of them would have made a decent vampire, none of them was born to be one.”
“And so you let them go?” Myra asked.
“Let them go?” He laughed. “What do you think we are? We ate them without turning them, that was all. After a while, Callisto and I decided to part ways, so that we could cover more ground. We decided on a time and place where we would meet again, and we set on our separate paths.
“It was during one of my single searches that I found Tristan. He looked different back then, unkempt and unrefined, and yet his perfect features were obvious to anyone with eyes to see. I started watching him, and it was only a day after I first saw him that I noticed something striking.
“He could read and write. You see, for that time and place, it was practically unheard of for a commoner to read and write. What effort this must have taken him, what thoughts must have passed through this peasant boy’s head to make him believe the skill was worth learning. It was extraordinary, and as I watched him more and more, I decided that even if he didn’t turn out to be the one, I couldn’t simply drink him and kill him as I had done with the others. Even if Callisto and I decided he was not to be our perfect creation, I would still turn him and let him find his own way as a creature of the night.
“I went on watching him, and every day my hopes grew. He didn’t belong in the village. He was unhappy and didn’t feel at home. He couldn’t connect to his fellow humans and yearned for something more, something bigger. That, I could give to him.”
“So you decided to spend months, perhaps years, stalking him like some creep?” Myra said.
He smiled. “I prefer the expression ‘watching over him.’”
“You think he needed watching over?”
“Oh, definitely. I am not saying this to diminish his skills. But the times were harsh, hunger and disease plagued the people too often, and humans needed each other to survive. Tristan, however, had done everything in his power to push everyone away. He was a lone wolf, and, unfortunately, the lone wolf rarely survives winter. But I was there, watching and taking care of everything that threatened him. I hunted a stag for him when he was starving, and I took care of the ruffians that dared bother him.”
“You drank them.”
Vlad looked at her calmly. “They got what they deserved.”
She snorted. “So, mugging should be punishable by death?”
“Of course not,” he said. “But hurting Tristan is punishable by death.”
Myra shuddered, wondering if she had to wait until Tristan’s wounds had healed completely before she attempted to plot his escape. “This was all a game to you,” she said. “You and Callisto wanted to create a masterpiece, a work of art, and you were simply looking for the right raw materials.”
“At first, it was a game,” he admitted. “After Tristan started writing his vampire poems, there was no doubt in my mind I had found what we had been looking for. I showed him to Callisto, and she approved. And then, all I had to do was wait for the right moment to present myself. But the choice was taken away from me when, on a cold winter night, the poor boy was on the brink of death.
“And as I talked to him and helped him get better, I grew to care for him in a way I had never anticipated. We had set out to create the perfect vampire—beautiful and refined, educated, quick-witted and graceful. That was all we had wanted. But then, what I wanted more than anything was for him to be happy.
“Waiting for his consent to be turned was never the plan. Callisto and I had always thought we would find our protégé and turn him or her on the spot. But as I grew to know and respect him, I realized I couldn’t do this to him. I would wait until he was ready. And this was the biggest mistake I ever made.”
Myra shook her head. “Tristan is grateful you respected his choice enough to not turn him until the end. This was the last time you didn’t treat him like a child in need of care. It means a lot to him.”
“I would rather forsake his gratitude and have him be healthy,” the Prince said.
“None of this would have happened if you had made it clear you never meant to leave after you made him a vampire. You know,” she added, “you need to work on your communication skills.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Do tell.”
She hesitated. “You claim that you love Armida, and yet she feels the need to resort to lies and deceit to keep your affections. And Tristan—it’s obvious he has doubts you’re staying with him out of pity and guilt, and because he needs your blood to soothe his pain. Maybe that’s not the case, but he thinks it, and you’ve done nothing to reassure him. And this fit nicely with his theory that before he was turned, you spent time with him only because of his poems.”
The Prince snorted. “Of all the stupid ideas he could have gotten, this one is the most ridiculous. His poems were nothing spectacular. They were not bad, but I had read the finest literature in the world; the scribblings of an angst-ridden peasant boy could hardly impress me. What did impress me was his raw need to write. His feeling of isolation, his desire to be something more. I pretended to like his works only as an excuse to approach him and assist him with money and services. He was too proud to accept any help otherwise.”
“Have you ever told him that?”
He stared at her. “You want me to tell Tristan his poems were nothing special?”
“He’ll be happy to know you spent time with him because of who he was himself.”
“Either that,” Vlad said, “or he would be mad at me and say I was patronizing and treated him like a child.”
“Fair point,” Myra conceded. “Does he say that often?”
“Too often,” the Prince admitted. “The first time was after Callisto and I separated, and he kept finding excuses to say it again afterwards.”
“So after he was turned, you left Callisto to spare his feelings?”
“More or less,” he said. “Though this is a simplified way of looking at it. Another rift had been forming between Callisto and me for some time, and I believe we would have separated one day anyway. But Tristan’s unrequited love certainly sped things up.
“The centuries passed, the three of us traveled together, and we lived through incredible adventures, but this always hung around us like a cloud of grief. His pain was palpable. I broached the subject with Callisto once, and she said she had noticed it too, and it hurt her, for she loved him dearly.
“She agreed with me that this could not go on forever. However, her idea of how to handle things was completely different from what I imagined. She said we had to encourage Tristan to part ways with us and find his own path in life. Then, he would hopefully forget us, and we would make ourselves another child.
“I told her this was unthinkable—Tristan had suffered enough, and he needed us. My blood was the only thing that could relieve his pain.”
“And here you do it again,” Myra said sharply. “You make it sound like you chose to stay with him because he needed you, and your choice might have been different if he had been in perfect health. If that isn’t the case, I suggest you choose your words more carefully, especially when you talk to him.”
“You might have a point,” he said. “And I admit I did not handle things well. I asked Callisto if she could find it in her heart to love him. She was not happy.”
“Can’t imagine why,” Myra muttered under her breath.
“Tristan told you that she and I grew apart,” he continued. “And, in a way, we did. After that night, nothing was the same between us, though I believe even without Tristan, this would have happened sooner or later. I loved Callisto. I still do, but something else stands between us that neither of us can change.” He stood up, turning his back to her, and approached his desk. “You have heard what you wanted to hear. The guards will take you to your room and will bring you food for the day. Give this to him,” he said, turning back and handing her a bar of chocolate. “It is his favorite.”
Myra nodded and accepted the chocolate. She turned towards the door but stopped, her eyes drifting to the chessboard and the discarded black queen. All was not lost for the black. If only she moved that bishop, she could do a check. Would that show him how much she had learned? Smiling, she reached out and moved the piece.
The Prince snorted behind her. “And what exactly did you hope to achieve with this ridiculous move?”
She turned around. “Check.”
“And isn’t the point of the game a checkmate? This move brings you no closer to victory.”
He walked to the board and returned the piece to its previous location. “Do you know why all your plans keep failing?”
“No,” Myra said. “But, please, enlighten me. I know you love monologuing around chessboards to make your ramblings sound deep and wise.”
He smiled and picked up the black bishop once again, rotating it in his fingers. “And does that work?”
Myra shrugged. “Theatrics or not, your advice is sometimes decent.”
“If by ‘sometimes decent’ you mean ‘always impeccable and life-changing,’ you are correct,” he said. “I have told you many rules about playing the game. Think a few moves in advance. Predict your opponent’s strategy. Adapt yours accordingly. But all these are rules you could sometimes break and still win. There is just one rule you can never break.”
He placed the bishop down and moved a black pawn. “You must always know your final goal. Every single move you make should bring you closer to it.”
“And I don’t?”
“Never,” he said. “You keep changing your mind—first, you want to kill me, and then you don’t. You want to escape, but you don’t. You want to capture Tristan, but then you want to set him free. Your plans can never work. Even if you have the most foolproof plan to kill me, it will never succeed unless you really mean to do it and stick to your decision.”
Myra took in a deep breath and walked to the door. He was right. That was why her plan with Casiel had failed—she had thought her final goal was to get Casiel to let her speak to Vlad. In fact, it should have been all that and keeping her friends safe. Shuddering, she placed her hand on the doorknob.
“What is your final goal, Myra?” he asked. “What do you really want? You don’t have to answer me, but you need to answer to yourself.”
What did she want? She wanted the Resistance to succeed. But she did not want Tristan, Vlad, or Armida to die. She wanted the world to belong to humans again. But she did not want all vampires to disappear. She took in a shuddering breath and pressed down on the doorknob.
For the first time, her thoughts took shape in her mind, and they horrified her. She wanted humans and vampires to live in peace. How perfect it would all be—helping each other instead of fighting. She had seen Vlad operate on Andre, so quick and precise. How much good could vampires do if they wanted to help? But what would they ask in return?
These thoughts were naïve, childish, ridiculous. She could no longer live on the edge between two worlds. It was either humans or vampires, and she had to make a choice and stick to it.
Myra fisted her hand, stopping it from reaching to the spot on her neck where Tristan’s bite still burned. She looked straight at Prince Vladimir’s narrowed eyes, bright like glowing embers.
“Thank you, Your Highness,” Myra said and opened the door. “For the first time after meeting you, I finally know what I want.”