Later the same night, Nino closes down the bar, counts the register, does some light cleaning with his employees and stops by the bank before returning to his flat in Tufnell Park. When he finally sits down on his bed, he still has weird chills running through his body. He’s never been electrocuted or struck by lightning (thankfully), but he imagines the aftershocks feel something like this. Odd jolts and jitters racing up his spine.
He stares absently out the window across from him. Glittery snowflakes dance against the deep blue backdrop of the night sky—or is it morning? The pointed rooftops of St. George’s Church across the street are lightly dusted with winter white. He picks up his smartphone beside him and presses it on. 4:25 a.m. He checks his messages to see if there’s a response from his best friend. Nothing. She’s definitely asleep by now.
It is late (or early) but he needs to talk with someone. His brother will be irritated by his calling, but Giovanni is almost always irritated with him anyway. Nino hits his number and brings the phone to his ear, waiting.
“What’s wrong?” His brother’s husky voice immediately fills the line.
“Nothing is wrong, per se—”
“Then why the hell are you calling me at three-fucking-thirty in the morning?”
Nino leans down, resting his elbows against his thighs and running his hand into his hair, stressed. “Aren’t you flying to Russia today?”
“Yes.”
“Right. I wanted to ask you something before you’re on a plane for six hours and then in business meetings all weekend.” Nino vigorously massages his hand against his scalp, creating a frenzied mess of his coppery hair. The line is suddenly silent. He abruptly sits up straight like an anxious meercat. “G?”
“I’m waiting for you to tell me what you want,” Giovanni says. “You only call me when something is wrong, so what is it?”
Nino takes a deep breath. Whenever he speaks with his older brother, he feels like one of those people on a spinning wheel at an old-timey circus. The ones that got knives thrown at them. “I didn’t tell you about this, but I’ve been getting these weird invitations from one of the vampires of the aristocracy here.”
“What kind of weird invitations?”
“They say something about confirming a bonding ceremony—”
“Shit,” Giovanni breathes. “They still do those in England? Fucking weird. We haven’t done one of those in Milan since the early 1800s. Gross.”
“Is this thing what I think it is?” Nino asks. “I tried to Google it but nothing specific to ‘bonding confirmation’ came up.”
“Kiddo, you’re not going to find deep-rooted aristocracy vampire shit on the Internet. Look up ‘bedding ceremony.’ It’s fairly close, objective wise.”
Nino hunches his body down again, stifling a groan. He already looked that up.
“Did you accept the invitation?” Giovanni asks.
Here come the knives. Nino takes a deep breath. “No.”
“Why?”
“G… I don’t want to—”
“You told me you were going to England to be more independent and learn. You told me you weren’t just following behind Cellina—that you wanted to change. If you’re going to keep avoiding everyone like a child and only thinking about yourself, you might as well come back home and do that shit. We can find you a new source.”
Nino falls back against the bed, his phone still pressed to his ear as he throws his arm over his eyes. He doesn’t want to run away or be selfish, but he also doesn’t want to be in an ancient castle in the middle of nowhere, full of strange vampires he’s never met.
And he definitely doesn’t want to watch them have sex.
“British purebreds became extinct sometime after the Vanishing,” Giovanni says, shuffling against the phone. “Is it only you they’re asking?”
“No…” Nino sighs. He hates it when people casually reference the Great Vanishing—when several purebreds across the world literally vanished into thin air one hundred and fifty years ago. He hadn’t been alive at the time, but even reading stories about it deeply disturbs him. Until this day, there is no explanation as to why or how it happened.
Nino rolls his shoulders. “There’s another purebred in England. I heard there was one in Scotland too, but she can’t go. The one in England came to talk to me today, at the bar.”
“Oh yeah?” Giovanni asks. “Bonded?”
“No,” Nino says.
“Male or female?”
“Male.”
“Were you scared?”
Nino flops his arm down against the bed and stares up at the ceiling, thinking about his encounter with Haruka. He’d sat at his bar—inscrutable, utterly calm and never taking his eyes off Nino. He reminded Nino of a black panther, or something else very elegant and mysterious. Restrained. His eyes were a deep shade of brown, not vivid and bright like most purebreds’ irises. Regardless of color, the eyes are always a telling sign of a vampire’s strength and bloodline quality.
When their gaze had met, Nino’s nature had helplessly burned brighter, almost reaching out toward him. Just thinking about it makes Nino shiver again.
“No,” Nino says. “I was nervous and I thought he might be angry with me… but he was actually nice.”
Giovanni continues in his grilling. “Old or young?”
“Young. We’re only eleven years apart, and he’s a Historian. He even offered to let me research the ceremony in his home library.”
Although Nino is slightly older, something about Haruka feels very different. Wiser? More experienced? Their interaction was short, but Nino keeps quietly revisiting the idea of Haruka’s offer. While the ceremony itself is wholly off-putting, learning more about Haruka and spending some time with another purebred so close to his age… That might be nice.
“Old blood or new blood?” Giovanni asks.
“His bloodline feels old… very clean. Definitely older than ours. He’s that regal type. The only weird thing is he keeps his aura enclosed inside his body, and the color of his skin is odd—like, faded. Something feels off about him. I don’t know exactly what it is, but I’m not afraid.”
Vampires with very old blood like Haruka have successfully kept their lineage free of human DNA for centuries. Their ancestry is unmarred because their descendants learned early on to feed exclusively from other purebreds and high-ranked vampires as opposed to humans. Some clans were slower to catch on. When they did, it was as if their bloodline restarted completely—sharper senses, enhanced physical prowess and an improved quality of life. Like hitting a reset button for the subsequent generation.
It’s clear that Haruka’s bloodline hasn’t been reset for a very long time.
“Take him up on his offer,” Giovanni asserts. “Go to him. Do the ceremony.”
Nino breathes a laugh, shaking his head. “Just like that?”
“Just like that. You sound like you instinctively trust him, so go learn from him. Try not to get yourself ostracized in this new aristocracy. You need this.”
“Alright, G.” Nino smiles weakly, scratching his head. “Sorry for waking you up.”
“No you’re not.”
“Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
He hangs up the phone and moves across his bedroom to his desk. He opens a drawer, then pulls out an elegant silver invitation, flipping it over in his hands. The return address is for an Emory Alain, Duke of Devonshire. He needs to return the RSVP, and then figure out how to let Haruka know that he’s changed his mind. He is accepting his offer.