Page 3 of Fallen Nocturne

The last of the tourists are leaving now. A guard in a fluorescent vest ushers a young couple toward the gate. Nearby, the woman closes her guidebook and slips it into her bag before rising from the bench. Beneath the gargoyles, the man takes one final photograph, then walks toward the car park without looking back.

The ruins belong to me again. For a few hours at least, until the morning shift arrives and the ticket booth opens and the humans file through in their lines.

Footsteps sound behind me, heavy, graceless and unmistakably human.

I do not turn around.

“Wallet and phone. Now.”

He must see a lone figure standing in a ruin at dusk and think easy prey. I almost admire the confidence. The knife he holds is a crude thing and it would not pierce my skin even if he drove it with both hands. I consider telling him to leave.

I do not get the chance.

Something drops from above and takes the man so fast that his shout dies in his throat. One moment he is standing behind me with his knife out. The next he is gone. A blur of motion carries him upward over the broken parapet toward the gargoyles that still line the upper terrace of the palace.

I follow.

The rooftop is open to the sky. Three gargoyles remain of the original twelve, crouched at the edge like sentinels keeping watch over a kingdom that no longer exists. A young vampire crouches among them with the mugger pinned beneath him. His teeth are buried in the man’s neck, one hand holding him firmly in place while he drinks.

No theatrics. He is simply hungry.

I stand at the edge of the terrace and wait. The city below is settling into night. A thousand years ago this view showed a kingdom alive with torchlight and voices. Now it shows streetlamps and rooftops and the distant hum of a world that has forgotten us entirely.

The young vampire finishes. He lets the body settle against the stone and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. When he looks up and sees me, something passes across his face. Recognition, not of who I am, but of what.

“Oh.” He straightens and clears his throat. “Sorry. Was that your meal?”

“He’s all yours,” I tell him. “I have no interest in feeding.”

The young vampire stares at me. A vampire who allows himself to pass for an easy meal is apparently worth studying.

“Right.” He wipes his mouth a second time and gets to his feet. “I’m Arthur.”

“Sebastian,” I reply with a slight nod.

“There’s a village south of here.” He gestures vaguely in that direction. “I know the people there. I’d appreciate it if you left them alone.”

“I told you. I do not wish to feed.” I glance at the body beside him. “Your villagers are safe from me.”

He studies me quietly and I let him look. After a moment something in his posture loosens and he nods, accepting it.

“Unless they’re the criminal sort,” he adds. “Like this one. The village can spare a few of those.”

A faint smile crosses my face before I can stop it. He sorts humans into columns of deserving and undeserving. As if the universe maintains a careful ledger. Vlad used to do exactly the same thing, standing in the middle of some conquered hall delivering his verdicts with that same expression of absolute moral confidence.

Arthur is one of his. The blood is diluted through many generations of sires but the inheritance sits unmistakably in his bearing, in the politeness and even the way he stands.

I turn from the gargoyles and walk toward the staircase. Arthur hesitates a moment and follows.

“You shouldn’t be out in the open like this when you haven’t fed,” he says.

“I have it well in hand,” I assure him. “You do not need to rescue me from any more muggers.”

He is quiet for a few steps. We descend through the broken corridor where the ceiling has long since given way and the last of the evening light stretches across the cracked stone floor. I step over the velvet rope carefully. Arthur steps over it too, then glances back at it with a small expression of guilt.

“It’s not humans you need to worry about,” he says.

I stop walking.