“Son, it is good to be home.”

“How was Rome?”

“As expected,” Andros said. “She grows more pompous every century. I can’t imagine why Livia thinks so much of herself when this detestable country is run by thieves, mad priests, and inbreeds.”

Jacopo glanced at Paulo, but the young man only rolled his eyes. Jacopo had been with Andros for almost ten years, Paulo even longer, and both the men were used to the unpredictable moods of the vampire.

A visit to Rome, however, only ever raised Andros’s ire.

“But the trip to Florence was a pleasure. The ugly sculptor finished his statue of David, and it was installed in front of the civic house while we were there. A true masterwork. A pity the human is so detestable in his form. Otherwise, he might be worth turning for his talent.”

Jacopo’s ears perked up. “You went to Florence?”

Andros only glanced at him. “We did.”

Jacopo waited. He had known for years that his uncle’s friend, Poliziano, had died only a few months after Giovanni Pico. Savaranola had met a gruesome end, along with most of his uncle’s collection of books and papers, during Florence’s descent into madness six years before. The only survivor of the four men who had raised him was the poet, Benivieni. But Andros was always careful to dole out only the information he wanted Jacopo to have.

“Benivieni is in good health, from what I heard.”

Jacopo kept his face carefully blank. “Thank you.”

“Of course.”

Andros began to unpack books and papers from the trunk Paulo had carried in.

“I have more translations for you to do if your current work is up to standard.”

“It is.”

He heard Andros chuckle. “Your confidence pleases me. And your Arabic is quite good. After you have turned, you will start your study of Sanskrit.”

Jacopo’s head jerked up. “After I have turned?”

Though Jacopo had known of his father’s intentions for years, he rarely mentioned it and never referred to it directly. It was implied—an eternal sentence that hung over Jacopo’s shoulders.

“Yes, you have been with me for ten years now. I have started to note some mild deterioration of your physical form. It is time.”

Jacopo’s heart raced, and he cursed internally, knowing that Andros could hear it. The old vampire looked up.

“Have you changed your mind? Would you prefer that I kill you, instead?”

Jacopo looked over Andros’s shoulder and saw the pathetic hope flair on Paulo’s face. He knew the young man wanted immortality in a desperate and hungry way. He also knew that Andros would never turn the young man, whom he considered “defective.” Jacopo forced himself to smile.

“And waste the fine education you have given me, Father? That would be a mistake, would it not?”

Andros watched him with careful eyes. “It would. But, I suppose, I could always find another student.”

Jacopo rose to his feet. In his late twenties, he was taller than his uncle had been, taller than Andros, and far taller than was common for most men of fifteenth century Italy. His shoulders had filled out, and the strict exercise regimen that Andros had forced on him had molded his body into perfect form. Jacopo looked at the ancient statues of demigods that Andros used to decorate the stone fortress where he resided, and he saw a mirror image of himself.

He gave his father an arrogant smile. “You could find another student, Father?” A cold smirk flicked across Andros’s lips as Jacopo continued, “You would never find another like me.”

Castello Furio

Rome, 2012

Giovanni’s eyes opened. For a moment, he was in his father’s fortress in Crotone, the cold, stone walls echoing the damp room he had woken in his last days as a human. He sat up into a crouch and eyed his surroundings.

The room where Livia’s guards had thrown him was surrounded by a thin fall of water, an effective counter to any of his elemental power, which also filled the underground chamber with a pervasive chill. He could heat his skin, but could do nothing to create a spark. The door had no handle, and the walls mimicked the diameter and shape of the tower where he had slept in apparent safety so many years before. In the back of his mind, he wondered if his current prison was built under the very tower that had sheltered him in Livia’s castle. He did not find it hard to imagine.

Though he could not use fire to escape the chamber, he had immediately tested the walls when he had been thrown in the night before. He sensed no weakness and no nearby energy signatures. Giovanni was completely isolated in the cold room. He could hear the rushing of an underground river somewhere close. No doubt, it fed the waterfall that trickled down the walls.

He wished he had fed the night before. He and Beatrice had planned to feed once they returned to Rome after the party, not trusting any of the blood that Livia would provide. Thinking about his wife made his blood rush, and he was more grateful than ever that Carwyn had accompanied them the night before. His friend would protect Beatrice. His mate would be safe.

He detected a familiar signature approaching, so he stood and braced himself against a stone pillar.

The door opened, and Livia strode in, tailed by two guards dressed in the same clothing that he remembered the vampires at the monastery wearing on the night they had slaughtered the monks and ransacked the library with Lorenzo. At least Giovanni finally knew who was backing his son.

She stood in front of him. Gone was any pleasant facade; her disgust lay plain on her face.