Victorija looked at her sincerely and put her hand on her heart. “I swear to you, it was not me or my vampires. I always kept my vow to Angele and made it clear to my vampires that the Brassard line was not to be touched.”

“I believe you. My granny said the same, that for some reason in all the family clashes with vampires, the Dreds never bothered us,” Daisy said.

“All the time my father was Principe, I made certain all of his foot soldiers knew that. My father was concentrated on other matters, and he never seemed to notice.”

Daisy twirled the chain of her necklace around. “What was Angele really like? Was she anything like me?”

“No, not really. She had this pure innocence that just shone from her. You’re stubborn, annoying, quite different.”

Daisy looked back to the screen. “Oh well. We all can’t be perfect like Angele, I suppose.”

That was strange. Daisy sounded annoyed at that comment.

Chapter Twelve

Victorija didn’t want to sleep. Sleep was painful, and she would never be brave enough to face those souls she had hurt. Daisy had been asleep for about an hour, and Victorija continued to watch video after video on Daisy’s YouTube channel. Daisy was brave, if not a bit foolish, seeking to meet vampires and witches, to stay overnight in haunted locations. But she admired her courage.

Daisy turned in her sleep and cuddled up close to Victorija, under her arm. Victorija froze. What should she do? Wake her?

It got even worse when Daisy shifted and placed her arm around Victorija’s waist and her head snuggled under her arm. Victorija had no idea how to react. She simply gazed at her, trying to think straight.

The subject of her pain, her discomfort, her torment, was lying in her arms, and yet she hadn’t feasted on her blood. It was unthinkable. Victorija could imagine what her father Gilbert would say, that this was a sign of her weakness. But not her mother. Before Gilbert had her confined to the dungeon, she used to have nice times with her mother, Ashkar. She taught Victorija to appreciate beauty, in music, in painting, and in poetry. She would have seen the beauty in Daisy. Victorija stroked Daisy’s hair, loving the soft feel of it. Then her fingers wandered down Daisy’s cheek and jaw.

Earlier Daisy had taken it as a slight that she was nothing like Angele, but it truly wasn’t, and she should have said so. Angele had been sweet, innocent, like a balm to her tortured teenage soul, but Daisy was stubborn, obstinate, brave. She challenged Victorija, shook her already weakening belief in herself. Maybe Angele was right—maybe she had been Victorija’s beginning and Daisy was her end, whichever way that end would come.