Every immortal knew of the Ancients, vampires who had lived for thousands of years, but for young turns like me and Reg, they existed as fairy-tale creatures—the tales about them almost too unbelievable to be true. It was said that Ancients could alter their appearance at will, walk in the sunlight, even go years without feeding.

Other stories told of Ancients reverting to human behaviors, like eating (which sounded so totally gross before my new human senses discovered Lina’s coffee and Sal’s cooking). Some Ancients claimed to have memories of their past human lives or premonitions of the future; some lived so long they simply got bored of life, lay down in a coffin, and never came out; but most just went mad. Which was why the Elders governed.

If you asked me, a ban from politics and a tiny bit of crazy was a small price to pay to shed all vampire limitations, while strength and speed only increased, and immortality endured.

“Why would she be here? In this tiny town? She could go anywhere, do anything! She could—”

“She is not a god,” Sal snapped. “It is not a divine achievement to simply pass the years without growing old.”

“I’m just saying, she has options.”

“Many immortals live among humans,” Sal said. “Not all believe humanity is the hell you make it out to be.”

“If Lina loves humans so much, why not take a stroll through your gate and become one herself?” I asked.

Sal’s knuckles turned white where they wrapped around his coffee mug, and I wondered for a second if the ceramic might shatter in his strong slayer hands.

“I told you. Some vamps won’t give up immortality for anything.”

“You were talking about her?” My eyes opened wide, as the possibilities exploded. There was more between Sal and Lina than a turf war over some scrap of dirt called Nowhere, Iowa. The photo of them all tangled up in each other was proof of that, wasn’t it? The stormy look in Sal’s eyes would have been enough to confirm my suspicions, even if he hadn’t opened his mouth and spilled his heart out on the table.

“So, now that you know what she is,” he said. “You might as well know who she is.”

I leaned forward, hands pressed against the polished wood of the table, afraid to speak in case my words made him think twice about his own.

“She calls herself Lina now, but before that, she was Adelina la Prima.”

“La Prima,” a voice echoed from the dark hallway beyond the kitchen. Reg emerged from the shadows. “The First.”

Sal didn’t ask how long he’d been standing there. He only kicked out a chair, a rough invitation for Reg to sit, which he did.