The ghosts were smiling at him, and they were even more perfect than he’d thought. Yes, they breathed, they had internal organs, and yes, they were wearing real clothes. Nothing illusory about that dark worsted wool, or linen and silk. And no doubt all this superb “tissue” could vanish in a twinkling, and the costly clothes would drop to the ground on top of the empty shoes.

The old vampire placed a hand on Everard’s shoulder. He had small but long fingers and he wore two stunning gold rings. This was a traditional way vampires greeted each other, not with embraces, not with kisses, but with the placing of the hand on the shoulder. Everard remembered that from times when he had lived amongst them.

“Young one,” he said with the characteristic pomposity of the elder blood drinkers, “please, do not be afraid.” He spoke in Parisian French.

Up close the ancient one’s face was truly impressive, very fine of feature with exquisite black eyelashes and a serene smile. High cheekbones, a firm, discernible, yet narrow jaw. His skin did look like the petal of a gardenia in the moonlight, yes, and his white hair had a subtle silvery sheen. He hadn’t been Born to Darkness with that hair. Rhoshamandes, Everard’s maker, had long ago explained that when some of the ancient ones were badly burnt their hair was white forever after. Well, it was that kind of magnificent white hair.

“We know you’ve heard the Voice,” said this ancient one. “I too have heard it. Others have heard it. Are you hearing it now?”

“No,” said Everard.

“And it’s telling you to burn others, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Everard. “I have never harmed another blood drinker. Never had to. Never want to. I’ve lived in this part of Italy for almost four hundred years. I don’t go into Rome or Florence to fight with people.”

“I know,” said the ancient one. It was a pleasing voice, a gentle voice, but then all the old ones had good voices, at least as far as Everard had ever observed. What he remembered more than anything else about his maker, Rhoshamandes, was his seductive voice, and that voice luring him into the forest on the night he was Born to Darkness against his will. Everard had thought the lord in the castle was summoning him for an erotic encounter, that afterwards he’d be dismissed with a few coins if he’d managed to please, and that he would have tales of tapestry-covered walls and blazing fires and fine clothes to tell his grandchildren. Ha! He could remember Rhoshamandes talking to him as if it were last night: You are surely one of the most beautiful young men in your village!

“My name is Teskhamen,” said this ancient one who was looking at him with such mild, gracious eyes. “I come from old Egypt. I was a servant of the Mother.”