Azalie stood outside the iron gate that lead up to the estate in which she lived, staring at the ironwork’s fine detail that resembled vines; her eyes following them as they twisted into roses. A heavy layer of rust coated the bars, telling its age to the world. If only the outside world could see.

She was stalling. It had been about three weeks since she had left for China, though now it seemed like an eternity had passed. She tightened her hand on the small travel bag she had slung over her shoulder and angled it across her chest for easy access.

She dug into the bag, searching for the trinkets she’d acquired. Her hand passed over the old clothing she had worn in China and stilled for a moment. Shaking her head, she rummaged further down to the bottom of the bag. She’d save that memory for another time, when she was ready, and pulled out what she was looking for.

One trinket was a pair of polished-iron sleeve cufflinks with the Chinese character immortal carved into the metal in high relief. She found them whimsical and bought them for her twin brother, Azazel. He rarely cared about such things, but for her, he would make an exception. She thought the gesture was nice; humans thought that, anyway.

With a deep breath, she cleared her mind and calmed her racing heart, and removed her hand from her bag, resting it on the cool iron gate. It was eerily quiet all around the massive estate. It usually was, though before there had been the sounds of birds. Now there was nothing. The sky was still dark, and the moon was nearly full; she could feel that dawn would break within the hour. She breathed in the crisp nighttime air to settle her nerves. “All right, I am ready.”

With a gentle push, she swung the gates open, their rusty hinges creaking in protest. The gate doors slammed shut behind her, causing her heart to skip a beat. Calm down, she told herself as she made her way up the old cobblestone path, striding up to the front door of the large estate building she’s called home for so many years.

The estate held a plain, windowless stone facade and towered over thirty feet tall. The building itself was rather large on its own, taking up several acres, but this was only the front of the main building. Five more stand-alone buildings surrounded the center and were connected with winding walkways.

Every day for the last fifty years, she had walked this path. She has touched this same old oak door with its rust-colored iron hinges. The sight of the familiar beautiful freezes, with their elaborate portrayals of gods and men, fairies delicately sitting on flowers, and angels leisurely lounging on clouds, elicited no emotion other than it just being pretty. She wondered if he ever thought about them. She never got the chance to ask. No, that’s not true; she never cared to ask. It never seemed essential, and now it didn’t matter. She pushed open the door and stepped into the main foyer, closing the door softly behind her.

It was pitch black inside. Not a single candle was lit. Her eyes adapted instantly. Her vampyric eyes could see in any light; however, it wasn’t just vampyres that lived at the estate. Her gaze swept across the surroundings, and to her surprise, there was not a single person in sight. Considering the hour, she assumed that most of the estate's main inhabitants would be preparing for sleep, while the human housemaids would still be bustling about. She focused her hearing and listened for their light footsteps. From down the hallway in the dining room, she could hear the gentle clink of glasses being cleared and the constant drip-drop of the kitchen's faucet.

She was home. The reunion felt bittersweet.

“My lady Azalie, you have returned!” an old woman’s voice exclaimed.

Azalie turned swiftly, relaxing after she saw who it was. Margrett. She was a sweet old housemaid who had come with them when they moved to Rome. She had been fourteen then, a young beauty with long flowing raven-black hair and bright hazel eyes. Now she was around sixty-four. Her hair was laced through with silver and gray and tied up into a taut bun at the back of her head. Her hazel eyes had at least retained their liveliness, only now surrounded by the wrinkles that formed when she laughed or smiled, as she was smiling now.

“Hello Margrett.” Azalie smiled, happy to see at least one familiar face. “Where is everyone?”

“They have all retired for the night, my lady,” Margrett said sweetly, then paused a moment, considering something. “Would you like something from the kitchen, my lady?”

Azalie thought for a moment. Honestly, she wasn’t hungry. Food had been the last thing on her mind, but she had had nothing substantial when she was away in China. So it would be for the best. “I’ll just take a blood bottle, Miss Margrett. Could you leave it in my room for me? I need to speak with my father and Zel,” Azalie said, using her brother’s nickname. Only with Margrett and her brother could she be so informal.

“Certainly, my lady,” Margrett said with a slight bow, and disappeared into the darkness of the estate.

Azalie made her way down the narrow corridors that lead to her father’s chambers. She wanted to see Azazel first, but she knew she couldn’t. Making her way down a hallway, she veered into a corridor leading to the inner courtyard, embraced by Corinthian-style columns, and eventually arrived at a towering mahogany door—her father's private entrance—and paused to knock.

“Father?” she called out as she opened the door and peered inside.

Molch's intense focus was evident as he sat at his desk, his brow knit together as he studied the paper before him. His eyes briefly lifted from his task as the door opened, and Azalie entered the room. In a single fluid motion, he gathered the papers that were spread across his desk, stacked them neatly, and stowed them away in one of his desk drawers, giving her his full attention. His attire was impeccable, as he donned a royal blue pinstriped suit with a silvery blue tie and a neatly folded matching handkerchief in his breast pocket. His hair, the same silver-white shade as hers, was expertly slicked back from his forehead using a thin layer of gel.

Azalie remembered the suit; she had it custom-made for him in Trieste, Italy. He hardly ever wore it. To see him in it now gave her a slight satisfaction, nothing more. Taking his steady crimson gaze as a cue, she sat on the edge of the chair near his desk, back straight, ankles crossed, hands folded in her lap. Molch was not just her father; he was the Lord of the entire vampyre clan in Rome—a King of sorts—who was very particular.

He gave her a slight nod, and she relaxed a bit. “Father, I have completed my assignment,” she said, surprised by her calmness.

“It took you longer than I expected. Did something happen?” Molch raised a silver brow. His crimson-colored, cat-like pupils fixed on her with interest.

Azalie shook her head. “I have never been to China before. Getting the lay of the land took a while. They also don’t have the same amenities as we do here. You could say I was out of my element.” She paused a moment for a breath as he continued to watch her. “But through it all, I was still able to find the fugitive and dispatch them. Their name was no longer on my list, so while I was still in China, I decided to do a little sightseeing.” She pulled off her canvas bag and reached down inside, pulling out a beautiful fountain pen made from a peacock feather and an ornately crafted vial with shimmering black ink swishing inside it. “I got this for you.” She sat the gifts down on his desk.

He picked up the peacock pen and twirled it between his finger and thumb, eyeing it with interest, and opened the vial of ink and dipped the pen, then scribbled something down on a stray piece of parchment. Nodding his approval, he replaced his old worn-out fountain pen with the new one. Azalie smiled, then quickly smoothed her expression as he looked back up at her.

“Anything else I should know about?”

“No, father, there is nothing else to report.”

"Good," he said, nodding again, and rose from his chair. “I have a new assignment for you. You will go out tomorrow night.” He handed her the paper he had just scribbled on. The page displayed a name and address in glowing letters. She nodded, suddenly exhausted.

No time for rest, as usual. Standing up, she carefully folded the paper and tucked it away in her canvas bag before heading towards the door.

“Azalie.”

She stopped. She turned back to her father, her hand still on the knob, and met his gaze once again.

“I am glad you made it home safely.”

She stood there, stunned. Her throat felt horribly dry. He rarely expressed his concerns, and when he did, she was unsure how to deal with them.

“Thank you, Father. I am glad to be back,” she said, trying not to choke on her throat’s dryness.

She must have succeeded because he nodded to her again, as a silvery strain of hair fell over his forehead. He smoothed it back in place as Azalie turned back to the door and exited.

Now to Azazel.

She headed for his room, the heels of her boots clicking loudly against the stone floor, creating a lingering echo with every step. The sun was already rising, but she knew he wouldn’t be asleep yet. She had wanted to send him a message through her calling stone. A thin, flat, smooth circular piece of clear quartz crystal that could transfer one’s thoughts to another piece. She wanted to let him know ahead of time when she would be back home, but she hadn’t even known. At least like this, she was sure to surprise him.

She turned the corner at full speed and collided with someone, both of them letting out a synchronized “oof.” Her arms reflexively grabbed at the person.

“How kind,” said a soft, lazy voice, devoid of any emotion.

Astaroth, the Incubus, stood in front of her. He served as one of her father's advisors. His hair, a sunny blond, was tousled and freshly finger-raked. His white collared shirt was unbuttoned at the top and untucked from his pants, with part of it roughly jammed into his belt. A small portion of his pale tanned chest was showing, and his tie, a dark ivory satin with silver streaks, hung loosely around his neck like a necklace.

He was normally very well put together, though it was not unusual to see him like this. His disheveled appearance, coupled with the unmistakable smell of cheap booze, whiskey, and old cigar smoke, left little doubt that he had just come from a brothel. Azalie wrinkled her nose. His purple eyes were half-closed and glazed over in a dream-like state. “Forgive me, Astaroth. I was absorbed in my thoughts. Are you hurt?”

“’Tis fine. Must be rushed?” he said in his soft, dreamlike voice. She gathered he was not all there.

“Yes, I am. You must also be as well. Did my father call for you?”

He only gave a small nod, his face blank of expression. His face and voice were always thus, but just because he did not show his expressions did not mean he did not feel them, or at least, she assumed, he could still feel emotions. Why else would he be going to a brothel? Surely, it wasn’t for the booze and cigars.

Azalie took a step to the side, giving him the path. “Be on your way then,” she said with a forced smile. As much as she would love to sit and chat with Astaroth, she did not want to when he was in this state. His voice made her even more tired than she already was, and she had places to be.

“How kind,” he said again, his voice a whisper of thanks. He stepped past her, continuing down the hall like he was walking through a dream.

“Frate?” Azalie called out to her brother softly in Romanian. She had knocked a few times on Azazel’s door, but no answer came. She couldn’t imagine he was asleep—though he was notorious for falling asleep standing up, but sleeping at this hour seemed unlikely, so she turned the knob.

None of the estate's doors had locks; her father had said locks were a human invention for those unable to protect what they valued.

 Azalie opened the door and peeked inside. It was a large, spacious room. The walls were made of smooth, beautiful stone, mortared together to look seamless. The floor was laid with rich cherry wood and polished to a shine every day. In the far corner stood a fireplace with a heavy hickory mantle. Usually, Azazel’s blue fire would be crackling and dancing on the logs in the fireplace. Now it was dark and cold with an unkempt ash bed. 

A desk sat across from the fireplace. The legs were carved in a lovely baroque style, and the top was already showing signs of wear. His two bookshelves stood on either side of the desk. She ran her fingers over the leather-bound spines—each one from a different time period and language.

She left the bookshelf and found his bed neatly made. A thick Persian rug poked out from underneath. The door to the bathroom was slightly ajar; however, there was no sound coming from it. She glanced over at the coat rack by the door and saw that his jacket was missing. She sighed, realizing he must be out.

Given the time, she could have waited for him to return. She wanted to, but she also wanted sleep. She didn’t think she had ever felt this worn out. Except for one other time. A time she did not want to revisit right now.

She pulled out the Chinese sleeve cufflinks and laid them on the bed, then left the room.

Azalie headed for her room on the east side of the estate. She wished she could have had a room closer to Azazel. Though Dante, Molch’s other adviser, and Azazel and Azalie’s tutor, believed gender separation fostered a productive living and working environment. Azalie rolled her eyes at the thought.

She opened the door to her room, the exact mirror to Azazel’s room with the walls and floor and the corner fireplace, but hers was much more decorated. Two of her walls were covered with neatly hung shelves. Most of the shelves were covered with the trinkets she had collected over the years; Russian nesting dolls, a kabuki mask from japan, and beautiful teal colored hand-blown glass bottles she’d got from every state in Italy, each with unique designs.

She had collected so much over the years that her room was filled with a rainbow of colors. She even had a stained glass window panel of a man with fairy wings playing a lyre, lounging on a flower petal, while another flower over top of him dripped nectar into his mouth. There wasn’t even a window in her room. But she found the art captivating, so she placed it over her desk on a shelf with a few candles behind it to make the colors glow.

Azalie flopped onto her bed, turning her head to gaze at the rarely used fireplace. The cold nipped at her skin. “I should light a fire. . .” she mumbled, closing her golden-colored cat-like eyes, her hair falling out of its tie draped over her like a moonlit waterfall.

She soon drifted off, and dreamt of the high mountains of China and a small five-by-five hunting cabin, where a man was sitting in the corner, his eyes the color of a raging storm, and filled with tears.