Azalie stepped out into the cool night air. The sky, a blackish blue, was dotted with stars. The nearly full moon hung low, bathing her in silver light.

Dante had a carriage ready, Von holding the reins from the coachman’s seat. He sat stoic, a brute of a man, dressed simply in a wool jacket, cotton pants, and thick leather boots with a top hat. He rarely ever spoke, though Molch found him useful as a coachee. Normally, she’d enjoy a carriage ride to her drop off point, but today, with too much on her mind, the idea felt stifling and oddly insulting since the drop-off was only thirty miles. She could run faster than if she took a lazy carriage ride.

She turned away from the carriage. “No, I won’t be riding today,” she said politely to Dante and stretched her arms and legs.

Dante narrowed his eyes. “Azalie, this is not up for negotiation.” He opened the carriage door.

“Dantalion, I am perfectly capable of getting there on my own,” she replied, annoyed. Why did he care if she took a carriage or not? She was faster than most vampyres her age, even faster than a cheetah. Only her twin, Azazel, or their father, Molch, could outpace her.

Dante remained silent even after she had finished her warm-ups. She felt smug satisfaction at that, but didn’t let it show on her face. She would gloat about it later to Azazel. For now she turned her attention back to her assignment.

She took off in a sprint, the estate vanishing within moments. After five miles, she slowed to a manageable speed, reaching her destination in twenty minutes. A new record, she mused.

She wiped the beads of sweat from her face as she stared up at a three story stone house. A real life villa ubana but smaller like a domus. The yard was well-kept, bordered by shrubs and a metal gate. A winding stone path led to the ostium. Candlelight flickered from a third-story window, casting the restless shadow of someone inside.

Scanning for entry points, she found none—only smooth stone walls. There were no balconies or ledges to climb. Odd for a Roman-style house. She would have to use her ice to create a way up to the window.

Calling on the cold, she easily scaled the iron gate and created an ice bridge to the window. The air froze around her, encompassing the entire Romanesque house and nothing more. Snowflakes fell as she crept in like a shadow.

Inside, a boy, no older than a teenager by the looks of him, knelt over a white chalk magick circle drawn on the stone tiled floor, oblivious to her presence. A dog chained to the bedpost growled but stayed put. The boy, dressed in brown cotton sleepwear, was dusted with chalk at the ends of his pant legs along with his bare feet. He wore a hand-knitted wool shawl draped over his shoulders, his back to her.

This will be quick, she thought, forming an ice dagger in her hand. She gripped the dagger tightly, bracing herself in case it turned into more than a one-sided fight.

Just as she prepared to strike, the boy stood, flipping through an old leather-bound book. Too curious for her own good, she paused, glancing over his shoulder at the pages—mage’s script. Her eyes widened. He’s a mage? She lowered the dagger, confused. Why would her father send her to kill a mage family? They were supposed to be on good terms with the mages in Italy.

A voice echoed inside her head: Do not believe everything you see.

She shook the thoughts away. What did it matter? This was her assignment. Her father’s orders were absolute—she couldn’t disobey them. She shouldn’t even be hesitating. She never would have before. Yet, here she was, questioning.

Distracted by her inner thoughts, Azalie wasn’t paying attention when the room was suddenly engulfed in a blinding white light. She gasped, shielding her eyes, the ice dagger clattering loudly against the tile as she staggered back. 

As the light died down, her panic surged. She opened her eyes to see the boy staring at her, his face a mirror of her own shock, his breath coming in short ragged gasps, as if he’d run a marathon. He looked on the verge of fainting. 

“Lucius?” a woman’s voice called from behind the door, concern in her tone. The doorknob jiggled, but didn’t open.

The boy sprang into motion, erasing the magic circle with a wave of his hand. He grabbed the dog, now softly whining and trying to lick his face. He shushed it with a hiss, and the dog stilled.

“Lucius, young master, open the door!” the woman called again, knocking harder.

In a frenzy, the boy looked for a place to hide the dog. He opened a large wardrobe, and shoved the dog inside. Then he turned to Azalie and grabbed her hand, pulling her to the wardrobe, and pushed her in as well. She could have easily overpowered him, but didn’t. He crouched, meeting her eyes, his voice a desperate whisper. “Please, don’t make a sound.”

His bright blue eyes, wide with fear, stirred something in her. She had seen eyes like that before—frightened, pleading. His pale, sweat-soaked face made his dark hair plaster to his forehead. He shut the door of the wardrobe, leaving only a keyhole for her to peer through.

A heavyset, middle-aged woman, dressed like a housekeeper, entered the room. “Lucius, what were you doing?”

“Sorry Auntie, I was resting,” he said as calmly as he could, though his disheveled appearance told a different story.

“Young master!” she exclaimed as she registered his appearance. She rushed over to him, her hands feeling his damp forehead and flushed cheeks.

“Auntie. . .”  he started, but a fit of coughing interrupted him, his chest heaving with effort. She helped him to the bed, rubbing his back as he struggled to breathe. 

“Lucius, you were not really resting, were you?” she scolded, her voice both stern and soft.

Lucius turned his face away, avoiding her gaze.

She sighed. “How many times have I tol—”

“I was only reading by the window,” he cut in.

She eyed him. “Is that so?” She stood up from the bed and crossed the room, noticing the wide-open window. She shivered from the cold air and closed the window, locking it. Lucius cringed, clearly unaware the window had been open, but kept silent to avoid further questions.  

“Lucius, it’s freezing outside. Why sit by an open window in your condition?” she asked, exasperated, pressing her fingers to her temple.

“It wasn’t freezing when I started,” he said meekly.

Her expression softened as she returned to his bedside. “You’ve developed a fever again,” she said, brushing his damp hair back. “And with the full moon coming, you need to be ready for the ceremony.”

Lucius paled further at her words, his face ashen while hers remained calm. He knew exactly what she meant.

Azalie felt her legs cramping from being crammed into the wardrobe. She shifted, the wood creaking beneath her. The Aunt glanced over, and Lucius’ eyes flashed with panic. Azalie’s chest tightened with a surge of anxiety. She covered her mouth to muffle her breath.

“Auntie,” Lucius said quickly, drawing the woman’s attention back. “I don’t think I can sleep yet. Could you make me some of your marvelous chamomile tea?” He batted his eyelashes, forcing a dazzling smile.

She giggled, clearly charmed. “Only if you promise to stay in bed for the rest of the night.”

Azalie doubted the fairness of the deal, but Lucius nodded. “I promise.”

The woman left, the door clicking shut behind her. As her footsteps faded, Lucius scrambled from the bed and flung open the wardrobe doors. Their eyes met.

He had beautiful clear blue eyes, the color of the ocean at high noon, though they were now clouded with fear—the kind of fear born of hopelessness. Azalie had seen it before, and the memory stirred something deep within her. 

He has the same look as him.

“I don’t know who you are or how you got here, but you need to leave. Now.” His voice snapped her from her thoughts.

Feeling an odd compulsion to obey, Azalie slowly exited the wardrobe with the dog at her side. Maybe it was the look in his eyes—that same look she saw not that long ago in China. She wanted to rescind that look from him then, and now it seemed she was faced with it again. How rare to be given a second chance—or was it?

Maybe . . .

Without thinking, she reached out and cupped the boy’s face in her hands. He froze, wide eyes searching hers. Taller than her, though only by a fraction thanks to her boots, he looked both startled and confused as she leaned in and kissed him. 

He gasped, stumbling back. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” he whispered harshly, wiping his lips.

She tilted her head. “Showing you I mean no harm.” She thought she had done the action right, but his reaction suggested otherwise.

“A simple curtsy would have sufficed,” he muttered, grabbing her wrist again. His grip was light as he led her to the window. She didn’t resist. “I don’t know how you got in here, but I’m sure you can find your way back down.” He thrust the dog into her arms. “Take him. I can’t keep him.”

“Isn’t this your dog? What am I to do with him?” she asked, stunned. 

He sighed impatiently. “I don’t know. Figure it out. Just go!”

Azalie felt her chest tighten again and nodded. With the dog in her arms, she leapt from the window, landing gracefully on the lawn. Lucius’ horrified gasp echoed from above. What did he expect?

She looked down at the dog in her arms, as the dog looked up at her, tongue lolling in a silly grin. She supposed she would figure something out. She glanced around, then vaulted over the gate surrounding the property, vanishing into the night, taking the cold with her.