– Whatever. So what about the next meeting? – I asked, satisfied with my mentee's sarcasm about vampire books and the fact that I'd managed to convince her to keep studying with me.

– Well… Maybe tomorrow? – she suggested timidly.

– Great," I agreed without hesitation.

– I'll have a call for a date soon. – Viper looked me in the eye. – 'Let's say five o'clock, same place. Is that okay with you?

– Sure," I answered briefly, deciding not to delay her.

– Then I'll see you tomorrow," she said, and grabbed her bag without turning round and walked away from the corner of the corridor.

As I watched Viper walk away, I grinned slightly. Strangely, the memory of apologising to her, mortally, and twice, made my grin turn into a faint smile of surprised satisfaction. It was wrong, unnecessary. It was unnatural. But I had no desire to stop the flow of these marvellous thoughts – they didn't threaten me. I could distance myself from Viper at any time, without regret or self-harm. It was so easy.

I didn't think it would come to reconciliation. On the contrary-I was going to humiliate and shame Viper again, but it turned out that I was the one standing in front of her, humiliated and ashamed of my action. Something inexplicable pushed me to tell her about my love of poetry, and even to explain the reason for that love. Why? Do I have to explain anything to her? It was as if my mind had fallen asleep: my contempt for Viper was gone, and I was enjoying her company, for I had always guarded my privacy and my thoughts fiercely, preferring solitude to any interlocutor. I liked this girl's voice – low enough, but soft and enchanting, as if penetrating to the very soul.

Full of these thoughts I went to the next pair, but comfortably seated in my chair, I did not hear the teacher's voice. What he was talking about or how he was explaining the hieroglyphics adorning the blackboard was unimportant. I couldn't concentrate. I looked at that blackboard and saw blurred silhouettes spreading out on it like watercolours on wet paper.

In the afternoon, an unexpected sun peeked out, which brought me some difficulties. Pulling my jacket over my ears and trying to hide in the shadows cast by the university, I made my way swiftly to my car. When I reached it and placed my palm on the door handle, a ray of sunlight hit my skin, immediately turning my palm from young and beautiful to ugly, aged, yellowed like ancient parchment. I was instantly in the car and smiled mockingly at this little incident: fortunately, there were no witnesses I had to eliminate so that no one would ever know what Cedric Morgan was really like.

I arrived at the castle, put the car in the garage and went up to the main hall, which served as our sitting room and, occasionally, our dining room, when we, with goblets full of fresh blood, sat by the huge fireplace and had conversations on a variety of topics.

Although I had at my disposal my own spacious annexe, to which I had to walk across the castle, I occupied only one room. Along the way, I rarely encountered any unexpected visitors, as the castle was empty most of the time. I did not consider the presence of six servants, who travelled through the castle by secret passages, so as not to glimpse their masters, worthy of attention.

For a family as old, wealthy, and honourable as the Morgans, the presence of six servants was something extraordinary, out of the ordinary. But we got along just fine with that number, for with the advancement of science and technology, machines did most of the work. Yes, a hundred years ago servants did everything, and in those days our castles were cared for by no less than fifty servants. Now there was simply no need for them. Naturally, the servants were not humans, but vampires who could not find their place in life and preferred to obey the strongest.

Morgan's Castle was a work of art: Gothic architecture did not allow itself to be disfigured by the gaudy gilding and opulence of later styles. Austerity and simplicity – that is what caught the eye of the numerous guests of our cloister. The legs of tables, chairs, sofas and even wardrobes were ubiquitous decorations, representing the paws of predatory animals. Each room had large stone fireplaces guarded by stone predators, different in each room. Ancient candelabra, the wax candles of which had long since been replaced by electric ones, adorned the walls, along with tapestries and heavy large paintings. It smelled medieval, but it wasn't gloomy-it was lit by a subdued, soft light that illuminated the entire castle, hidden so skilfully that the walls seemed to glow from within.

My room was a large, rectangular room of little variety and luxury, covered with a thick, soft carpet, its grey colour blending with the stone floor. There was a wooden bed, just for show, a black, somewhat worn desk, a comfortable wide sofa, two large armchairs by the carved fireplace, guarded by two curved stone panthers, and my huge personal library on oak shelves that stretched from floor to ceiling. Above the fireplace hung a large pastel painting in a rough oak frame depicting the stark landscape of a Norwegian fjord where our family had lived about a hundred years ago, and which was so etched in my memory that I had painted the landscape simply from memory. Heavy thick black curtains blocked the room from light and sunlight – I hated to see what a monster I had become in two and a half centuries, so the curtains were always tightly closed. This sparsely furnished room was my personal retreat and a place of true solitude, where I knew little or no disturbance.

I walked into the room, threw my knapsack in a corner, poured fresh blood into an iron goblet, and contemplated the fire dancing in the fireplace. Sometimes I thought about people and marvelled at how imperfect they are: where do they find time for studies, seminars, recreation and personal life when they need sleep and food every 24 hours, at least three times a day? We are another matter. We are always full of vigour and energy. We do not need to sleep, but only for a couple of seconds we go deep into the depths of our consciousness, and that is enough for a whole week. The blood of one victim lasts at least three days, a week at the most, depending on how hardened the organism is.

In the evening I went down to the main hall, where I found my parents and Markus and his fiancée: Mariszka had recently moved in with us and had become a legal resident of the castle and a member of our family.

Her mother and father always sat next to each other: they were very fond of each other and rarely parted. Mortals thought they were my brother and sister, so young and beautiful they were.

My mother was a native Czech. Despite the fact that she was over five hundred years old, she was beautiful: she had skin as matte white as snow, her beautiful long wavy hair of dark brown colour was astonishingly luxurious. Light brown eyes, a clear, gently arched brow line. My mother was a remarkably beautiful woman, and no mortal gave her more than twenty-five years of age.

My father, a true native of Foggy Albion, had the same white skin as his wife, but his coal-black hair gave him a somewhat gloomy and over-aristocratic appearance. His eyes – cold, blue, smiled rarely. In the eyes of mortals, he was a young, gorgeous man. In reality, he was five hundred and seventy-four years old.

And only his eyes gave away the true age of my parents – they glittered with knowledge and centuries of wisdom, and seemed to pierce the consciousness.

Markus and Mariszka were sitting in the far corner, whispering about something. It was our custom not to eavesdrop on each other, so no one paid attention to their confidential conversation. Or rather, love cooing.

When I entered the hall, my father was telling my mother about an old friend who was soon going to visit us for a couple of days. This news did not make me happy: friends were nothing but trouble for our family. Almost every month one of my father's or mother's friends would visit our castle, either alone or in clans, and then things would get very bad. The Praguers. Since it cost a lot of money to feed a horde of vampires, from the very first day of their stay, the Prague newspapers trumpeted that Prague was once again home to a maniac. Other journalists speculated about an unknown predator killing people in the woods. Some vampires behaved too openly and brazenly: despite strict warnings not to kill unnecessarily, they killed for fun. I was always annoyed by it, but my father stubbornly forgave those apostates, arguing that they had been friends for centuries.