She tipped her head, studying me, then wrote. How long have you been a vampire?

I grimaced, turning my face away so she wouldn’t take the full force of its hideousness. “Sixty years, or thereabouts. I was twenty, I think, when I was reborn.”

Though the immortal lifespan of a vampire meant we measured time quite differently—to my people, I was still so young—would she see me as an old man?

But Cirri simply wrote on her slate: I’ve put this in my journal, of course, but I’m twenty-five. Is it painful to become a vampire? 

“Oh no, my lady. It’s my turn for a question.” Why was she thinking of what it was like to be of my kind?

It must be simple curiosity. Humans who wished to be reborn weren’t exactly rare, but neither were they throwing themselves at us in droves, begging for an eternal life of blood. In any event, I would not allow Cirri to open her veins and take in vampire blood; her rebirth would disqualify her to be my wife. The Accords were quite clear on that point, that any bride taken by one of the Four Lords must remain human.

Cirri erased her slate and watched me expectantly, chalk poised to write.

I needed to think of something innocuous that could not be turned against me, making me an animal in her eyes. If I asked so much as her favorite meal, she would ask mine, and ancestors only knew how ‘blood’ would sound as an answer.

“Why did you not become a Silver Sister yourself?” I asked abruptly.

To think that if they had claimed Cirri, if the first time I’d laid eyes on her she’d possessed those brutal, ugly silver teeth… what a waste that would’ve been.

This time, her smile was tinged with bitterness. She reached up to touch her throat, eyes on mine, and wrote: The Sisters do not take damaged goods. They’re struggling to recruit as it is; they want the prettiest girls, the best ones, to represent them. A mute is not good representation.

“Damaged goods?” I snarled, rage sparking to life in my gut, and only when Cirri leaned back in her seat—no more than a slight shift—did I force myself to take a calming breath.

She watched me sidelong, still relaxed, but there was a watchfulness to her now that shamed me.

“My apologies.” What I didn’t say was that I rather wished I’d shoved the silver bells down the Eldest Sister’s throat until she choked on them. “I think you would have been better representation than what they showed me.”

She huffed her silent laugh again. Thank you. I’ll pretend that’s true. But even I couldn’t combat the rising tide of your people’s popularity. I think the Sisterhood will die out soon. Maybe not in this century, but the next. 

I thought of something that she might find entertaining. Anything to drive that bitter edge off her expression. “Do you want to know a secret?”

She nodded, my ruse working; the shine of curiosity had come back into her gaze.

“The book… the book I found for you,” I said, clearing my throat. “Have you, ah, looked at it yet?”

To my amusement, she blushed. I’ve heard much of it, but I haven’t read it. I’ve had no time.

“Well… it’s not the only one of its kind out there. Gisele fel Marchand, she’s written many of them.”

I know, Cirri wrote, blushing even more furiously. The maids pooled their money to buy them. They were very popular.

Ancestors, it was hard to keep my thoughts from scattering at the sight of the pink glow across her cheeks. Even her scent intensified, the musk of skin and the tinge of iron beneath as her blood pounded through her veins.

I swallowed hard, pushing the thirst back.

“Fel Marchand is a vampire. Her only job is to produce those books and have them distributed in human cities… to draw humans in.”

Cirri looked up at me, eyes wide, all thought of hiding her blush forgotten.

“They’re designed to make us seem more… appealing. Heroic. Seductive. One of the reasons the Sisterhood is gnashing its teeth over our popularity is because fel Marchand has embarked on a campaign for the last ten years to present us in the best possible light, in the most subtle possible way—via books.”

She gazed at me wonderingly for several moments.

That’s either the most deceptive or the most brilliant thing I’ve ever heard, she wrote. She thought it over, and added, maybe a little of both.

“Yes, both. We all agreed that if this was to work… well, our history was not flattering, of course. Several of the most charismatic and imaginative among us were chosen to create a new image, one in which humans and vampires live side by side.” I mused over fel Marchand’s elaborate ploy to worm her way into the psyche of the readers across Veladar. “Strange, how a simple tale of a handsome vampire can make us seem so much less frightening.”

Is it just books? Cirri asked.

“No, there’s artists, playwrights, architects… all across the spectrum, my people are doing their best to present everything to do with our kind in a desirable light.”

She leaned back, an odd look on her face—half admiring, half concerned. A beautiful trap. Like spiders luring flies into a shining web.

“But is it truly? We’ve passed new laws. We’ve executed those most vehemently against them—those vampires who promised to defy them and take a human life. Several vampires in my legion have married human Rift-kin, and by all accounts, they’re quite happy.” I gestured to myself. “We’ve given much, hoping for a second chance to prove ourselves.”

Cirri fumbled her chalk, dropping it to the carriage floor. It rolled to my feet and I reached down to pick it up, straightening to find Cirri gazing at me, stricken.

I held out the chalk, and she took it. Her fingers brushed mine, and she didn’t shy away.

Bane, she wrote, I’m sorry. That was a horrible thing to say. I didn’t think.

I looked at my name, written in her lovely hand. The curved loop of the Veladari word, a single symbol, for ‘bane’—a curse, a scourge.

How appropriate. I was her curse now.

Despite the brief flare of irritation I’d felt, I couldn’t be angry with her. “No, Cirri. You grew up with vampire slayers. To you, our subtle campaigns would seem like a trap.” I smiled at her, unable to hold onto annoyance. “Say what you think, always. I’d rather hear censure from you, if that’s your true thought, than to hear a polite lie.”

She erased the slate and looked out the window, giving no sign she wanted to write anything more.

“Please don’t shut me out,” I asked, perilously close to begging. “I’m not angry.”

Cirri glanced at me. I’m not, she wrote, I’m just embarrassed. I really don’t hate your kind, despite my upbringing. I know what you gave makes you a hero to your people. But I can’t claim to understand it yet. 

“Shall we be embarrassed together, then? What would you have me do?”

She squinted her eyes, incredulous, but there was a ghost of a smile at the corners of her mouth. I’m not sure you could be embarrassed. You’re very self-possessed. 

I read her words, again and again.

No… it wasn’t self-possession. But she didn’t realize that yet. It was simply that it was difficult to put a natural predator into a position where they might feel anything remotely close to silly.

It’s a quality I admire, she wrote, leaning forward to brush a finger across my knuckles. A faint streak of white chalk was left behind. I resolved to keep it there as long as I could; a Cirri-mark.

“Choose the date and time, my lady, and I will do whatever frivolous thing you desire,” I told her gravely. “One embarrassment of your choice, to be served at your whim.”

Now her smile was back in full force, as dazzling as the sun. This is going to require some thought. I can’t waste the opportunity to mortify such a lofty individual.