Every time she killed to survive, she loathed herself. She was a parasite—no, worse. At least parasites had a life cycle in harmony with the earth. She, instead, was something so fundamentally wrong that she should never have existed. More than once, she had thought of starving herself to death or letting the sunlight reduce her to ashes. But she had never managed to go through with it. She clung to that last ember of existence with a desperate hunger, and it was that futile instinct for self-preservation that made her hate herself most of all. A lifeless existence without hope—this had been her reality since she had been infected. Until that miraculous birth, an event that had stirred more emotions within her than she was willing to admit.

She arrived in Rome deep in the night and made her way toward the Vatican Museums. Climbing up to a window on the office floors, she peered inside. The halls were patrolled by uniformed guards, forcing her to spend time studying their rounds before she could slip into the inner chambers. Her footsteps barely echoed on the polished marble floor. She read the signs: she was in the most important section of the Museums, the one leading to the Library and, beyond it, the Manuscript Room.

She had never been drawn to religion, but she had to admit that this place seemed built to inspire it. The ceiling was adorned with sacred frescoes, while the variegated marble, forming intricate patterns along the walls, represented one of the highest expressions of human artistry. In the dim light, the space possessed an aura of solemnity, a silent penance, like all sacred places.

To reach the library, she had to get past two metal turnstiles. Cameras watched from the corners of the corridor, but if she moved swiftly enough, she had a good chance of getting in and out without too much risk.

According to the signs, the Manuscript Room lay ahead, beyond the heavy wooden door at the corridor’s end. She approached and examined the lock. She had expected it to be secured, yet all it took to enter was a simple push.

Turning on herself, she advanced into the great hall, taking in the sheer weight of knowledge contained within these walls. Thousands of books stood in perfect order on towering shelves, some locked behind thick glass and metal grates. The problem would be finding the Sarim-Dub in this labyrinth of paper and ink.

She approached one of the archivists' computers. Switching it on, she typed the name into the search bar, but the screen returned nothing. She was about to try again when a voice behind her stopped her cold.

"What are you looking for?"

She bared her fangs, but before she could react, a hand clamped around her throat, slamming her against the marble wall. And then she saw him—a face she could never forget, whose sight hurt more than any wound he could have inflicted.

"Marcus, you..." she began, but he silenced her—by taking her lips.

Antonia felt his hand slip along her waist in a slow caress, and her mind unraveled. She tangled her fingers in his long hair, plunging her tongue into his mouth as their bodies pressed together, leaving her breathless.

It was a kiss of madness, of desperation—a kiss that had haunted her worst nightmares and her only moments worth living. Once again, he ripped her soul from her chest, and she could no longer bear it. She tore herself free and struck him across the face with all the strength she could muster.

"You don’t get to touch me," she panted, pointing a trembling finger at him. "Not ever again."

He stepped back, tilting his head slightly.

He wore a black cassock with a crimson sash around his waist, and a golden cross hung against his chest. But he looked nothing like a man of God. Tall and dark, with deep golden-flecked eyes set above a straight nose and sculpted lips—lips to which she had surrendered too many times. The same lips that had made her what she was, that she had convinced herself she had forgotten. And yet, there he was, threatening to drag her back into the past she had spent three centuries trying to bury.

"I wondered when you’d find your way here," Marcus said in his smooth Arabic accent.

His real name was Amir, but he had always preferred his Latin name.

"How are you still alive?"

"Only you could have killed me. And you didn’t."

Antonia bit her lip hard enough to draw blood as memories clouded her vision. She was back in that past, lost, terrified in her own pool of blood. He had turned her without permission—why had he never been sentenced for it?

"Tell me, why didn’t the Retriever give you the true death?" she demanded, shaking off the memory.

Marcus let out a soft laugh. "She tried. With rather poor results. In any case, now is not the time to talk about it."

Antonia clenched her fists. "You’re a damned bastard."

He took a few steps through the room before speaking again. Antonia still couldn’t fully grasp that he was truly here, standing before her. A specter. A nightmare. A curse.

"I’m sorry about what happened to your daughter, Antonia."

That reference nearly shattered her. "You… You don’t even get to say her name!"

Marcus halted, looking into her eyes. "I can’t go back. Neither of us can change what’s been done."

She ran a hand over her face and shook her head. She couldn’t go on like this. Not if she wanted to keep what little sanity she had left.

"You’re right, Marcus. This is not the time. In fact, it never will be."

The dingir let the golden cross slip between his fingers. Antonia averted her gaze, trying to silence the storm raging inside her mind. She was here for something else. That was all that mattered.

"I fought some priests, but they were far from ordinary men. Was that your doing?"

"I had to bend a few rules," Marcus admitted, folding his arms.

Antonia gave a bitter laugh. "Why am I not surprised? But you haven’t answered my question."

Marcus narrowed his gaze. "Yes. I let them drink my blood."

Antonia opened her arms wide. "You turned them into Thirsters. You have no morality, but we both already knew that."

The blood of a dingir temporarily granted humans vampiric traits—strength, speed, even bloodlust in prolonged cases. But addiction to it led to madness.

During the Middle Ages, this had been a common practice, especially among male dingir, who let their human lovers drink from them until they craved nothing else. It had grown so rampant that it had to be banned. The Inquisition had conveniently helped both the priests and the dingir put an end to it. Many Thirsters had perished at the stake, to the Church’s evident satisfaction.

Marcus shrugged. "It was their choice. They sacrificed themselves for a higher purpose. Isn’t that always the way?"

"Let me guess, Marcus. That ‘higher purpose’ conveniently aligns with your own goals."

He smirked. "I think your perspective is rather… limited."

Antonia fought the urge to attack him and instead paced the room like a caged predator. She had walked into a trap.

She would have to find another way forward. And for that, she needed information.

Looking up at the sky, she realized dawn was approaching. She had to find a place where, once again, she could die until the next night.