Early in the year of 1900 Neferet received an unusual invitation. She was the youngest High Priestess to be invited to the Gathering at San Clemente Island during which the High Council would lead a discussion on the direction vampyre society should take in this new century, wherein they believed inventions, science, and technology would advance at an unheard-of rate.

Alexander begged Neferet to allow him to accompany her. She had adamantly refused. She had no intention of tolerating his constant, cloying attention when there would be so many new Warriors from whom to choose. After all, the most decorated and powerful and experienced Warriors were always chosen to protect the Vampyre High Council and the San Clemente Island House of Night.

She did allow him to drive the carriage that would take her to the Mississippi River and the House of Night-owned steamboat that would transport her in the style of a queen—no, better yet, a goddess—to the port at New Orleans. There she would join many other High Priestesses for the Atlantic Crossing.

They had just arrived at the riverboat wharf when the thieves attacked. Mistaking the House of Night’s rich mahogany carriage for that of a wealthy gambler, the six humans, enticed by only one driver and no additional guards for such an opulent carriage, descended upon Alexander. In the darkness they did not see the elaborate tattoos that Marked him forever as vampyre. Too late they did see his sword.

Neferet watched from the window of the carriage, spellbound as Alexander killed all six of the attackers—quickly and brutally. Neferet had thought the sound his sword made as it sliced the air must be like the singing of the mythic Valkyries as they hovered over a Norse battlefield, waiting to choose the dead warriors they would take to Valhalla.

Dripping in gore, he strode to the carriage door, and wrenched it open. Breathing heavily he said, “My Priestess! Thank the Goddess you are unharmed.”

“I shall thank you instead.” She had taken him there, covered with blood, still carrying the sweet stench of battle, his blood and hers burning hot from killing.

Afterward he had fallen to his knees before her and bowed, saying:

“High Priestess Neferet, love of my life, I pledge myself to you as your Warrior, body, heart, mind, and soul. Please accept me!”

“I accept your Oath,” Neferet had heard herself saying while her body still pulsed from his touch. “From here on you shall be my Warrior.”

It took exactly one full day and night for her to regret accepting Alexander’s Oath. Thankfully, Neferet’s empathic gifts enabled her to dam the emotional tide that usually flowed between a bonded Warrior and his Priestess. Alexander bemoaned the fact that he could not sense her needs or hear her emotions. He fretted aloud that should she be in danger, he would not know it as would any other Oath Bound Warrior.

Neferet had only shrugged and said it was an irony that her empathic abilities had somehow negated the Warrior-Priestess psychic sharing. He had been such a fool to believe her. How could he not have seen that it was she who controlled their bond? Had she cared more, Neferet would have explained to him that he should be grateful he couldn’t know her real thoughts and emotions. By the time they reached Venice, Neferet had thought about casting him over the side of the ocean liner a total of three hundred and sixty-one times, though he sailed on, blissfully unaware of the truth.

Neferet had been right about the San Clemente Warriors. They were spectacular. And outshining them all was Artus, the High Council’s Sword Master.

Artus carried himself like a god. He was aloof and untouchable. His word was law with the Sons of Erebus. He answered only to Duantia, Leader of the High Council.

Most important, he loved battle. He was merciless, only ending a training session after he had drawn blood at least thrice from each opponent and making each of them yield formally to him.

Artus was not handsome—he was glorious. He was tall. His muscles were long and lean. His skin was black as a raven’s wing. Unlike Alexander, whose muscular young body was smooth and free of scars, Artus was covered with evidence that illustrated a life of violence.

But it wasn’t simply his appearance that attracted Neferet. It was what simmered beneath. She used her gift and probed his mind, read his desires, knew his needs. Artus thrived on pain. It was why he pushed his Warriors so hard. It was why he had become the leading Sword Master of the old century, and had remained so for the new one. It was also why he hadn’t bonded with any High Priestess. He hadn’t wanted any of them to know his true self—to discover his true needs. Instead of taking a vampyre lover, Artus chose human prostitutes to sate his desires. Surprisingly, Neferet heard little gossip about Artus’s choice in bed partners. The other High Priestesses found him off-putting. He was too aloof, too serious. He did his job and did it better than any other Warrior in the world—that was all that concerned the San Clemente vampyres. That was all the others understood about him. But Artus could not hide himself from Neferet. To her he was a scroll, written in blood, easily read, easily enjoyed. Neferet desired him more than she had ever desired anyone. She set about having him.

Seducing Artus was more difficult than Neferet had expected. Even among the unworldly beauty of the most powerful and important High Priestesses of their time, Neferet outshined them all. But Artus seemed impervious to Neferet’s beauty.

His aloofness had served only to flame her desire for him.

She had studied him. She learned his habits. Neferet took to wearing the traditional ceremonial garb of Italy’s ancient High Priestesses, which left her breasts bared, her hair adorned with flowers and ivy, and her lush hips draped in transparent fabric the color of a maiden’s blush. Then she made certain she led the casting of the circle that daily asked for Nyx’s blessing on the Sons of Erebus Warriors.

She could feel Artus’s eyes on her body, but when she tried to meet his gaze and draw his attention more fully to her, he always looked quickly away.

Unfortunately, Alexander did not look away from her. Ever. Her Warrior mistook the reason she was lavishing so much time and attention on the Warriors and at the field house as devotion to him. He strutted about, enjoying the envious glances of his new Warrior friends. He boasted that Neferet’s power was as great as her beauty. He fulfilled her every whim like a lap dog. Alexander baffled her as much as he irritated her. How could he not see that he was only an afterthought to her? She probed the Warrior’s mind for subterfuge, and found none. His feelings were true. He was completely enamored with her and utterly deluded into believing that she felt the same for him.

Alexander could not have been more wrong.

Neferet yearned for something darker, more sensual, more fulfilling. She yearned for Artus. The next time she led the Warrior Prayer and Artus’s eyes grazed her body, Neferet had focused the full force of her gift and delved deep within his mind. She was richly rewarded. She had discovered exactly how to seduce the aloof Warrior.

Neferet had set the stage carefully. She waited until it was just after dawn. She knew Artus would be finished drilling the Warriors. He would be in his quarters in the rear of the field house, preparing to rest for six hours. Then he would take the most uncomfortable guard shift, during the time the sun was brightest in the sky.

The High Priestesses assumed Artus took that shift because of his devotion to them. Neferet knew the truth behind that convenient belief. Artus thrived on the physical pain that uncomfortable shift and the sun caused him. Neferet had kept that delicious secret close to her as she plotted and planned his seduction.

First, she got rid of the fledgling Warrior who served as Artus’s aide. That was the simplest step. She allowed the fledgling to caress her—she pretended to desire his youth and his perfect body—she made him believe she would send a fledgling in his place that dawn to serve Artus, if the boy would rendezvous with her at a discreet inn on nearby Torcella Island.

Of course she would deny trying to seduce him. Actually, it had amused her to consider the punishment Artus would mete out to him after he discovered why the boy had shirked his duties.

Next, she slipped away from Alexander. She thought of sending him into Venice to find her a perfect piece of silk in an impossible color, but she hadn’t wasted the energy on fabricating a fool’s mission. Instead she’d waited until his attention was elsewhere, and called fog and mist, shadows and darkness to her so that she faded away from him before he’d even known he needed to look for her. And look for her he would, she was quite sure. He always looked for her. She’d curled her lip in distaste. Why had she let blood and lust shackle her to such a predictable bore? Neferet shrugged off the unpleasant thought of Alexander and his devotion. She wouldn’t think about him at all—she didn’t want to taint the pleasure of what she was certain would come.

Flushed with excitement, Neferet made her way invisibly to the field house. She entered through the rear door—the one nearest Artus’s quarters. Then she waited.

Neferet hadn’t had to wait long. As she already had learned, Artus was a vampyre of habit. When his fledgling didn’t appear at exactly thirty minutes past dawn, he opened the door to his quarters and gruffly called, “Salvatore! Boy! Where are you?”

“Salvatore is not here. No one is here except for me and you,” she’d said.