Prologue
—Monterrey, Mexico. 1885—

"Lykes, Soren."

A newborn steps out of the ranks, still moving with the tense, catlike gait of an animal. I assess him coolly, taking in the scholarly stoop of his shoulders, the small hands and soft jaw. Even if his name had not been scrawled on Maria's death list, I would have cut him from the others based on body-type alone; with no extraordinary talent or skills, his strength — his usefulness, will fade with the coming of the year mark. His emotions are arrogance and elation, because Maria is clever enough, because Maria is cruel enough, to tell them that tonight is their reward. They do not understand the sickly sweet smell of smoke and spices coming from outside the mansion walls, and the faint screams they hear excite them rather than terrify them. They imagine these agonized sounds are being pulled from the mouths of human victims, the "prize" they were promised by the ruby-eyed beauty who lounges on the chaise behind me.

"Jasper," she says quietly, with a hint of a roll on the r. "Hurry back, won't you? I'll want to dance."

I nod at her once, a half-smile on my face as if I am pleased by her blatant indifference. As if I cannot wait to return and hold her in my arms. As if anything she says or does matters to me anymore. I descend the marble staircase with a tight jaw, and make my way to where the newborns restlessly wait. They are dressed in finery for the fête, a shameless waste of silk and velvet, a crude attempt to assuage Maria's conscience — like a cigarette and a blindfold before an execution. Only two of the year-olds remain now. Next to the doomed Soren Lykes, there is a tall soldier with cold eyes and an extraordinary sense of smell. The latter will survive the night, and possibly the next year. If not, there will always be another fête, another dance, and another bonfire.

I motion for Soren Lykes to follow me out the doors, and leave the other one behind. Inside, I hear Maria call for music with two sharp claps, and the clatter of ignorant human servants as they wind between the dancers, serving goblets of suspiciously opaque merlot.

Five steps behind me, I can feel Soren's aura simmering with bloodlust. And beneath the uncontrolled excitement to feed, there is just the slightest, most inconspicuous hint of fear — he cannot understand why I am drawing him away from the party. We cross through the wrought-iron gate of the courtyard and make our way into the woods. Outside, the night air is warm and heavy, and a red-orange glow lights a ring of live oaks. Here, the strange scent of smoke is stronger, too overpowering to ignore. Soren can't smell any traces of human blood beyond the ring, but he, like all the others, chalks it up to the influence of smoke.

"Maria wishes to thank you for your service," I say to him as I duck beneath an oak branch and walk into the center of the ring. A bonfire rages there, throwing shadows over my face. "She is grateful for the year that you have given to her."

Something in Soren's mind suddenly clicks, and he takes a step back, panic written clearly on his face. That small, inconspicuous hint of fear is now a raging wildfire, because he can read in my eyes and hear in my words that he is going to die.

He opens his mouth to cry out, but instead he drops his head and stumbles, too lethargic to move, run, or even scream. I stare into his frightened eyes as I kill him, and wonder if this isn't why Maria has kept me all these years — so that she could stay inside the mansion and dance like a whore, clean of ash and blood, away from this grisly hell of her own making.

The fear and hopelessness emanating from Soren Lykes as I tear his body apart is enough to make me want to run. Run, and never stop, not until I am a lifetime away, not until I can forget the heat of the flames and this bonfire stench of death. Not until I can obliterate the memory of the every war I've ever lived through, and the demon inside the mansion who impatiently waits to dance.

"She isn't grateful," Peter had always snapped at me afterwards. "You know that."

"I know," I say out loud, though Peter has been gone for five years now and I am here alone. But back then — back when Peter and I had shared this atrocious chore, I was never sure. The hold Maria had on me, once so powerful and all-consuming, has slowly disintegrated over the years, dismayed by her gluttonous ambition. Nothing is enough for Maria. Not Monterrey, not Reynosa, not Houston, not me, not anything.

With the smoky odor of death still clinging to my jacket, I make my way back through the cobblestone courtyard. My skin crawls at the sight of the yellow glow from the mansion windows — oddly filtered by a sheen of purple-grey smoke. When I reach the doors, I pause and bow my head. This is the hardest part, this moment, returning to the celebration as if I am not sickened by what I have just done. Maria will expect me to smile and dance with her, expect me to keep up a steady stream of conversation and wit, when all I want to do is lie down and die. I steel myself, reign in the misery, and throw the doors open. I walk in arrogantly, strongly, with my head high like I'm proud of the eleven bodies burning behind me.

The golden light and liveliness of the party is jarring after the bonfire hell outside. Everything overwhelms me — the music, the sycophantic laughter, the taste of excitement and lust in the air. I stare at Maria as she inclines her head at me. Her smile is stunning and full of lies as she laughs, dancing in a blood-red dress that makes her look like the devil.

"Jasper!" she exclaims merrily. "Come, come and dance with me." She is all exuberance and hard-edged beauty, and every eye in the room follows her as she throws her shoulders back and saunters across the floor.

She reaches out her hand for me.

With that simple motion, her lace-gloved hand extending toward mine, I am so inundated with disgust for her — for all of this, that I feel physically ill. It's all a game, all a play, some revolting tableau of death wrapped in velvet. I stare at Maria's flawless face, and hesitate long enough to feel a whip of veiled hatred come from her, long enough to see her red eyes flash in warning. Then I close my fingers around her ice-cold skin and smile — my placid, fake, southern gentleman smile.

"Ah, Maria, you are too lovely for words," I say, as if my hesitation was caused by awe, not revulsion. I lean down and kiss her on the lips; just once is all I can bear. Subtly, I send her a wave of composure as I place my hand on her waist. "Red suits you. That dress is absolutely decadent."

She laughs delightedly. "I'd have it no other way." Her voice drops as she nods after one of the human servants. "A gift, for you, my pet. They'll all be ours tonight. After the guests leave, after we're alone, we'll feed and make love until we exhaust ourselves. Like Reynosa, do you remember? An entire ballroom of blood... you and I on the staircase...."

"Mmmm," I purr. Sadistic bitch, I think.

"That will cheer you up, won't it?" She runs a freezing hand up my chest. "No more mood swings, no more arguments. Just you and I, the way it used to be." Her voice has taken on a slight edge, and I can feel the malice radiating from her like a black presence in the crowded room. "You haven't been feeding enough, you know; I can feel it in the way you hold me, the way you make love to me. You've lost your edge, your ferocity."

I spin her around in the dance, my face betraying nothing. She is planning to kill me, I can feel it. Tonight, perhaps, after the blood and the sex, after the sweet words that once meant everything and now mean nothing. Unless I prove myself somehow. Unless I can miraculously become enough to please the woman in my arms — this insatiable demon of ambition.

Unless I kill her first.

Steeling myself, I turn my gaze up to the glass ceiling of the atrium. I can see the shifting reflection of the dancers there, and the white of my own upturned face. I don't even recognize myself. There is no more Jasper Whitlock. He died the moment Maria sank her pretty teeth into my neck. There is only Maria's Jasper now. If I kill her tonight, I kill him too. And then who will I be?

I freeze with Maria forgotten in my arms.

She stumbles when my lead fails; I hear the ungraceful clatter of her heels as she attempts to recover the motion. Angrily, she jerks at my shoulder with her nails outstretched and her jaw locked, trying to recapture my attention. But my eyes refuse to move from the reflection in the atrium glass, from the man I no longer know.

I am through with Maria, I realize this now. Through with this dance, and through with her.

Wordlessly, with my eyes still on the atrium above, I release Maria and turn away. We are in the middle of the dance floor, and everyone notices, and everyone hears the furious hiss that escapes from her lips.

"What is wrong with you?" she demands, her voice low and threatening.

I almost turn back, because the guise of caring what she thinks has been my life for the past twenty-two years. Without the task of trying to please Maria, my world feels strangely pointless and uncertain. But anything — anything at all, would be better than this.

I stride across the marble dance floor, dodging through the couples and heading for the doors — the only spot of certainty in the whole mansion. I want nothing more than to be outside, under the open sky, away from every part of this ugly existence. Behind me, the hatred peeling off Maria is far more noticeable and far more malignant than it has ever been. I push through the doors with an air of finality, and they swing shut behind me with a shuddering bang. Inside, I hear the music fade to a dull murmur, background noise for the gossiping whispers. Confusion, murder, and savage elation follow me outside like fiends, and not even the fresh air or the sound of cicadas can drown them out.

I don't know where I'm going — my only thought is to put some distance between me and this hell, to get away from the traces of deceit and murder that linger like Maria's perfume. At first I don't notice the figure already waiting for me outside the courtyard gate. But when he speaks, his voice is as familiar as it is welcome.

"She always was a terrible dancer."

I freeze midstride and whip my head around. Peter is standing there, a half-smile on his face, arms akimbo. For a moment, I don't know what to say. It feels as though it's been five minutes, rather than five years since he left, and at the same time, so much has happened that he could have been gone forever. Strange, how I've been Maria's lover for decades, and yet the sight of Peter feels more like family than anything else I have ever known. His goodness, his genuineness, his strength... it clears the air around me in an instant. And even though he was the one who left, suddenly I feel like the long-lost brother, like the prodigal son welcomed home.

"You want to get out of here?" he asks.

Such a simple question for everything I feel. But he's already turning away, and I'm already following, without a moment of thought.

"Where to?" I ask.

"Doesn't matter," he calls over his shoulder. "Long as it's not here."