Chapter 1

Warsaw, Poland

November 2007

The night pulsed around him.

The throb of blood rushing through slim, delicate veins filled the buildings Mathias flew past. Traffic on neighboring streets made the earth rumble beneath his feet, and the slivers of light from windows, from streetlamps, from corners of humanity too much of a blur for him to concentrate upon danced at the corners of his eyes. The city writhed with tantalizing life, but all of it was lost to any indulgence he might take right then.

All he was able to focus upon was eluding the wolves at his heels.

They pursued with a relentless tenacity that had belied their innocent demeanors back at the club. Bored beyond belief, Mathias had approached the small brunette in their midst to ask for a dance, but when he’d pulled her outside afterward for a late night sip, her three friends had been waiting. With weapons.

Brass knuckles. Switchblades.

Stakes.

If he hadn’t been alone, he would have stayed and fought. Hell, if he’d had a few more drinks in him or had fed since the previous night, he would have stayed. But getting jumped in the dark with his hard cock in a hot fist and his fangs in mid-bite didn’t encourage the notion of a back alley brawl. Especially when one of the stakes came dangerously close to actually connecting with his back.

So he ran. Through Warsaw’s winding streets. Past neighborhoods he was only lately becoming acquainted with. He expected to lose them after a few blocks; they were only human, after all. But he didn’t. Their footsteps remained steady and sure, pounding in pursuit. Even when he quickened his pace, they simply did the same, and Mathias pushed his body further, wishing he’d thought to feed before resorting to satisfying his boredom. Except why should he? Feeding and fucking went hand in hand, and he was never more content than when he was on the prowl. He’d had no reason to think tonight would be any different.

When you could pretty much live forever if you so chose, the days had a tendency to smear into a mishmash of the same over and over again. Like a kid’s finger-painting. Lots of broad strokes that all looked the same.

He should have known better. A few years earlier, before Moscow, he probably would have.

Of course, a few years earlier, it would’ve been unlikely for him not to have someone watching his back.

Behind him, Mathias heard them getting closer. He didn’t know how far he’d run or even where the bloody hell he was, but he knew that he couldn’t keep up this bruising pace indefinitely. He had to choose. Either stop and risk a fight or lose them once and for all.

He opted for the latter. He preferred fights he could win.

Buildings had thinned around him, leaving him few options for hiding. Though it was a risk, Mathias deliberately slowed down in an attempt to gain his bearings, and when he spotted the theater tucked into a dark corner, he nearly grinned in relief. He knew the theater like the back of his hand, courtesy of long hours spent there with Tati. It held corners of privacy his pursuers would never find, dark spots made intimate with the trappings of its so-called art. It was the perfect escape.

He swerved into the side alley, racing along the smooth wall to the rear of the building. There, he bypassed the double doors that led backstage, and instead leapt into the air to grab the sill of the window in the second story costume shop. The humans wouldn’t be able to follow him with this route, he reasoned. If they determined which building he’d used to hide in, they would be forced to enter through the ground level, which would give him ample time to evade their chase.

The window was unlocked, as Mathias had known it would be, and he slipped into the comforting darkness with a ghostly grace. His landing was silent, only the creak of the glass within its wooden frame betraying any sound at all, and he closed it with every sense he had sharpened, listening for hints that he would be followed. Nothing came. Only Warsaw’s whispers reached his temporary haven.

The room was cooler than he’d anticipated, devoid of the usual lingering signs of the theater’s bustle, but it was still considerably warmer than the winter air outside. Backing away from the window, Mathias sniffed as the scent of sewing machine oil and make-up prickled his nose, obscuring any other revenants that might have haunted the walls. Everything always felt keener when he was hungry. As soon as he was free of this hunt, he would find somewhere to feed without fear of being caught out. He needed fuel to refresh his strength after such a punishing run.