Luckily, his kind did not need to prey on humans, or animals—or anything—to sustain its life energy. They could co-habit with them peacefully. There were some among his clan who attacked humans for sport, for a drug-like high: if they chose to, late at night they could transform to an enormous raven-like creature, roam the skies, swoop down and wrap a human in an embrace with their huge, air-tight wings, holding them like that for minutes until they depleted all the human’s psychic and emotional energy. They would leave them crumpled on the ground, collapsed, when they were through. They would never actually bite them. But they didn’t need to—when they wrapped their wings tight around a human, it drew out all the energy they needed.
Of course, this was completely unnecessary for an Immortalist’s existence. Those of his clan who did this did it for a high that only lasted for a few hours and sent them crashing after that. Sage could only always tell when one of his clan had fed—he could see it in the brightness of their eyes, the flush of their cheeks. Human-feeding was an unnecessary and hedonistic sport. It was also cruel, as it left the human victim psychotic. For this reason the Grand Council had outlawed human-
feeding centuries ago. None of his immediate clan partook. After all, who wanted to draw so much negative attention?
But lately, things were starting to change. With only a few weeks left to live, he noticed his people acting differently. They were all on edge, acting desperate, and doing things they never would. He’d even heard that last night, one of his own had attacked a human.
Of course, he knew who it had to be: Lore. Who else? A distant cousin, Lore was the bad-apple of his clan, and had been a thorn in Sage’s side for centuries. He was an energy addict, and he relished in causing trouble for his clan everywhere they went. He was also a hot-head, vindictive, and totally unpredictable.
Sage continued down the driveway, approaching their ancestral home—a huge, sprawling marble mansion surrounded by dozens of acres, right on the river. They had homes all over the world, of course; they had grand castles, and marble townhomes, and fortresses, and entire islands. But of all the homes around the world, Sage liked this one the most. Tucked away, far from any main roads, nestled against the tranquil Hudson River, this one felt most like home. He loved to sit out on the balcony, especially late at night, under the moon, and watch the reflection of the water. It made him feel as if he were the only one left in the world. He remembered, centuries ago, during the Revolutionary war, sitting out and watching the battles on the Hudson.
But now, as he walked towards the house, instead of being filled with joy, he was filled with dread. His clan had only recently moved back here, and in Sage’s view, it was an act of desperation.
He wanted to live out his remaining time in peace. Instead, the clan had raced back here, hoping, as always, to find a cure for their sickness, to prolong their lifetime. Sage knew it was ridiculous, a futile endeavor: they had been searching for a cure for as long as he could remember—and never, not once, not in any remote corner of the world, had they found it. They were all false leads, dead-ends.
In his view, the cure was just a myth, a legend. There was no way to extend their lifetime. It would end, and that would be all. Sage was resigned to it. He just wanted to live out his life and enjoy what he had, instead of desperately chasing myths and fables.
But others in his clan felt differently. Especially his parents. Once again, they claimed to have sensed the last remaining vampire on earth, the mythical teenage girl rumored to hold the key to the cure. Sage had heard this before—many times. But this time, they were serious. They had moved everyone back here in hopes of finding her—and worse, they had assigned Sage to be the one to gain her trust. To find out if she held the key—and to make sure she gave it to him. Because legend had it that the key must be given freely, and could not be simply taken.
What bothered Sage most about all this was that, even if all of this was true, even if this was the right girl, even if she did hold the key, even if he managed to gain her trust and get the key—there was still the next part. Because in order for the cure to work, the vampire girl who gave it had to be killed. The thought of it repulsed Sage. He had never killed a soul—not in two thousand years—and he didn’t plan on starting now. Especially a teenage girl.
As he thought of the girl he’d seen in the cafeteria today, Scarlet, it made him feel even sicker.
She was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen, and the thought of her sent butterflies to his stomach. He felt awful having to be assigned to gain her trust, to find out her secrets—to potentially kill her. It was against everything he stood for. He would keep up appearances to please his parents and his clan—but he already knew that he would sooner kill himself than harm her.
What troubled him most was that, when he saw her, for the first time in his entire existence, he actually sensed something unusual: he felt he was in the presence of another immortal being. He knew right away that she was not one of his. Which meant she could only be one thing: a vampire.
The last remaining vampire on earth.
The thought sent a shiver up his spine. Despite everything, he feared his clan had found her after all, and that the legend was real. Which meant a cure might be out there. Why now? With just a few weeks left to go? Of course, he wanted to live, just like all of them. But he would never want to live at the expense of someone else. Especially at her expense.
As Sage opened the huge, arched front door, he was greeted by a host of activity: as usual, his clan members loafed around the place, spread out in the grand room, sitting in chairs and couches, reading ancient leather-bound books, or ambling about and strolling on the patio. He’d lost count of how many cousins he had, but he knew at least a dozen of them had come back with them to this sprawling mansion. Being an Immortalist had its advantages, and time had been kind to them: none of them looked older than 18. A mix of boys and girls, while they were all close to 2,000 years old, like him, one would never know it. They were all gorgeous—with perfect, sculpted faces, flawless, looking as if they could grace covers of magazines. Some were dressed in the latest fashions—tight-fitting jeans, slim leather jackets—while others wore more regal, traditional outfits from other centuries—like long, black velvet cloaks with high collars. They all looked fashionable, and it was like walking into a modeling shoot.
Sage scanned the room, looking for any sign of Lore. It was their first day back here, and he couldn’t believe Lore already had the audacity to go out and sap a human. Already, Sage’s presence here was compromised; Lore had managed to cause trouble, to make life harder for him, to make them even more conspicuous in this town.