Years ago, he used to go to great lengths to make it appear that he ate and drank. Now he knew it was a waste of time. In a world such as this where people consumed food and drink for amusement as well as nourishment, nobody cared if he left a mug full of coffee on a café table so long as he left a generous tip. He left huge tips.

He settled back in the little iron chair which was likely made of aluminum and began to hum with the Vivaldi violin music as his eyes passed over the darkly stained old façades that surrounded him, the eternal architecture of Italy that had survived so many changes, just as he had.

Quite suddenly his heart stopped.

In the café across from him, seated at an outdoor table with their backs to the tall building behind them, sat an ancient vampire and what appeared to be two ghosts.

Everard was too terrified to even take a breath. At once, he thought of the threat of the Voice.

And here sat this ancient one not fifty feet from him, the color of waxen gardenias with bright deep-set black eyes and short well-groomed snow-white hair, looking directly at Everard as if he knew him, and beside him these two ghosts, clothed in bodies of particles, though how he knew not, both staring at him too. These creatures appeared friendly. What was the chance of that?

These ghosts were magnificent. No doubt about that. Their bodies appeared wondrously solid, and appeared to be breathing. He could even hear their hearts. And they wore real clothes, these ghosts. So very clever.

But ghosts had been getting better and better at passing for human for centuries. Everard had been seeing them in one form or another ever since he was born. Few had been able to form particle bodies for themselves in those long-ago days, but now it was fairly common. He frequently glimpsed them in Rome in particular.

But of all the modern apparitions he’d seen on city streets throughout Europe, these two were absolutely the best.

One ghost, the nearest to the ancient vampire, appeared to be a man of perhaps fifty with wavy iron-gray hair and a somewhat-noble face. His bright eyes were crinkled with a friendly expression and he had an agreeable almost pretty mouth. Beside him sat the illusion of a man in his prime with short well-groomed ashen hair and gray eyes. All were neatly dressed in what anyone in this day and age would call fine and respectable clothes. The younger male ghost had a proud bearing and actually turned his head and looked about him as if he were enjoying these moments in the busy little street no matter why the trio had come here.

The vampire with the full well-groomed white hair gave a little nod to Everard, and Everard went silently crazy.

He sent the telepathic message, Well, damn you, blast me if you intend to do it. I’m too frightened to be civil. Get on with it but first, first, I demand that you tell me why.

He killed the music from the iPhone. He didn’t want to die with a soundtrack. And he fully expected to hear the Voice raging and cackling exultantly. But the Voice was not there.

“Miserable coward,” he muttered. “You order my death and decamp without even remaining here to witness it. And you wanted me to burn down the Roman Vampire Refuge in the Via Condotti. Well, you’re ugly and you’re mad.”

The ancient vampire across the way rose to his feet and gestured in a decidedly friendly manner for Everard to join them. He was not overly tall and he was very delicate of build. He took a chair from a nearby table and placed it in their circle. He waited patiently for Everard’s response.

It was as if Everard had forgotten how to walk. All his life in the Undead he’d seen vampires burned by others, seen that horrific spectacle of a living breathing creature going up in a personal inferno because some older more powerful vampire—like that contemptible, condescending Marius—had decided he or she should die. His legs were wobbling so badly as he crossed the street, he thought he would at any moment collapse. His narrow tailored leather jacket felt heavy and his boots pinched and he wondered inanely whether his blue silk tie had a stain on it, and whether the cuffs of his lavender shirt were sticking too far out of his coat sleeves.

His hands were shaking visibly as he reached to accept the hard icy hand of the old vampire. But he managed it. He managed to sit down.

The ghosts were smiling at him, and they were even more perfect than he’d thought. Yes, they breathed, they had internal organs, and yes, they were wearing real clothes. Nothing illusory about that dark worsted wool, or linen and silk. And no doubt all this superb “tissue” could vanish in a twinkling, and the costly clothes would drop to the ground on top of the empty shoes.

The old vampire placed a hand on Everard’s shoulder. He had small but long fingers and he wore two stunning gold rings. This was a traditional way vampires greeted each other, not with embraces, not with kisses, but with the placing of the hand on the shoulder. Everard remembered that from times when he had lived amongst them.

“Young one,” he said with the characteristic pomposity of the elder blood drinkers, “please, do not be afraid.” He spoke in Parisian French.

Up close the ancient one’s face was truly impressive, very fine of feature with exquisite black eyelashes and a serene smile. High cheekbones, a firm, discernible, yet narrow jaw. His skin did look like the petal of a gardenia in the moonlight, yes, and his white hair had a subtle silvery sheen. He hadn’t been Born to Darkness with that hair. Rhoshamandes, Everard’s maker, had long ago explained that when some of the ancient ones were badly burnt their hair was white forever after. Well, it was that kind of magnificent white hair.

“We know you’ve heard the Voice,” said this ancient one. “I too have heard it. Others have heard it. Are you hearing it now?”

“No,” said Everard.

“And it’s telling you to burn others, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Everard. “I have never harmed another blood drinker. Never had to. Never want to. I’ve lived in this part of Italy for almost four hundred years. I don’t go into Rome or Florence to fight with people.”

“I know,” said the ancient one. It was a pleasing voice, a gentle voice, but then all the old ones had good voices, at least as far as Everard had ever observed. What he remembered more than anything else about his maker, Rhoshamandes, was his seductive voice, and that voice luring him into the forest on the night he was Born to Darkness against his will. Everard had thought the lord in the castle was summoning him for an erotic encounter, that afterwards he’d be dismissed with a few coins if he’d managed to please, and that he would have tales of tapestry-covered walls and blazing fires and fine clothes to tell his grandchildren. Ha! He could remember Rhoshamandes talking to him as if it were last night: You are surely one of the most beautiful young men in your village!