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top of the wall.
    The landing is far from graceful as her right leg buckles under. She goes with it, rolling back to her feet before bounding across the road. She dives behind a tree and clutches her leg, wincing at the shifting bones. It is too early to move. She needs at least another hour before her femur will heal completely, but she does not have an hour.
    Someone will eventually discover her empty room. It will not take long before Vladimir rouses her brethren to search for her. Roseline glances toward the human town, cringing at the thought of entering it, but she knows she cannot just sit here.
    Digging through her bag, she pulls out her most recent wardrobe addition: a black trench coat. She tucks her long bronze braid into the collar and adds a pair of wide-rimmed sunglasses to the outfit. They might help to mask her unusual eyes, but they can do little to hide her beauty. She and her family are well known in these parts. Her reputation, by association, is not the most appealing throughout the country and will only make her escape that much harder.
    Over the years, Roseline has been called many things. A witch. A sorceress. Even a demon. The only name that has endured for over three centuries is vampire.
    A fabricated name, as incorrect as it is vile, created to describe Vladimir’s insatiable thirst for blood. Now all immortals carry the tainted name, both the good ones and the evil, but vampires exist only in nightmares and on Hollywood screens.
    She cannot really blame the humans for this mistake; even she struggles to find the good in some of her family. Apart from Fane, there are few in Romania who can pass for good. Most of her immortal brethren easily live up to the vampire lie.
    Roseline keeps her face tilted away as she hurries into the town center. Small shops have begun to open. The baker whistles as he prepares his tables with mouthwatering baked goods. A butcher calls out harshly as a delivery boy stumbles over the curb, spilling an assortment of meats onto the street.
    A young boy rides past on his bike, tossing newspapers with wild abandon. Most land well out of range. A handsome teen with vivid green eyes and unruly dark hair glances her way from the bus stop as she disappears around the corner. All around her, Brasov is waking.
    The hunch of her shoulders becomes more pronounced as she forces herself to move at a human pace along the city streets. It is infuriatingly slow.
    The train station sits about two miles outside of town. She picks up speed as she moves to the city outskirts and spans the distance in less than a minute, even with a limp.
    Without acknowledging the sparse crowd that lingers in front of the station, Roseline hurries for the ticket booth. “One ticket to Bucharest, please,” she requests, working to make her voice sound grittier than it normally does.
    The train attendant’s muddy brown eyes give her a onceover. Roseline turns her chin, fearing the man’s scrutiny. “You running away from something, Miss?”
    She shrugs noncommittally and pulls the collar of her coat higher under her chin. He frowns, tapping the counter as she passes over her money. He stares at her for a moment longer before shrugging. He stamps her ticket and passes it through the narrow slot with her change. “Good luck to you.”
    With her ticket in hand, Roseline slinks out of the room. A young couple sits nearby, sipping from steaming coffee cups, immersed in their morning paper. They pay no attention to Roseline as she sinks down onto a bench at the far end of the platform.
    Her knees bounce anxiously as she waits for the train to arrive. She absently peels at the chipped blue paint on the wooden slats as she darts glances at the people lounging about the platform. Her nerves fray as the hands of the clock overhead slowly tick past.
    The 6:58 AM train arrives five minutes early, much to Roseline’s delight. She boards and rushes into a vacant bathroom, locking the door behind. Roseline drops her