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you have until tomorrow, Spark, then I shall expect this to be put right. If not..."
    "Sure, no problem. And, er, sorry for the trouble."
    Yeah, I know, lame, right? Look, you try dealing with a sleepy but angry two thousand year old vampire after you've royally messed up and done the one thing you are supposed to stop happening. It makes you jumpy.
    "Go away."
    I went away.
    "Oh, Spark, one more thing."
    I knew it was too good to be true. The older the vampire, the more dramatic they seem to be. With my hand on the carved door handle, almost free of Taavi, I turned reluctantly, took a deep breath, and in my sweetest voice said, "Yes, Taavi."
    "Oliver will accompany you."
    "What!? You have got to be kidding." The room went not so much silent, as full of the quiet of Taavi's ancient anger. It was a real thing, visceral and frightening. You never argued with Taavi. You just didn't.
    "Do you disobey me, Spark? You think because you are under the care of Rikka, Head of these pathetic Councils, that you may disobey me?" Taavi and all vampires paid little mind to the Councils, even though when it came down to it the Hidden Council could put them down if they so chose, but only with one hell of a war neither side wanted to even contemplate.
    "No, Taavi, excuse me. It was just the shock. Anyone but Oliver though. He..." I gave up. He'd made up his mind. "Fine, but he better not try anything funny," I warned, trying to regain my manhood.
    "He is under clear instruction to keep an eye on you, but he is not to interfere or misbehave in any way. If he does then he is on his own. I give you permission to stop him, or, haha, try." Taavi's laugh sounded as amused as a fly in a carnivorous Pitcher plant.
    "As long as he behaves."
    "Go away."
    I went. And I actually got out of there that time.

 
     
     
    A Sigh of Relief
    Outside the room, I took a deep breath of air less tainted by the stench of decay and unholy age, set my eyes back to normal, and did a good job of holding back the sickness even from such minor use of magic. Bret and Bart were there, ready to take me into the city or home—yes, they know where I live. Everyone does.
    Ours is a small world, and we all know too much about each other. In some ways it's like living in a tiny village where there's no privacy and everyone knows your business, but it's what has kept us under the radar. They frogmarched me out the front door, past more scary-ass vampires than is good for anyone's nerves. Taavi's Army of Ghouls, I like to call it, made up of the younger ones that can function in day as well as night.
    His house is guarded so well it's ridiculous. He takes no chances and this was just the bit he let me see.
    Deep underground in crypts would be hundreds, maybe thousands, of very old vampires, sleeping the day away. Some stay down there for years, decades, or longer, lost in their dreams of the past, conserving energy so they can arise for special occasions before sleeping through the centuries once more, catching up now and then and seeing what the future holds before retiring and taking another snapshot.
    It's kind of appealing, being able to see how the future unfolds, like being a time traveler but with a lot of teeth and an unquenchable thirst for blood. And it is unquenchable at their age.
    For regular vampires it's little but a choice, blood or fade away, for the older ones it grows into an addiction that is unbreakable, and then into something more—it becomes all they are. It's why they sleep. When they wake they will feed nearly constantly, probably like Taavi was right now.
    The youngsters—and I say that relatively speaking—just revel in the health and vitality given them by the blood they steal, thriving on the blood magic that courses through their veins.
    But, just like anyone who takes from the Empty, when they drink they are sick to their stomachs. The pain is unimaginable, I was once told. Like every nerve comes alive, screaming for release, and your blood, now