But he’d been living with a death sentence for quite some time. Everyone knew that to please her jealous King Enkil, Akasha did away with her lovers in a matter of months. The King was said not to mind a steady stream of consorts in and out of his Queen’s bedroom in the cool of the evening, but he feared any one rising in power, and though Nebamun had been reassured a hundred times by Akasha’s affectionate whispers that he was not to be put to death anytime soon, Nebamun knew otherwise, and he had lost all skill at pleasing her, and spent many hours merely thinking about his life, and the meaning of life in general, and getting drunk. He’d had a great passion for life ever since he could remember, and did not want to die.

Once the Queen and King had been infected by the demon Amel, the Queen seemed utterly to have forgotten about Nebamun.

He’d gone back into the guard, defending the palace against those who called the King and Queen monsters. He told no one what he had witnessed. Again and again, he pondered that eerie cloud of bloody particles, that living swirling mass of tiny gnatlike points that had been sucked into the Queen as if by an intake of breath. She’d tried to make a new cult of it, believing firmly that she was now a goddess, and the “will of the gods” had subjected her to this divine violence because of her innate virtue and the needs of the land she ruled.

Well, that was, as they say these days, a load of bunk. Yes, Nebamun had believed in magic, and yes, he’d believed in gods and demons, but he had always been practical in a ruthless way, like many of his time. Besides, gods even if they did exist could be capricious and evil. And when the captive witches Mekare and Maharet explained how this seeming “miracle” had happened, that it was no more than the caprice of a vagrant spirit, Nebamun had smiled.

Once the rebels were born under the rule of the renegade blood drinker Khayman, with Mekare and Maharet to spread “The Divine Blood” with them, Nebamun had been called back into the Queen’s presence, and made into a blood drinker without explanation or ceremony until he’d risen thirsting and half mad, and dreaming only of draining human victims of all the life and blood they contained.

“You are now the head of my blood army,” the Queen had explained. “You will be called the ‘Guard of the Queens Blood,’ and you will hunt down the rebels of the First Brood as they dare to call themselves and all the misbegotten blood drinkers made by them who have dared to rebel against me and my King and my laws.”

Blood drinkers were gods, the Queen had told Nebamun. Now he too was a god. And at that point, he’d actually started to believe it. How else to explain what he saw now with the new vision of the Blood? His heightened senses bedeviled and tantalized him. He fell in love with the song of the wind, with the rich colors that pulsed all around him in the flowers and drowsy palm trees of the palace gardens, with the chanting pulse of those succulent humans upon whom he fed.

For a thousand years he’d been the dupe of superstition. The world had seemed a grim and unchangeable place to him, full of folly and misery and injustice, and blood drinker fighting blood drinker as incessantly as human fought human, when he’d finally sought the refuge of Mother Earth as so many others had done.

He knew with an aching heart what young Antoine had suffered. Only one blood drinker in existence claimed to have never known such burial and rebirth, and that was the great indominable Maharet.

Well, maybe the time had come for him to make himself known to Maharet, and to talk of those olden times. You’ve always known that it was I, Captain of the Queen’s soldiers, who separated you aeons ago from your sister—who put the two of you in coffins, and sent you off on rafts in different seas.

Was not the world of the Undead poised for destruction if old secrets and old horrors were not confronted and examined by those who knew the stories from the earliest nights?

In truth, Gregory was no longer the Captain of the hated “Queens Blood” who had done those things. He remembered those times, yes, but not the force of personality or attitude behind the memories, or the means by which he’d survived those endless nights of war and bloodshed. Who was Maharet? He did not really know.

When he rose in the third century of the Common Era, a new life for him had begun. Gregory was the name he’d chosen for himself in those nights, and he had been Gregory ever since, acquiring names and wealth over the millennia as he needed them, never again resorting to madness, or the earth, but slowly building a realm for himself with wealth and love. The wealth was easy to acquire, so easy in fact that he marveled at beggar mavericks like Antoine and Killer—and his beloved Davis—who tramped through eternity, and the love of other blood drinkers had been easy to acquire as well.

His Blood Wife of all these centuries was named Chrysanthe, and it was she who’d educated him in the ways of the Christian era and the waning Roman Empire when he’d brought her from the great Arab Christian city of Hira—a shining capital on the Euphrates—to Carthage in North Africa, where they’d lived for many years. There she’d taught him Greek and Latin, offering the poetry, the histories, and the philosophies of cultures unknown to him when he’d gone into the earth.

There she explained to him the marvels he’d embraced the moment he’d risen, and how the world had actually changed, changed when he had thought the world unchanging, as did all those with whom he had once shared humanity and the Blood.

He came to love Chrysanthe as he had once loved his first Blood Wife of long ago, the lost pale-eyed and yellow-haired Sevraine.

Ah, such wonders he’d discovered in those early years as the great Roman Empire came tumbling down around him—a world of metals, monuments, and art that had been inconceivable to his Egyptian mind.

And ever since the world had been changing, each new miracle and invention, each new attitude, ever more astonishing than those which had come before.

He had been on an upwards trajectory ever since those early centuries. And he held close to him the very same companions he’d acquired in those first few hundred years.

Very soon after he and Chrysanthe had taken up residence in their palace by the sea in Carthage, they’d been joined by a comely and dignified one-legged Greek named Flavius who told of being made by a powerful and wise female blood drinker named Pandora, consort of a Roman blood drinker, Marius, the keeper of the King and Queen.

Flavius had fled the household of Marius because Marius had never consented to his making, and when he’d come upon the household of Chrysanthe and Gregory in Carthage, he’d thrown himself on their mercy, and they had gladly taken him in—worthy to be Blood Kin. He’d lived in Athens as well as Antioch, in Ephesus and in Alexandria, and had visited Rome. He knew the mathematics of Euclid and the Hebrew scriptures in their Greek translation, and spoke of Socrates and Plato and the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius and the natural history of Pliny and the satire of Juvenal and Petronius, and the writings of Tertullian and Augustine of Hippo who had only lately died.