In the years since then, he had made a few friends and an enemy or two—both mortal and immortal—in countries around the globe. As a priest, he had willingly given up all thought of home and family. But now, having lived like a monk for so long, he thought he would gladly give up immortality to know the simple joys of one mortal lifetime. To experience a woman’s love. To father a child. To watch his sons and daughters grow and have children of their own. What good was living a dozen lifetimes when you had no one to share it with?
Leaving the park, he ambled down the street toward his lair.
The DeLongpre/Cordova coven was the closest thing he had to a family. He considered himself blessed indeed to be a part of their lives and to have officiated at their weddings.
His steps slowed as he gazed at the vast expanse of the sky. Worlds without end, he mused. Times changed, the world itself changed, but he remained forever the same. In mortality, he had been an ordained priest. As such, he had made vows of chastity, poverty, and obedience. He had been celibate in mortality.
And in death.
Lately, he had begun to rethink his vow to remain chaste. Though he was, at least in his own eyes, still a priest, he was no longer recognized as such by the Church that doubtless thought him dead long ago. He had no parish, no superior. Why did he cling to a vow that, after so many centuries, were very likely no longer binding? He had broken the others without a second thought.
Why now, after so many centuries, did he suddenly feel so alone? So lonely?
He thought of Mara again. She had spent centuries refusing to be tied down. Yet, she had been married twice—once to a mortal, and now to Logan Blackwood, the man she had loved for centuries. She had been blessed with a son.
Others of his kind had found companions. Roshan DeLongpre. Vince Cordova and his twin sons, Rane and Rafe. Mara’s son, Derek. Nick Desanto. Vampires one and all. Yet each had found love. Even feisty ex-vampire hunters Edna Mae Turner and Pearl Jackson—both turned far past their prime—had found life mates.
Why not him? Perhaps it was time to remember that, in addition to being a priest, he was first and foremost a man.
He chuckled softly. He was, undoubtedly, the world’s oldest male virgin.
The oldest male virgin vampire, he amended.
He had been turned on his thirty-ninth birthday. He recalled the event as clearly as if it had happened only last night instead of centuries ago.
He had been on his way back to the rectory after giving last rites to an aged nun when he was attacked. It had happened so fast, he’d had no chance to defend himself, although he knew now that would have been impossible. He was floating, drifting away into darkness, when the vampire suddenly reared back. Giovanni remembered staring up into a pair of blood-red eyes that somehow managed to look surprised.
“You’re a priest!” the creature hissed. “I can’t kill a priest! Heaven forgive me,” he murmured, and sinking his fangs into his own wrist, he held the bleeding wound to Giovanni’s lips. “Drink!”
Giovanni wanted to refuse but something in the monster’s voice compelled him to obey. The blood had been thick and hot, unlike anything he had ever tasted. He gagged with the first swallow and then, to his horror, he grabbed hold of the vampire’s arm and suckled as if the blood was as sweet as mother’s milk.
He had cried out in protest when the vampire jerked his wrist away.
“We have to find you a place to rest,” the vampire muttered, yanking Giovanni to his feet. “And there are things you must know before you rise tomorrow night.”
The vampire had dragged him to a cave in the Apennine Mountains and tossed him into it with a warning to stay inside until he returned.
Giovanni had had no intention of doing as he was told, but minutes after entering the cave he had collapsed on the floor. As his vision narrowed and the world went black, he knew he was dying. Sinking into oblivion, he had uttered a prayer begging for mercy and forgiveness with his last breath.
When awareness returned, it was dark again. Lurching to his feet, he had stumbled toward the cave’s entrance, his gaze searching for the creature who had warned him to wait for his return.
Hours passed and there was no sign of the vampire.
As the hours dragged by, what started as discomfort gradually turned to agony.
Afraid he was really dying this time, he staggered out of the cave and made his way to the city in search of a doctor.
Ignorant as he was, he had no idea what was happening to him. He stopped abruptly, nostrils flaring. He didn’t recognize the scent, knew only that whatever it was, he needed it. Veering down a narrow alley, he came upon two men engaged in a knife fight.
Giovanni took a deep breath. Blood, he thought. The enticing smell was blood.
Hardly aware of what he was doing, he stepped between the two men. It took no effort at all to control them. One was bleeding from a cut on his neck. As though mesmerized, Giovanni leaned forward to lick it up and then, to his horror, he bit the man. Overcome with euphoria at the taste of fresh hot blood, he hadn’t stopped to wonder at how effortlessly his teeth had bitten through flesh. It was only later that he discovered he had fangs, and that blood was the only thing that could ease the awful hunger that clawed at his insides.
And later still that he found the courage to admit he was no longer human, but Nosferatu.
The transformation had not been easy.
