Paris, 1670

Edmond Dantès leaned against the nearest wall, trying to breathe through the burning pain in his side. His hand was clamped against the wound, blood soaking through his fingers, and he was so tired.

After years of living rough, he'd finally ventured out of isolation. The plague didn't seem like the threat it once was, and he needed work. But on his way to Paris, he'd again fallen afoul of thieves on the road, even though he had nothing for them to steal.

Edmond eased his hand away from his side, trying to see the wound, but fresh blood spilled out, and he covered it again with a groan. It wasn't the first time he'd been stabbed. It wasn't the first time he'd been left beaten and bloody on a roadside.

But this time felt like it would be the end.

A second stab wound on his shoulder ached where it was pressed against the wall. His strength had flowed out of him. He was exhausted down to his bones – it had taken everything he had to reach the city and he couldn't go any further.

This world had nothing to offer but pain and cruelty and suffering, and maybe it was time he left it. What did he have to stay for?

A man walked past, his richly embroidered vest and buckled shoes seeming out of place in this filthy, stinking part of the city.

Edmond stiffened.

Four men trailed the noble, their eyes hungry and hard. Edmond was familiar with their kind. It was men like that who'd beaten him with a birch cane, leaving his back stippled with scar tissue. It was men like that who'd stabbed him – first when he was living with Ysanne, and again today, when he was on his way to the city.

If they got their hands on that young noble, they'd take everything he had, maybe even his life.

As they disappeared down a nearby alley, Edmond pushed off the wall, stifling a whimper as the movement jolted his injuries. He couldn't fight. He was quite sure he would die here, alone and unremembered, but maybe he could use his last moments to save someone from a similar fate.

He staggered to the alley, every step sending fire through his wounds.

The noble still hadn't realised he was being followed, but one of the men behind him was drawing a dirty knife from his belt.

Edmond summoned the last of his strength. "Behind you," he shouted, and it came out weak and hoarse, but the noble still heard it.

He turned.

His would-be attackers froze, caught off-guard now they'd lost the element of surprise, then one of them laughed.

They started to advance, and the noble stood there, watching them come, like they didn't have every intention of gutting him.

"Run," Edmond gasped, then his legs gave out and he collapsed.

Why had he thought he could save this man?

Even if his attackers couldn't stab him in the back, they still outnumbered him, and Edmond knew how that ended. The noble would die in this alley with him.

The man with the knife lunged, and the noble slapped his hand away. The sound of breaking bones echoed around the alley, and the knife clattered to the ground. The man who'd held it let out a thin wail and fell to his knees, clutching his hand. His friends stared down at him, then one of them snarled and attacked the noble. He didn't land a single blow before the noble tore out his throat with one hand.

Edmond tried to blink away his hazy vision.

The noble's eyes were shining red, something he thought he'd never see again.

The noble didn't give the other thieves a chance to attack, but grabbed the nearest and smashed his head against the wall, splitting his head like overripe fruit. The man with the broken hand tried to run, and the noble calmly broke his neck. Then he turned on the last. The thief tried to rub, gibbering with fear, but the noble was too fast, grabbing him and pulling him close, before biting into his throat.

Edmond had seen a vampire feed before, but this was savage, angry, almost like a wild animal.

The noble dropped the body. He took a couple of steps forward, the thick heels of his shoes clicking on the ground, and stared down at Edmond.

"You tried to save me," he said. "Why?"

Edmond couldn't gather the strength to talk.

The noble crouched beside him, his eyes running over Edmond's bloodied, battered body. "Did they do this?"

"No . . ." Edmond managed to say. "Someone . . . else."

The noble helped him into a sitting position, leaning him against the wall.

"You risked your own life to try to warn me," he said, the redness in his eyes dimming.

"Didn't . . . realise you were . . . a vampire."

"You know about vampires?"

Edmond managed a smile. "Not . . . the first . . . I've met."

This wasn't the vampire he wanted with him when he died. He closed his eyes and saw Ysanne, her pale skin and golden hair, and hoped that, wherever she was, she was happy. He'd never see her again now.

A hand touched his, and he opened his eyes again. The noble was leaning in close, his face unreadable.

"You're dying," he said.

A laugh bubbled in Edmond's throat and he tasted blood. ". . . thought as much."

"I could give you a new life," the noble said.

Edmond blinked at him. Did he mean . . . he couldn't . . .

He was so tired; even holding his head up required too much energy.

The noble clasped Edmond's face, forcing them to keep looking at each other.

"If you offer you a new life, as a vampire, will you take it?" he asked, his eyes glittering.

There was so much that Edmond still didn't know about vampires, or their lives, and he'd never have imagined this offer would be put to him, but . . . something sparked inside him, a sudden yearning to live. He wouldn't survive these wounds. There was only one way.

"What do you say?" the noble asked, still holding Edmond's face.

All Edmond could manage was a shaky nod.

The noble smiled, baring bloody fangs, then he leaned in and bit Edmond's throat.

Edmond opened his eyes. The alley came into focus around him, sharper than it had been before. The smells were stronger too, but overwhelming the reek of mud and sewage was the smell of something delicious, something that called to him in a deeply primal way.

The noble crouched in front of him, his eyes red again, his expression pleased.

"Am I . . ." Edmond said.

"Yes. You're a vampire now. How do you feel?"

"I don't know," Edmond admitted.

The pain from his wounds was gone, but something else was growing inside him, a gnawing ache that was reminiscent of hunger, yet worse than any hunger he'd ever faced.

He wrapped his arms around himself and tried to breathe through the feeling, but he didn't need to breathe anymore, did he? He'd died and come back as something else.

His stomach knotted and turned over, and he hunched forward with a groan.

"What's happening?" he gasped.

"Don't worry, this is normal. It'll pass soon enough," said the noble.

He lifted Edmond as if he weighed nothing, Edmond's head lolling against the other vampire's shoulder.

"I'm taking you back to my house. You'll be safe there," he said.

"Don't . . . even know your name," Edmond gasped.

The world was starting to fade out again, but he thought he saw the noble smile.

"I'm François. What's your name?"

Edmond tried to tell him, but then blackness surged up and he fell headlong into it.

The next time he opened his eyes, he was lying in a huge bed, brocade curtains tied back against the four carved wooden posters. His filthy rags were gone, replaced by a white nightshirt, and someone had washed the blood from his skin.

The pain in his stomach was gone.

Slowly, he sat up, examining the room around him. A huge fireplace was opposite the bed; golden candlesticks and bright vases were arranged on the mantelpiece. There were two windows that stretched from floor to ceiling, but they were hidden behind thick, heavy curtains – of course, sunlight was dangerous to vampires. Upholstered chairs were arranged around an ornate table, and sitting in one of those chairs . . .

"François," Edmond said.

The vampire smiled. "I wasn't sure you'd heard me say it. Do I get to know yours at last?"

"Edmond. Where are we?"

François waved an elegant hand. "This is my house."

Edmond's eyes travelled around the bedroom again, absorbing the finery. "I've never been anywhere like this," he admitted.

"I suspected as much."

Edmond put a hand to his mouth, feeling for the fangs that he now had. What would Ysanne think if she could see him now?

"Why did you turn me?" he asked.

François's expression flattened. "You regret it?"

"No," said Edmond hurriedly. "It's just . . ." He looked around the room again. "You're an aristocrat. I'm . . . nobody."

François smiled, his fangs gleaming. "You are now. You're a vampire. How did you know about us anyway?"

Edmond told him about the winter he'd spent with Ysanne, but he kept certain details to himself – Ysanne's name being one of them. François had saved his life – in a manner of speaking – but he was still a stranger. Edmond wouldn't breathe a word about Ysanne until he knew more about the vampire sitting in the chair opposite.

"What happens now?" Edmond asked.

"How do you mean?"

Edmond curled his hands in the bedcovers. He'd never been in a bed like this before, and he wanted to stay forever; at the same time he was afraid to get too used to it.

"How long can I stay here?" he said in a low voice, not daring to look at François.

François laughed. "Forever," he said.

"What?"

"If you'd like to, that is."

Edmond stared blankly at the other man. "I can stay?"

François's face softened. "You're not used to people being kind to you, are you?"

Edmond looked away.

"Edmond, I turned you because there's room in my life for a companion, and I can't think of anyone better than the man who was prepared to risk his life for a complete stranger. I won't make you stay if you don't want to, but I have a lot to offer. I can teach you how to be a vampire. I can make sure you never go without anything ever again."

Clearly, François was wealthy enough that these weren't empty promises.

"Do you need . . . a servant?" Edmond asked.

François made an amused noise. "That's not why I brought you here. I'll be honest with you, Edmond. I've been on my own for a long time, and I'm getting lonely. I should like a friend to share eternity with. How do you feel about that?"

All Edmond could do was nod.

A grin broke across François's face. "I'm very glad to hear that," he said, even though Edmond hadn't actually said anything. Climbing to his feet, he held out a hand. "Now, would you like to see the rest of your new home?"

Under François's tutelage, Edmond learned to read and dance and fight with a sword. He learned about art and fashion and politics and conversation, and if people were curious about where he'd suddenly come from, this beautiful cousin of François that no one had heard of until now, then François had enough money to distract even the nosiest gossips.

No one would ever suspect Edmond had been born a peasant, in a distant, dirty little village that had been so ravaged by plague it might not even exist anymore.

Sometimes even Edmond himself forgot it.

He'd only been a vampire for a few years but the human part of his life felt like a dream – even the winter he'd spent with Ysanne.

He thought about her less and less these days, especially since François often brought female company home.

Edmond learned a lot from those women – things that François couldn't teach him – and for years he was happy.

He and François kept ahead of the latest fashions and mingled with all the right people and attended the best parties and took different women to bed, but as the years passed, something began to niggle at Edmond.

Something about François seemed to be changing, and he wasn't sure what it was.

One night, as they were returning home after a long party, each with a young woman on their arm, Edmond sensed a strange energy coming from François, something tense and prickly. Several times he glanced at his friend, trying to work out why he felt this way, but François was engrossed with his companion, whispering in her ear as she giggled.

You're being paranoid, Edmond silently told himself. There's nothing wrong.

But he couldn't shake that feeling.

When they arrived home, François took them to the parlour and poured wine into four crystal glasses. He and Edmond couldn't drink it, but it helped maintain the illusion that they were both human.

The women accepted their wine and started exploring the room, while François draped himself like a cat across a velvet chaise longue and watched them. His eyes were cold and glittering, and it made Edmond uncomfortable.

"Sit with me," François called, patting his lap, and the blonde woman came. She paused in front of him, smiling coquettishly, and François grabbed her wrist and dragged her into his lap.

"Ow," she said, surprised.

Edmond expected François to apologise. Despite the incredible strength he possessed, he'd never been anything but gentle with women. But François didn't. His eyes, fixed on her neck, were starting to turn red.

"So soft," he whispered, running his fingers up the column of her neck and she sighed and tilted her head, arching her throat towards him.

François put his hand on her shoulder, then his fangs abruptly slid out and he buried them in her throat.

Edmond's hand tightened on his wineglass. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. While they often fed from the women they brought back, it was never this sudden and never this . . . aggressive.

François held the woman too tight, and when she whimpered and tried to pull away, his twisted his other hand in her hair, holding her in place while he drank. The other woman had her back to them, focused on a painting on the wall – perhaps she thought her friend's whimpers were pleasure rather than pain.

But Edmond could hear the way the blonde's heart raced as she tried again to pull away from François. That wasn't excitement – that was fear, and François had to hear it too, so why wasn't he stopping?

"François," said Edmond sharply.

There was no reaction.

"François."

The other vampire's head came up, blood dotting his lips, and for the span of a heartbeat something dark and dangerous moved through his eyes. Edmond had never seen it before, not even when François had fought off those attackers in that alley, years before.

Then François blinked and it was gone, leaving Edmond to wonder if he'd imagined it.

François licked the side of the woman's neck, sealing the cuts, and then quietly cooed to her, apologising for his roughness, promising her lavish gifts to make up for it, and eventually she melted against him as if nothing had happened.

Her friend finally tore herself away from the painting and slid into Edmond's lap, putting her arms around his neck, and he smiled at her but it felt wooden because he couldn't stop thinking about what had just happened.

"What happened last night?" he asked in the morning, after the women had gone, leaving nothing but the smell of their perfume on the bed-sheets.

"What do you mean?" François said, shaking out his lace cuffs.

"You know what I mean."

François faced him, and Edmond studied the other man's eyes, looking for any glimpse of the darkness he'd seen last night, but there was nothing.

"Perhaps I got a little carried away," François admitted, "but no harm was done and it won't happen again."

Edmond slowly nodded.

He trusted François.

But it did happen again.

And again.

When they were feeding, François became rougher and more careless, less considerate of the people he was biting from, whether they were men or women.

Usually he stopped when Edmond snapped his name.

One night he didn't.

Instead he shoved his victim to the floor and leaped at Edmond, like a wild animal, grabbing Edmond's throat and dragging him to the floor.

Edmond was stronger now than he'd ever been as a human, but François was hundreds of years older than him, and much, much stronger. Instinct told Edmond it was safer not to fight back.

François snarled down at him, his lips peeled back from his fangs, his eyes blood-red, and in that moment there was nothing of the man that Edmond knew and loved.

Then François came back to himself. The light in his eyes dimmed, and he lurched back, letting Edmond go, his fangs receding.

"What's happening to you?" Edmond whispered.

François stalked out of the room without replying.

Perhaps Edmond should have left.

He knew something was wrong, but he had no idea how to stop it – or even what it was, and François staunchly refused to discuss the issue.

François was the only real friend that Edmond had in the world, the man who'd saved him from a cold, cruel world that didn't care if he lived or died. François had given him everything and all he'd ever asked for in return was Edmond's trust and friendship.

He'd shaped Edmond from peasant to aristocrat, and Edmond was afraid to leave him. He didn't know who he was outside this world of luxury.

So, though he knew it was cowardly, he turned a blind eye to François's growing aggression. He intervened on occasion, to prevent anyone from getting hurt, and hoped that, if he waited long enough, the problem would resolve itself.

As the weeks passed, François became surly and withdrawn, and he always wanted to feed. Sometimes he disappeared for hours at night, never telling Edmond where he was going, and when he returned he smelled of fresh blood. Sometimes he brought prostitutes home, and glutted himself on their blood while buying their silence – and for most of those women, life was so wretched that they'd do whatever he wanted if it kept a roof over their heads for one more night.

But it made Edmond deeply uncomfortable, and then he'd get angry with himself for not pushing the matter with François.

Sometimes, when he lay awake at night, wondering where François was, he reasoned that it wasn't so bad because François wasn't actually killing anyone.

But he was wrong.

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