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are,” the figure said, then turned on his heel. Stephan followed. The monk seemed to float across the great empty courtyard, covered in several inches of snow. It was all as he had remembered it, the towering stone walls, the fountain burbling in the center, a mere pile of rocks in a simple stone circle. That fountain was the beginning of it all, though. Mirso had been built around it. The Old One had contaminated it with the parasite in his blood that his kind now called the Companion. The water in turn infected humans so many eons ago that only Rubius remembered it. Only a few lived through drinking that water, but when they did, their blood provided immunity to others who were infected. From that simple source, their race had been born. Perhaps it was a curse. Sooner or later the weight of years or their own sins always got the better of them, and they needed refuge. They all ended at Mirso Monastery .
    He followed the monk in through the doors at the far end of the courtyard, up the circular stone steps that wound around the inside of the main tower, and into the small receiving room, where the monk left him. The room held only a straight chair with a carved back. Supplicants for an audience with Rubius did not deserve comfort .
    “Rubius will see you.”
    Stephan jerked his head up. He had not heard the monk enter. He was slipping. He rose and ducked through the low door at the far end of the bare room .
    Rubius’s quarters were a stark contrast to the Spartan feel of the rest of the monastery. Tapestries hung on the walls, Turkish carpets covered the stone floor. A fire snapped in the grate and joined candles set about the room in casting a warm glow over padded leather chairs, a sideboard laid with brandy and sweetmeats, and Rubius’s collection of artwork. He glanced around to the familiar pieces: an Etruscan stone fertility goddess, Roman glass from the first century, Greek vases in black and red, a Chinese jade horse. His collection had grown in the centuries Stephan had been gone. He recognized a da Vinci, a fine Byzantine triptych, a Mayan calendar from the New World. That brought back painful memories. Stephan let his gaze wander over the room for a moment before it rested on the old man in the center .
    “Hello, Rubius.”
    The old man nodded. He was an incongruous head of vampire society, a fact lost on Stephan in his youth. Overweight, white haired, with a full beard and a ruddy complexion, he looked more like a jolly Saint Nicholas than the chief representative of what humans thought was evil incarnate. Rubius was the last alive from those who first drank at the Source .
    “Sincai.” He motioned to the brandy and raised his brows .
    Stephan nodded, his breathing uneven. Rubius poured out a glass and handed it to him. Stephan downed it, hoping it would steady him .
    Rubius poured his own glass and motioned to a chair. “Why are you here, boy?”
    “You know that,” Stephan managed to croak. He did not sit .
    “But I want to hear you say it,” Rubius said softly, studying him .
    Stephan took a breath. This was it. Push down pride. There was no pride to be had after what he had done. “I beg to be allowed to take the Vow.”
    “I find that most interesting,” Rubius said, almost in a whisper. It was as if after all these years of only speaking to his own kind with their acute hearing, he had lost any desire to do more than murmur. He put down his glass and laid a finger aside his ruddy nose. “One who broke our Rules, nay, tried even to demonstrate that they were wrong, now wants to avail himself of our most precious Rule of all.”
    This was it. Rubius wouldn’t let him in. The emptiness that sat in his belly threatened him with insanity. “I was wrong,” he said. No pride. “Made and born vampires are not equal.”
    “Your little experiment with the Arab girl nearly destroyed our world, boy!” The whisper was outraged. “Wrong doesn’t begin to cover the situation.”
    “No.”