The Prophet remained silent for so long Kirios was unsure he was going to get an answer. His heart thudded dully behind its bone encasement.
“Sixty years, my friend. Sixty years.”
A noise of distress escaped his mouth before he could control his response and he felt the Prophet sigh sadly. “I am sorry.”
Kirios shook his head, blinking back tears of defeat. It wasn’t his fault, he told the Prophet silently.
“It isn’t your fault,” the Prophet replied quietly. “Not your fault.”
Kirios squeezed his eyes shut in agony. “If not my own, then whose?”
“No one’s. We are all at the mercy of the will of the gods.”
When perhaps a few days passed, the Prophet turned to him, his eyes bright from sleep deprivation. “I must tell you the reason why I had myself put into this prison with you.”
Kirios grunted. So the mad man had deliberately had himself thrown in prison with him. Why? his eyes asked.
“I’ve had visions of you, Kirios. I am here to save you.”
“Why?” Kirios frowned. What was so special about him?
Tears glistened in the young seer’s eyes. “Oh, Kirios. This awful war… it’s going to haunt our world for centuries.”
The hopelessness of it threatened unsuccessfully to end a life that couldn’t be ended. “Centuries?” he gasped out.
“For centuries. At the end of the 2nd Millennia Anno Domini, Gaia will set in motion events that will lead to the end of this war.”
2nd Millennia Anno Domini… Dear Gaia!
“A child will be born into the end of the 20th Century… a child with blood of both Covens running in her veins – a half-lykan, half-magik who will bring this war to a conclusion.”
Kirios shook his head in amazement. “What has any of this to do with me?”
His eyes blazed suddenly, his face taut with emotion. “I see you in that future. You are an important element of that future.” With that the Prophet seized a hold of Kirios’ head and pressed Kirios’ open mouth to his neck, forcing the vampyre to drink from his blood. Sixty years of starvation… force was not really necessary. Kirios groaned with exultation and sank his teeth through the soft flesh of the Prophet’s neck, drinking and drinking until the blood flowed into every cell of his being, blood unlike any other he had tasted. He jerked back, careful, even when so hungry, to take only what he needed. He underestimated his sudden speed and smacked his head off the wall. He barely felt it. Kirios gasped, reaching up to feel his skull… no mark, no blood. Nothing. He laughed and the Prophet smiled wearily, shuffling back up into a sitting position.
Kirios stared at his hands, looking for some sign in his skin to explain this entirely new feeling in his body. He felt stronger than he ever had before.
“What have you done?” he whispered.
The Prophet shook his head. “The gods… they made me special. My blood… it has changed you. You will be faster, stronger, and you will be able to mask other supernaturals’ trace.”
“Why?”
“I do not know. I am only doing what I’ve been led to do in my visions.”
Kirios nodded. “I understand. But what am I to do with this?”
The Prophet shrugged. “Whatever comes naturally to you, my son.”
The seer struggled to his feet, Kirios rushing to help him, a frown marring his handsome face. “I have taken too much.”
“No, no. You did fine. Most vampyres do not have your restraint.”
“What are you doing?”
“Getting you out of here.”
At that he began yelling at the top of his voice, screaming for help. When they heard shuffling of feet drawing closer, the Prophet turned away from the entrance so their captors would not see the neck wound, only the blood on his hands. Kirios lay on the ground, his mouth wiped clean of the blood, pretending to be as weak as ever. It was a masquerade that would end once the Midnights looked close enough to see the fullness in his body, the healthy sheen of his skin and hair.