Artus carried himself like a god. He was aloof and untouchable. His word was law with the Sons of Erebus. He answered only to Duantia, Leader of the High Council.

Most important, he loved battle. He was merciless, only ending a training session after he had drawn blood at least thrice from each opponent and making each of them yield formally to him.

Artus was not handsome—he was glorious. He was tall. His muscles were long and lean. His skin was black as a raven’s wing. Unlike Alexander, whose muscular young body was smooth and free of scars, Artus was covered with evidence that illustrated a life of violence.

But it wasn’t simply his appearance that attracted Neferet. It was what simmered beneath. She used her gift and probed his mind, read his desires, knew his needs. Artus thrived on pain. It was why he pushed his Warriors so hard. It was why he had become the leading Sword Master of the old century, and had remained so for the new one. It was also why he hadn’t bonded with any High Priestess. He hadn’t wanted any of them to know his true self—to discover his true needs. Instead of taking a vampyre lover, Artus chose human prostitutes to sate his desires. Surprisingly, Neferet heard little gossip about Artus’s choice in bed partners. The other High Priestesses found him off-putting. He was too aloof, too serious. He did his job and did it better than any other Warrior in the world—that was all that concerned the San Clemente vampyres. That was all the others understood about him. But Artus could not hide himself from Neferet. To her he was a scroll, written in blood, easily read, easily enjoyed. Neferet desired him more than she had ever desired anyone. She set about having him.

Seducing Artus was more difficult than Neferet had expected. Even among the unworldly beauty of the most powerful and important High Priestesses of their time, Neferet outshined them all. But Artus seemed impervious to Neferet’s beauty.

His aloofness had served only to flame her desire for him.

She had studied him. She learned his habits. Neferet took to wearing the traditional ceremonial garb of Italy’s ancient High Priestesses, which left her breasts bared, her hair adorned with flowers and ivy, and her lush hips draped in transparent fabric the color of a maiden’s blush. Then she made certain she led the casting of the circle that daily asked for Nyx’s blessing on the Sons of Erebus Warriors.

She could feel Artus’s eyes on her body, but when she tried to meet his gaze and draw his attention more fully to her, he always looked quickly away.

Unfortunately, Alexander did not look away from her. Ever. Her Warrior mistook the reason she was lavishing so much time and attention on the Warriors and at the field house as devotion to him. He strutted about, enjoying the envious glances of his new Warrior friends. He boasted that Neferet’s power was as great as her beauty. He fulfilled her every whim like a lap dog. Alexander baffled her as much as he irritated her. How could he not see that he was only an afterthought to her? She probed the Warrior’s mind for subterfuge, and found none. His feelings were true. He was completely enamored with her and utterly deluded into believing that she felt the same for him.

Alexander could not have been more wrong.

Neferet yearned for something darker, more sensual, more fulfilling. She yearned for Artus. The next time she led the Warrior Prayer and Artus’s eyes grazed her body, Neferet had focused the full force of her gift and delved deep within his mind. She was richly rewarded. She had discovered exactly how to seduce the aloof Warrior.

Neferet had set the stage carefully. She waited until it was just after dawn. She knew Artus would be finished drilling the Warriors. He would be in his quarters in the rear of the field house, preparing to rest for six hours. Then he would take the most uncomfortable guard shift, during the time the sun was brightest in the sky.

The High Priestesses assumed Artus took that shift because of his devotion to them. Neferet knew the truth behind that convenient belief. Artus thrived on the physical pain that uncomfortable shift and the sun caused him. Neferet had kept that delicious secret close to her as she plotted and planned his seduction.

First, she got rid of the fledgling Warrior who served as Artus’s aide. That was the simplest step. She allowed the fledgling to caress her—she pretended to desire his youth and his perfect body—she made him believe she would send a fledgling in his place that dawn to serve Artus, if the boy would rendezvous with her at a discreet inn on nearby Torcella Island.

Of course she would deny trying to seduce him. Actually, it had amused her to consider the punishment Artus would mete out to him after he discovered why the boy had shirked his duties.

Next, she slipped away from Alexander. She thought of sending him into Venice to find her a perfect piece of silk in an impossible color, but she hadn’t wasted the energy on fabricating a fool’s mission. Instead she’d waited until his attention was elsewhere, and called fog and mist, shadows and darkness to her so that she faded away from him before he’d even known he needed to look for her. And look for her he would, she was quite sure. He always looked for her. She’d curled her lip in distaste. Why had she let blood and lust shackle her to such a predictable bore? Neferet shrugged off the unpleasant thought of Alexander and his devotion. She wouldn’t think about him at all—she didn’t want to taint the pleasure of what she was certain would come.

Flushed with excitement, Neferet made her way invisibly to the field house. She entered through the rear door—the one nearest Artus’s quarters. Then she waited.

Neferet hadn’t had to wait long. As she already had learned, Artus was a vampyre of habit. When his fledgling didn’t appear at exactly thirty minutes past dawn, he opened the door to his quarters and gruffly called, “Salvatore! Boy! Where are you?”

“Salvatore is not here. No one is here except for me and you,” she’d said.

He was frowning when he emerged from his quarters, hair wet, chest bared, with only a towel wrapped loose and low around his slim hips. “Priestess, have you misplaced your Warrior?”

Neferet had lifted her chin and made her voice flint. “Warrior, have you misplaced your respect? I am a High Priestess. I expect to be greeted as such.”

Artus had lifted one dark brow, but he had complied, fisting his hand over his heart and bowing to her. “What can I do for you, Neferet?”

“Ah, you do know my name.”

“Everyone on San Clemente Island knows your name. What can I do for you, Neferet?” he’d repeated.

“I am here for a lesson,” she’d said.

“Your Warrior is a talented Sword Master. Why not take a lesson from him?”

Her full lips had curled up and her voice had purred, “Oh, but you misunderstand me. I am not here to take a lesson. I am here to give one.”

His dark eyes widened as she pulled a leather strap from the folds of her dress and lifted the dagger she had been hiding behind her. Then she tugged at the tie at her shoulder, and her gown slithered down her body. Naked, she walked to him, not speaking until she was within reaching distance. “Hold your hands before you and put your wrists together.”

“Neferet, what are—”

“I didn’t say you could speak! Do as I command!” When he just stood there, statue-like, she raised the dagger and touched it to his chest.

His intake of breath was sharp, but he didn’t move, didn’t look away from her.

Neferet had smiled, though she’d made her voice sharp, cruel. “Obey me!”

“Yes, High Priestess.” His voice had gone deep. He raised his hands, pressing his wrists together.

Neferet wrapped the leather strap around them, tightening it until she could see that it was uncomfortable. Artus’s breath was coming fast. Sweat began to bead across his ebony body.