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The year is now 1518, and I am still a 21-year-old vampire. I remember my old life well, and I often wonder how my absence has affected my family. My siblings have all aged 15 years, my father will celebrate his 59th name day in a few months time. By now they have all moved on from whatever trauma I may have caused by disappearing from society. Perhaps they believe I am long dead; that some sort of horrible maniac or monster broke into our house, killed Livius, and chased me into the woods. Perhaps they believe that I was killed far from home. Perhaps they spent days, weeks, even months searching for me or my body. Perhaps, even, they believe I am still alive — that I left the farm to find a new life for reasons that they will never know. I’d be happy if this were the case, and they wouldn’t be wrong. The circumstances may be what they may be, but if I can find peace in the notion that my family believes me to still be alive then I can move on myself. I often feel wracked with guilt. Ashamed, as if I brought this upon myself somehow. That I must live my life in hiding, that I must feed on blood to survive, that I enjoy it like nothing else I had ever experienced in my other life.

I try to feed only on those who don’t have families, who don’t have anybody in their lives that will miss them. Beggars, drifters, raving homeless degenerates, but I will also feed on nobility. As a trained assassin, I held no qualms about killing politicians, members of the court, or other elite individuals who not only contribute nothing to society, but actively participate in its marginalization. However, I stick to a code. No working class. No children. Nobody who does good for the world. I may be a monster, but I have my scruples. I often wonder how many others out there are like me, and how many of them even possess some semblance of a moral compass. I often think of Benizzone Petruccio, the beast who turned me. I have yet to see him since that fateful day 15 years ago. What drives a vampire to turn another? Could it be a need for companionship? An act of power over another? A deliberate attempt to build an army of sorts? I have never felt a desire to turn another, but I often wonder if the day will come and what circumstances will urge me to do such a thing.

It was three summers ago when I was approached by Bianca de Montefeltro, a young woman of 24 years, in my chamber in the catacombs. Her modest, although disheveled, partlet and kirtle marked her as a member of the laboring class, perhaps a cook or a servant. She had no family, no kin, no property to speak of. Plagued with malaise, she wandered the labyrinth of the underground in search of, as I understand it, a place to die clandestinely as to not cause a fuss for anybody who may have discovered her body. I’m sure it was a shock to find me in a cavernous chamber lined with candles and lanterns, outfitted with furnishings and accoutrements that I raided from the wealthy over the years — ornate cassoni, decorated walnut and velvet chairs, large framed paintings of nobles from generations past. I was hungry, oh so hungry; to see a supple young woman enter my quarters was as if I were presented with a delicious dinner by noble servants.

She begged for her life. I remember gripping her neck as she cried for mercy, ready to sink my teeth into her porcelain flesh, until she promised to serve me if, please, I were to let her go. Suddenly, this woman wasn’t ready to die. I almost felt pity for her pathetic display. At first I couldn’t begin to fathom what use I may have had for her, this free meal that fell into my lap. I work alone. I always have. One doesn’t keep friends when one is an assassin.

However, I decided that it couldn’t hurt to have a minion at your beck and call. After all, it can be dangerous for even a vampire to skulk the city of Tuscany late at night. All it takes it one stab in the heart with a sharp piece of wood to end my existence — a child could do it. I do not plan to die, that is for certain.

Bianca is 27 years old now and is my indentured servant, knowing that her life is now in my hands. I don’t know what she does during the day, I do not care. I warn her that if she disappears for more than a week that I will hunt her for her flesh and blood. She has been very helpful in acquiring various items for me; occult books and objects, expensive treasures from the noble houses, and other various objects of import. Bianca is obviously a skilled sneakthief, proving her usefulness and ensuring her continued existence.

I have done much research on who I am and who I came to be. For years I’ve strived toward a goal: true immortality. No death from stakes or from the sun. My research has pointed me in the direction of ancient, unholy artifacts buried deep in the caves of Romania that can be used as vessels for dangerous spells to achieve my goals, but travelling to Romania is out of the question. Even if I have to wait one million years, I’ll figure out a way.