The truck came to a halt at the end of a long road, the tall trees blocking out any light tonight's full moon would have provided. Thankfully the driver's eyes could see perfectly in the dark without the need for lights, from the moon or any other source. The fact we drove with the headlights on was a courtesy to anyone else who might be on the road at this hour.

We turned onto another road that stretched deep into the woods. The sound of the insects buzzing loudly in the forest surrounding us buzzed loudly in my ears, and I cupped my hands over them, hoping to block out some of the noise. It hadn't worked, and I sighed.

The drive lasted another few minutes and we slowed again, stalling beside a guard shack just long enough for the driver to flash his credentials. Seeming satisfied, the guard granted us entry, and the truck drove past the shack and further down the long driveway, coming to a stop near the edge of the walkway that led to the stairs.

The house stood tall, at least three stories high, and I knew there were at least two more floors beneath the earth. It looked like something out of a horror movie, a haunted house maybe. It was constructed of dark brick, with high towers that stabbed at the moonlit sky. It reminded me vaguely of the Gothic architecture an old teacher had been obsessed with. The house stretched outward, almost to the edge of the property, leaving little room for the cobblestone path that wound around the house.

Weather worn Gargoyles were perched atop small pillars that stood at the foot of the stair case, watching over the property, their chipped wings outstretched. Damien led my father and I up the never ending flight of stairs toward the front door, a heavy steel mass that looked like it belonged more in a bank vault rather than the front of a house.

Very welcoming, I thought, and watched while my adviser rooted around in his pockets, his face pinched in frustration. Finally, he tugged out a set of keys, picking one out of the lot, and handed them over to me.

"Keys for now, Chancellor, until we can get your finger prints into the system. Then you'll have no need for these."

"Good. I always have a habit of losing keys, anyway," I said, and stepped forward, my eyes searching for the lock. I found it quickly, and drove the key in, turning it until the lock clicked, and the door opened with a hiss.

Damien placed a hand on my shoulder. "Welcome home, Chancellor Ragno," he smiled at me.

I nudged the door open and stepped inside.

The building was meant to intimidate, and it did. I felt like an ant walking into the foyer, the walls stretching higher and higher until I had to crane my head back to see where they ended. I was certain that if it weren't for the ceiling, they'd have kept going higher, until they reached the heavens, or whatever lie beyond the clouds.

The floors were a dark hardwood, nearly black in color, and stood out against the light grey color of the walls. No pictures, save for a lone painting of a red ankh flanked by sconces, were on the walls. It was empty, so far, and I found that more comforting than the clutter of my parent's home.

We were led down a hallway directly ahead of us and into a room that held nothing but a staircase that led to where I assumed the bedrooms were. Darkened corridors were on either side of us now, and I was beginning to think this place as more of a maze than a home, and I figured I would learn my way around in time.

Damien urged me to the left and I moved, walking slowly down the dimly lit expanse, the walls barren just like every other inch of the house I have seen so far. My father followed along quietly, falling into step on my right, his hands folded behind his back. Green eyes drank in every detail of my new home, and if it weren't for the fact my father noticed me watching him, and that I looked away, I'd have collided with Damien.

"Your living room," he said, and pointed toward a doorway on the opposite wall. "Just through there is the kitchen. This is the more...lounge-y area of the house, more suited for casual get-togethers. If we would have gone in the opposite direction, you would be in the formal living room, near that is the dining room. It's more of a hall, really. Much to large for my tastes. I prefer smaller, more intimate settings," Damien shrugged.

"Why is the dining room and kitchen so far apart? Wouldn't it make more sense to keep them close together?"

"They're connected. The kitchen's very large, and only a short walk separates the two rooms."

"Oh."

"You can sit here for now. Your father and I will be back in a minute, then I'll show you the parts of the house you'll be using the most," he pat my shoulder briefly and stalked off in the direction we came, my father close at his heels.

I plopped down on one end of the leather sectional that took up the center of the room. On the wall to my right, a large flat screen TV was hung there, speakers on either side.

The walls were a deep red, giving the room a cozier, warmer feel than the rest of the house. I could imagine myself splayed out here for hours, nestled into the plump cushions. But I knew such a luxury would come rarely now, and I would have to settle with what little downtime I would be allotted between my duties as Chancellor.

The first of which I would be completing soon. After I had settled down in the truck, Damien explained that by tomorrow afternoon, I would be meeting with everyone on the list of contacts, the coroner especially. He would be the hand that guided me into the Purist sect.

Could he be trusted? I recalled being told that involvement with these groups was risky; you either found yourself caught up in their logic and converted, or were killed.

Where would my involvement lead me, to conversion, success, or death?

Swallowing a lump in my throat, I hoped for success. I'd die once in my lifetime, and hopefully never again.

. . .

The stairs descended into the bowels of the enormous house, and we crossed the stations were my medics and countless other staff would work. I assumed, going by how things worked back at home, that all employees lived on site, in apartments constructed at the rear of the house.

The staff members rose and greeted me with warm smiles and bows, and I could only wonder what was running through their minds as they took in the sight of their new leader.

Were they as wary as I was? Or were they confident that I could actually do well as a leader? I silently prayed for the latter. I could use the optimism.

Down another staircase we went, one that came to an abrupt halt. An oak door separated us from whatever was on the other side.

"The former Chancellor liked to keep things private. He wasn't to keen on having his feeding chambers on the same floor as his guests and staff would be," Damien said, and opened the door, stepping aside in the small space to allow me entry.

"Yes, he was a noisy fellow when it came to feeding. He called it passion," my father scoffed. "I called it barbaric."

The room looked nearly identical to the feeding room that my father had, empty but for a couch and table. Though, the room had something my father's didn't, something I didn't notice until I walked further into the room.

Chains hung from the ceiling, each fitted with heavy hooks, the kind you'd find in a butcher shop, holding up various animal corpses. The floor had a drain fitted in the center of the tile, and whether it was rusted or caked in dried blood, I couldn't be sure. Though, my uncertainty grew less and less as I began to notice dark blotches spread about on the floor, and it was clear that this room was used frequently. And that this man had no regard for keeping things clean and efficient.

"This room should be cleaned," my father's nose wrinkled. "It's about the only space that doesn't look void of any signs of use."

Damien nodded. "I'll let the staff know."

"You do that. Leave us now," my father ordered. "We have our own business to attend to."

Damien's eyes locked with my own for a long moment before he left the room. The click of my father's fangs echoed in the large room.

Instinctively, I defended myself, reaching forward and grabbing my father's wrists as he lurched forward. I was using all of my strength to hold him at bay, even though I knew he was using little to no effort at all. He didn't have to. Strong as I may be, no matter what gifts I inherited from him, I was still weaker, and it would only be moments until my muscles gave in to the burning pain and I released my father. Still, I held on, trying to prolong my humanity, what I had left of it, and pushed harder.

"You're strong. And fast," my father commented, staring at me almost admirably. "How foolish of me to think you weak."

"I owe that to you," I grunted, my arms shaking. Sweat beaded on my brow.

He raised a dark brow. "Just to me? I'm flattered, but surely you get at least some of your strength from your mother."

My father forced me back, and I slammed into the wall, hard. I gasped as the wind was knocked out of me, and glared at my father, his smug smile plastered on his face.

"Mad, are we? Well, you could have only held me back for so long, my dear," he said. His eyes glinted in the fluorescent light provided from the lamps overhead. "Do you have any idea how long I've been waiting for this?"

He leaned in and drew a deep breath, his nose resting just over my pulse. "You've shown great promise, Quinn, more than your mother, or your sister, ever has. They're too nice, too sympathetic. That's why I've never bothered to turn them. But you...you're different. Like me."

I struggled against him despite knowing I'd get nowhere. "I'm not like you," I growled.

He grinned. "Oh, but you are. There's a darkness in you, one that could have only come from me. I saw it in you from the time you were a child. And you made it clear during that summer what you're capable of, the power, the thirst that you try so hard to hold back," his thumb pulled my upper lip up to graze the tips of the fangs that never distended.

That never have since I made a conscious effort not to let them.

"How long has it been since you've let these out? Let them breathe, let them bathe," he whispered darkly, "in blood. Not since you were nine, am I right?"

I shuddered at the memory. I hated thinking about that. Not only because of the guilt I felt over all the things I had done, whether I could have controlled myself or not, but also because of the rush it gave me.

He chuckled. "Your mother was horrified. She blamed me, mostly, what I was...for what you had become. And I tried to pretend that it was all a tragedy, and that I wouldn't allow things like that to ever happen again, I was proud of you," my father smiled, genuinely, and the sincerity was disturbing, considering what he was proud of. "I hadn't seen that much blood in years. Centuries. I'll tell you this, Quinn, if I didn't love your mother as much as I do, I'd have taken you and disappeared. We could do so much together."

My father watched me through heavy lidded eyes, and I could feel the hunger rolling off of him. And as much as I tried to fight it, it was fueling my own hunger, and I squirmed, attempting to stave off the desire to sink my teeth into flesh. Just as I had all those years ago.

I had been locked away in my own room, next to the one my parents had rented. We were away for the week, on some tropical island, and it was just two weeks after the start of summer vacation. I was going to be a fifth grader soon, and my parents rewarded my 180 days of hard work and perfect attendance with my first trip out of the states.

My father had known the struggles I had endured, the first shift that came in the earliest stages of puberty, a painful change that had left me scared for a week after it happened. Then came the other trials, the impulses, the mood swings.

I had become particularly violent then, my wrath rained down upon anything smaller, weaker than I was. I couldn't control myself.

There were times where I had lashed out at my father's staff, biting them with the small fangs I had inherited from my father, from being born with some vampiric traits.

"I know what you're going through. I felt it myself many years ago, after I was first made. This will be good for you, dear," he said, smoothing his hand over my shoulder. "All the things you've been holding back...you can be free. Do what you will, with anyone. No consequences. Make your father proud."

I slaughtered an entire village of innocents, barreling through the streets of the small town unrestrained, swiftly tearing through house after house. I hadn't stopped until there was nothing left but my family, and even then I hadn't been sated.

I had wanted them, too. I wanted it all.

And after the high had worn off, after I realized what I had done, it was enough to make me want to end my life. So I had tried, failed attempt after another, to do the only thing that seemed punishment enough for the atrocities I had committed, but was healed and reprimanded each time.

I had spent years trying to painfully restrain myself, the darkest parts of me. And here my father was, making light of it all, as if I had won a spelling bee instead of killing an entire town.

"But instead you choose to hold back. To be human. How pitiful," he spat, his lip curling back in contempt. "Though, now I can give you a chance to redeem yourself. You'll have my blood, Quinn. All of it. There's no escaping now, no hiding away from all those things you tried suppress."

"I managed to control myself all these years. I can keep doing it. Vampire or not," I said, though I wasn't quite sure if I believed my own words. "I won't be a monster."

He stared at me, feigning sympathy, a mocking pout on his lips. "Oh, of course you won't be. None of us are monsters. We're not bottom feeders, nor are we leeches, children of Satan like those Purists like to claim. No, we're at the top of the food chain, Quinn," he grinned maniacally. "We're the master race."

I could only stare at him with wide eyes as he rambled on. Did he really believe this rhetoric?

"And soon, you'll see that it's true. Once you realize how strong you are, how feared you are by all, you'll share my views. Our views," he dipped his head lower, lips brushing my ear as he spoke. "Welcome to the afterlife, my child."

His teeth tore into my skin, without warning, and I could only thrash violently as he latched his lips onto the wound. I could feel him siphoning the life from me, my blood streaming from the puncture marks and into his mouth.

My father drank, ravenously, a growl rumbling deep in his throat. My vision became hazy, the more he leeched out of me, and my writhing became weaker and weaker, nothing more than a halfhearted jerk as I died slowly in his grasp.

He pulled away, holding me up by the throat with one hand as he pulled the sleeve of his sweater up to his elbow. He sank his fangs into his own arm and held the bleeding appendage to my face.

"Drink," he ordered, and pressed his bloody wrist to my lips. I moved my head forward weakly until my mouth was wrapped around his skin, sucking mouthfuls of the hot, thick fluid. I drank greedily, determined to replace all that was taken from me, and growled when he ripped his arms away.

I collapsed to the tile floor beneath me, rolling onto my side. My body temperature spiked, and I was on the verge of tears as it seemed only to rise. Waves of nausea crashed over me and I wretched onto the tile, digging my nails into the grout to keep myself from tipping face first into the mess.

Sweat drenched my body and I flopped onto my back, tugging my shirt up so that I could feel the cold tile. It bore no relief. My father crouched down in front of me and pressed a hand to my forehead.

"You're reaching the peak of the change, now. This will pass."

Pain exploded in my gums and I screamed, feeling the new, larger fangs grow, push through the flesh. They descended, a mix of my own blood and saliva dripping from my mouth. I clutched the sides of my head, willing the pain to subside. I closed my eyes, and could feel the familiar sting of the scars burning my skin as my father's blood—my blood—fought to heal them.

My senses were on overdrive. New scents flooded my nostrils, the blood my father and I shared, the dried blood on the floor not a few feet away, mingling with the stale perfume that lingered in the air from a previous kill, a distant memory of the murders that occurred here. I opened my eyes. Colors had brightened, became more vivid than they ever had before. I could hear every creak of the floor boards, every quiet breath, every whisper of the wind that rustled the leaves outside.

I was dead, but God, I felt so alive.