The Eternals, neither human nor vampire, are the last inhabitants of a dying Earth. In the face of a slowly perishing sun, some have accepted their fate while others are ready to fight for their future. It is to this ultimatum that Jean, the last Eternal lord, is born.
Jean's life changes drastically after his bite takes the life of Princess Chantelle of The New Europa Alliance. Suddenly, he’s a man on the run, falling in love and rediscovering his humanity.
With the sun's clock ticking, Jean stumbles from manipulated mishap into age-old conspiracies and beyond, as he tries to reconcile his sordid past.
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Chantelle's cold, dead hand slipped into my own like velvet ice.
"The balcony, Monsieur?"
"Please, Jean. You know formality make me feel old, Princess."
"Are you not?" she giggled.
I gave her a narrow-eyed glare.
In sashaying majesty, she led me out onto the moonlit balcony, a slight breeze stirring the purple silks of her gowns and tousling those flowing, raven locks. Neither the orchestra, nor revellers, noticed our absence, all far too absorbed with their petty pleasures.
Scattered geranium bushes emitted a faint pomade into the night in wafts of delicious perfume. The fragrance circulated in the evening's air currents mixing with Chantelle's own exquisite scents. She was everything a man could have desired, perfection personified.
"Come here." I pulled her close, uncaring of prying eyes. I cared for nothing else, so why should that have mattered.
"Come here Princess," she corrected, pressing hidden curves against my body.
If I could have remembered what happiness felt like, then that moment would have come close, her demure eyelash batting only adding to the allure.
"Beautiful, is it not, Jean?"
"Not as beautiful as you," I said and leaned out over the balustrade. The red waters of the Danube looped their turgid way around the palace perimeter forming a natural barrier to uninvited guests. That was the exact purpose of their design. Nature had never had a say in it.
"Shall we?" Chantelle purred, as the reinvigorated orchestra drew my attention back from the river. There was only one kind of music for such occasions: Strauss.
We waltzed in slow circles to the ironic notes of the Blue Danube. I doubted the composer would have generated the same response to his masterpiece if titled red.
Already translated. Translated by Luisa Ercolano
Already translated. Translated by Diego Prado
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