Prologue: The Bloody Kiss
I remember the way her blood tasted – not as a predator remembers his prey, but as a man remembers the moment he damned himself.
The air still smells of roses. It clings to the torn silk of her gown, to the dying fire in the hearth, to the stains that bloom like poppies across the ivory lace at her throat. I can still see the light in her eyes – not the fading light of death, but the flicker of recognition. A whisper of something ancient.