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talk to him. His last friend—this time he snarled at the thought—created him. There had been no love waiting for him in Spain. His family was gone. He had no life, no joy. His only contact with humans was to control them, and as he aged, that had become surprisingly easier, more an afterthought than an act. Evidently, the powers Brakka had called fledgling at his turning had grown with his aging. Diego was sure that for many, the abilities he had been granted in the beginning would have been reason enough to accept this travesty of a life.
    He knew he was not like the others, the Brethren as they were collectively called, the few of whom he had met in a high state of caution while training with Brakka. They did not trust him, and he refused to trust others. Most avoided him completely, and that was fine with him. Diego discovered he could not agree with the Brethren’s attitude toward their food supply.
    It was simple for them; death was easy, just a way to feed. The body, the person, meant nothing. The Brethren enjoyed playing with their victims, torturing them, or inciting fear and chaos with their victims through their deaths.
    Diego refused to travel that paved road to true damnation, condemning the soul of an innocent life so he could live one more night. He also swore to never pass on his own curse. Once it sank in that he could live without killing, he swore he never would. He refused to ensnare a mind, watch as they offered themselves under his control, then purposely steal a life.
    That was true slaughter in his mind, and Diego was not a murderer. That one sin was reserved for Brakka’s judgment.
    Brakka had misjudged his appetites when he attacked Diego and made his offer. Diego had managed to keep his soul when others had lost it easily and willingly to the addictive taste of blood.
    The stage before him fell into utter blackness, a smoky blanket of nothing, silencing his spiraling thoughts. Anticipation built as electricity began to hum from the depths. Diego located Brakka again, watching his engrossed behavior with his evening’s conquest. Diego snorted in disgust. What a playboy. Diego knew he was merely playing with the woman. It didn’t require effort other than mental for what they needed. Brakka had not changed at all.
    A guitar broke through the crowd’s murmurs and calls, a riff of sound that brought a roar of greeting from the hyper mass on the floor surrounding the wide stage.
    The stage was still as dark as the murkiest night when her voice floated out to him.
    That single sound wound over his ear, entrapping him in its exotic tone. His gaze snapped from Brakka to shadows that meant nothing to him and found her . The woman whose voice rang true, purity unleashed.
    On a beat of drums, the lights hit her, illuminating her for him and everyone else. His reaction was beyond intense. It felt like someone kicked him in the middle so hard, he almost doubled over. Except there was no physical pain, but something so powerful, he stood frozen to the ground, unable to move and feeling aflame with a rush of volcanic heat. Her arms opened wide, embracing the crowd, the night, her voice flowing, falling, finding, and filling every crevice, every ear.
    Stunned at his own reactions, he knew his night had changed. He still kept an eye on Brakka. There was no way he would escape, but the woman before him on stage, she was something else entirely. There was life in her music, in the sound of the song as she lifted it over and through the crowd. She threw her arms wide once more and her voice rose higher, farther. The crowd went crazy, cheering.
    He heard half the club sigh when she finished a particularly torchy, riveting song, a seductress of passion, gliding like a wraith across the stage. Her eyes beckoned, her voice entranced. She was magical. There were over a thousand people inside hanging on her every note as proof.
    She was a light of constant energy, sharing handshakes with her fans, sharing in their