Stefan

STEFAN

(A Blue Fire Saga Book)

SCOTT PRUSSING

This is a work of fiction. All the characters or events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or used fictitiously.

STEFAN  

Copyright © 2013 by Scott Prussing Publishing    

All rights reserved.  

Scott Prussing Publishing

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Suite 2

San Diego, CA 92109    

Cover by: Annme Spiby

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PROLOGUE

I NEVER WANTED TO BE A VAMPIRE. By that, I mean I didn’t wake up one morning and think how cool it would be to be a vampire, nor did I ever daydream about becoming one of the undead. The thought never crossed my mind. In fact, when it occurred, I tried my best to prevent it, but that’s a tale I will get to presently.

Make no mistake, I’m thrilled that it happened, and I would never undo it even if given the chance. I love my vampire existence. It’s not perfect—not yet, anyhow, but it’s better than anything else I can imagine. And it is especially preferable to being dead, buried and forgotten.

My name is Stefan de Kula, second son of Count Ramon de Kula. I am now well over three hundred years old. I am the last of the de Kula line, and have been for more than two centuries. I do not miss my family at all. I have a new father now—Ricard, the vampire who turned me—and a new family, my coven, here in central Connecticut.

How did the second son of an Italian count end up as a vampire in New England? That, my friends, is a long and interesting tale.

CHAPTER 1

MY CHILDHOOD WAS PRETTY STANDARD for the second son of a mid-level noble. During my early years, I was close to my older brother Antonio, two years my senior. We played together, took our lessons together, and practiced sword fighting and archery together. Though I was younger, I was more physically gifted, and by the time I was seven I could hold my own against him with the sword and outshoot him with the bow.

Soon after that, things began to change. Our tutors began teaching us separately, and we spent much less time together.

As the heir to our father’s title, Antonio received many hours of lessons in politics, history, manners and related subjects. Since those things would be mostly wasted on a boy who would not inherit a title, I received far less tutoring on those topics—just enough to give me a foundation so I would be able to catch up in case something untoward befell my brother. Instead, my lessons concentrated on fencing, archery, hunting and other such practical subjects. All this was just fine with me. I enjoyed the physical pursuits far more than the academic ones.

My favorite teacher was Donatello, a grizzled tracker and hunter who took me under his wing on extended trips out into the countryside, where he taught me everything he knew about the forests and hills that made up much of the land belonging to my father.

The difference in lessons was not the only thing that changed between my brother and I. Antonio began to grow aloof and then condescending to me, exerting his supposed superiority over me in any way he could. We stopped practicing weapon play together because I had become so much more proficient than him—he could not bear to be bested by his younger brother.

Our stations meant that I had to obey his every command, no matter how foolish or demeaning it might be. The older Antonio became, the more petty and demanding he grew toward me when neither our father nor our mother was around. More and more I avoided him, and came to cherish my trips into the wild with Donatello and the other hunters.

I’ll share just one story about the way my brother treated me so you many better understand what I’m saying.

I was ten or eleven at the time. Antonio and I had just returned from a hard ride through the hills surrounding the castle. We’d had a race in the middle of our ride, and for the first time on horseback, I bested my brother. He was not happy. I was already his superior with sword and bow, and now I had beaten him at horsemanship as well. He was silent and surly all the way home. I knew there was trouble brewing, but there was nothing I could do about it. I just hoped that Antonio’s anger cooled by the time we arrived home.

The day was hot and sticky and our horses had become heavily lathered from their exertions. We ended our ride perhaps a quarter mile from the stable, walking our mounts the rest of the way to cool them down.

When we reached the barn, the stable hands had buckets and brushes awaiting us. I always preferred to clean and brush my own horse—thinking that was the least I could do for my steed after bearing me upon his back—but Antonio thought such work beneath him and allowed the servants to take care of his mount. Today, however, he had a different plan in mind.

You’d make a fine stable hand, Little Brother, he said derisively as I ministered to my horse.

I ignored his barb, so he continued.

Yes, a very fine one. So fine, I think I’ll have you take care of my horse today, too.

I didn’t rise to the bait. I liked caring for horses. I didn’t mind doing two.

But Antonio was not finished. You’ll do mine, first, of course, he ordered.

That last command was too much. I had a bond with my steed and did not want to make him wait.

I’ll get to yours as soon as I’m done here, I said, keeping my voice even.

Antonio’s face bloomed red with rage. Already angry from losing the race, now I had disobeyed him in front of the servants. He raised his hand and swung it toward my head, meaning to shame me by slapping me across the cheek.

My reflexes, honed by countless hours of training, took over. My left arm shot up, easily blocking his blow. At the same time, I cocked my right fist for an answering strike. Luckily, I caught myself in time and lowered my hand before I hit him. That I had restrained myself did not matter, though. The damage had been done.

You dare raise your hand to me, Second Son? Antonio growled.

The servants had turned their heads away, but we both knew they had seen.

I’m sorry, Brother, I said, though I wasn’t sorry at all.

Sorry is not enough, Antonio replied grimly. You must be punished for your insolence.

I could see the wheels turning in his head. After several moments, he spoke to the two servants who had witnessed my transgression. Gather your fellows and bring them all here, he ordered. Hurry.

They scurried away into the barn to collect the other stable hands. I resumed brushing my horse, but I could feel Antonio’s eyes boring into the back of my skull. I wondered what he had in store for me, but I was not about to let him see my concern.

The half dozen servants who tended to the horses and the stable gathered in front of my brother.

This is your lucky day, he told them. Stefan is going to be cleaning out the stables today. I want you all to watch him, to make sure he does a good job. Antonio knew I was popular with the servants, so he added, You are not to help him in any way, mind you, only to watch.

With that, he strode away.

I never minded hard work, but shoveling horse manure—especially on such a hot, sticky day, which made the stench inside the barn all the more foul—was beneath even a second son. I had no choice, though, so I spent the better part of the afternoon mucking out the stalls like a common stable hand.

I could regale you with other, similar stories, but I think this one paints a clear enough picture of the relationship between my brother and me.

In my early teens, I must confess to frequent fantasies of setting up an accident for my brother, but my moral fiber would not permit such a horrific act as fratricide, no matter how much it might benefit our land. In some fiefdoms such a thing was not unheard of, but I could never do it. Even my father knew I would be a far better successor to him than Antonio, but Father was as bound by the laws and customs of our land as I was.

So I stoically suffered my fate, until one fateful day, everything changed.

I was nineteen at the time, tall and strong despite my slender build. I stood quietly in front of my father, waiting for Antonio to join us in the throne room. Even though my father was seated, he seemed restless. Behind my father, two of his advisors waited at attention, ready to respond if called upon.

Waiting for Antonio was nothing new—he habitually liked to be the last one to arrive, allowing him to make an entrance. My brother’s air of self-importance was just one of the many things I had grown to despise about him, but I had long ago learned to hide my displeasure, knowing it could never do any good. In addition to being my father’s heir, Antonio was now Captain of the Guards. No matter that I had become my brother’s superior in virtually every aspect that counted: leadership, bravery, intelligence and skill at arms, to name just a few. Nor did it matter that pretty much everyone knew it, including Antonio. No, all that mattered was that Antonio was first born. Such was the rule of the land.

The sound of footsteps echoing on the marble floor behind me heralded Antonio’s arrival. My brother stopped beside me, but made sure he positioned himself half a step in front of me, as befitted his rank.

I glanced at Antonio out of the corner of my eye. He had clothed himself as if this were a formal council meeting or an audience with visiting dignitaries. He wore a long scarlet cloak embroidered with gold thread, shiny black leather boots, and a scarlet hat with a small black feather slanting backwards on one side. His dark hair was neatly curled and fell almost to his shoulders. I could smell the perfume that had been used to mask the curling chemicals. My own long black hair hung smooth and straight, as nature and my genes intended.

I held back a grin at my brother’s foppishness—everyone else in the room was dressed informally. I was clad in one of my dark brown hunting outfits, for I was pretty certain the end result of this meeting would be a hunt.

I’m glad you could join us, Antonio, my father said, barely hiding the sarcasm in his voice.

My brother either missed or ignored the jab.

I came as quickly as I could, Father. He glanced at me. Some of us have important matters that occupy us. It’s not always easy to break away at a moment’s notice.

Accustomed to my brother’s belittlements, I did not react.

I will get right to the matter at hand, my father said.