Jonathan, do you know about the snow in Russia?  The deep, paralyzing and agonizing winter?  You may think that winters in France are harsh.  Or perhaps the winters of New England.  They are nothing compared to winter in my homeland. 

When I lived, what were palaces but prisons where Princes were enslaved to foreign power?  What was a village but a mere hovel?  What was my home for that matter?  It was nothing more than a fur-covered tent and lumber.  Nothing meant more to a man than a horse and fresh meat.  It mattered little, when I was a human boy, if it snowed.  Life on the Steppes was an ordeal, and in Thirteenth Century, it was always cold.

Now I am in a place where it never snows at all, visiting with old friends, old comrades.  I am surrounded in power and protection.  There are powerful allies to be made here.  I have known them forever, it seems.  There is even one who...ah, but it was so long ago!  Those chapters have so long remained closed.  And yet, there is some yearning inside me to speak to you, to tell you my story.

You, Jonathan, are as much my grandson as any young man in the human world might be to his elders of related blood.  You are the quiet one, are you not?  You are the caring one.  The one who feels, and more than any other, the one who can reach your vampire father, my son, and explain to him what I've revealed to you.  There are whispers on the wind of what he has become.  I felt our linked blood die.  To write him would have been the thing I wish I could have done, but I can't.  He's lost to me. 

I know where you are now.  Other vampires know this as well.  Some mean you immense harm.  My old enemies are gone now, eradicated from their existences as if they never had been.  But there are others attempting to locate you in order to destroy you, your father, and those you love.  Some enemies come from Paris, but there are terrors rising from the Mid-Eastern desert that cannot be named.  Have your father's reckless ways made enemies for me as well?  Even more so, should I fear for my companions?  When will his impetuousness come to an end, and where will he lead you?  Impetuousness and recklessness.  I laugh at my printed words because I am sure they will infuriate the one who made you.

The early summer of the year 2001 finds you in Bordeaux, a region of France both you and he have long avoided.  He was born to human life there, or somewhere quite nearby, in the year 1677.  Did you know that, Jonathan?  But of course, you must.  You've heard it all before from him, no doubt.  Let us move on to other things.

You know what I am.  I am a vampire.  I live only at night.  I am a nocturnal predator, one who kills humans for their blood.  I had been something of a force to be reckoned with when made a vampire at the age of thirty-five years.  I stand just over six feet tall, with long golden brown hair and light blue eyes.  I am always a vampire, but can appear human.  When fully engaged in bloodlust, however, two sharp nasty fangs come down from the canines in the roof of my mouth, framed as it is with this old-fashioned mustache.  My eyes fill up with a red haze and look the color of blood.  By the time a human sees this, his life is already mine.

Jonathan, I have a connection to you because you are a descendant of my blood, and perhaps from your thoughts, your dreams or what have you, I know you are dwelling in a very small feudal sort of village, far in the countryside of Bordeaux.  Indeed, I can envision your back patio, beyond the small garden and fountain, a fashionable torchlight flickering in the breeze.  The garden behind the house...herbs and flowers grow there.  I understand your women do this, working out in the dark earth under the moonlight.

I can almost see the open vineyards; their yellow grapes sparkling like the stars.  The moonlight shines down on shipping ports, miles away.        

Jonathan, you have changed throughout the passing years, and I foresee more changes to come, though you still appear as you always have; the long, thick dark brown hair sometimes hanging down, sometimes tied back.  You stand at six feet tall.  Broad shoulders, very strong looking for one who died not a day beyond nineteen years.  Your dark eyes still seem full of sadness at times.

It would appear that no messenger could be sent to you at present.  Things here are dangerous.  The terrors from the desert have risen at last, and word has it that they are hungry to take revenge.  They have lost something, and it is said that your father has taken it.  The loss of a promise, a hope or a dream can often be as detrimental as a tangible object.  You will remember this lesson, untaught by actions but by words.  Many times a gift is not fully appreciated by those who receive until much, much later.  Here, now, the lesson is this.

When I was a boy in that cold, harsh land that I did not know was Russia but only home, I was given a colt.  It was a great gift given to my father by a Prince, and further handed down to me.  My father, called Vaughn, had saved the life of this Prince.  His noble entourage passed through our village, and the starved and neglected people had tried to attack.  Somehow my father had held them back.  A colt was an honorable gift for the people of the Steppes.  It was said that since the time of Attila we had lived most our lives on horseback. 

The colt was worth more than gold to my father, but still he gave it over to me.  I must care for the creature and do not let it die.  The colt became a strong, noble horse, and I grew steady on its back.  In later years, when my father died, I went to the Prince with the horse; he had not forgotten any of it.  He entrusted me with a battalion of his army.  When something is given to you, you do not know where it may lead.  Small things can lead you onward to your destiny.

There is an enemy in Paris.  He wishes to claim what he believes is his, and I do not know how deeply these conspiracies lay.  I would strongly suggest you present this information to your father.  Go to the enemy before he finds you.  Your father must confront him, although I believe you can't know how difficult it may be.  Accept my apology now for what you will find.  It is not a demand, but a request.

Yours now as always,
-Alexander

Bio

Jessica Barone was raised on tales of the old country.  As a youth, her imagination soared from the crypts of Sicily to the banshees of Galway Bay.  Trips as a child to Vermont helped spark an early interest in vampire lore.  A love of classical music contributed to her creative process early on.  Jessica eventually traveled abroad to places mentioned in her novels, such as France, Ireland, Italy, England, and Scotland.