Читать Two for tragedy. Volume 1 - Анна Морион

– The sun is sitting too slowly.

My words were met with silence.

I didn't expect any other response. After all, those standing next to me were of the same opinion. They were just like me. Of the same kind. My family, standing on the balcony of an ancient castle secluded in the low mountains, not far from Prague, old and beautiful. But true Praguers we were not – we had moved here from London to live quietly in the Czech Republic, a beautiful country seemingly made for us.

– You sound like a girl in a romance novel," my older brother Markus said suddenly, and smirked, pleased that he'd managed to hurt my feelings.

My lips twitched in a grin. I raised an eyebrow.

– How long have you been into women's novels? – I parried.

– Irony is unnecessary here. There are exceptions to the rules.

– Like what?

– The classics. Jane Austen.

– You're right. That woman created masterpieces.

– I watched her life. She was an extremely pleasant person. But you had other things on your mind back then.

– Markus, stop bragging about your seniority. You're only ten years older than me. – I grinned derisively.

– That's right, brother. Ten years is a pretty impressive amount of time.

– Not for us.

– Markus, Cedric, put aside your argument and enjoy the sunset. – Mother's gentle rebuke made my brother and I smile sarcastically and fall silent. My wistful gaze wandered briefly through the small forest and froze on one of the red roofs of magnificent Prague.

I hated my name. Cedric. It reminded me of some bad romance novel. It must be the name of the protagonist. And it's a name I'll have to carry for the rest of my life. But even now, at the age of two hundred and eighty-six, I didn't understand why my parents had given me that pompous name.

I forgot to tell you, I'm a vampire. Like my brother, father, and mother, I carried the burden of eternity and immortality-two great gifts. However, these gifts were not always convenient: our place of residence changed so often that there seemed to be no city in Europe in which we did not leave our mark. We moved to Prague from London ten years ago. But the years became dust so soon and imperceptibly that it seemed to me as if the farewell to gloomy London had been accomplished yesterday. I cannot say that the blood of the Prague people is different from that of the Londoners. Just a little bit, I think. People's blood is always the same. All people are the same.