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So, both families will be together at Cédric's birthday party. No, three, because Misha 's in the Haraldson clan now. We'll be celebrating the big event with a close family circle. I can just picture us sitting in the huge but rather cosy Morgan living room, drinking blood, chatting like cultured people and watching little Cedric run from wall to wall, and then everyone taking turns squeezing and kissing him on the cheeks. Boring.
All the Mroczeks are the same. Everyone thinks culture is paramount. Honour and dignity. My parents don't know I'm sleeping with mortals… Well, if the truth comes out, they'll be offended and surprised that their sweet daughter Maria has fallen so low. Sleeping with mortals! A disgrace!
I don't care! No one dares to tell me how to live my life! It seems that parents ca
***
That evening, after a delightful vanilla bubble bath, I sat down to work: two days earlier I'd been the lead photographer on a photo shoot for a Canadian millionaire's wife, who, painted like a Barbie doll, was striking awkward asexual poses and thinking she was a queen. Is the customer always, right? No, that's the rule of wimps. My rule allows me to make a selection as to whether I want to spend my time on this or that mortal or mortals. If they have potential – my camera is ready to shoot from morning till night, and then I can spend weeks, taking a break from my laptop only for hunting, to process the resulting images. And the Canadian fife became the object of my shooting only thanks to my personal competition with myself: whether I can turn this goose into a swan.
Alas, even my talent did not help this unsuccessful cause, and the silly goose turned into a painted duck in couture outfits. Tasteless and glamorous. However, I am always honest and do my work diligently and meticulously, so Mrs. My-Husband-Millionaire has nothing to complain about. A week later she received the coveted folder, from which she was delighted and almost squealed with happiness like a piglet. That very evening a tidy sum of money arrived in my bank account.
In fact, I don't need money at all, and this unfortunate seven hundred thousand is just a drop in the ocean. But I do not touch my billions hidden in bank accounts and prefer to spend what I earned by honest labour. My luxury apartment in Toronto's cultural and financial centre requires a decent five-figure monthly investment, because Shangri-La, the penthouse I've lived in for almost five years, is actually a five-star hotel. I lived in another neighbourhood before that, but since my looks no longer matched the number on my next passport, I had to move and buy a new passport, with a more racy number for people's perception. But I love Toronto – a city where I feel free. Lots of people, fresh blood, fun and opportunity. And so far away from my devout parents. It's a shame to be so far away from Misha, but that's the only downside to my living on another continent. There aren't many vampires here, and that's a plus, too.
I'm twenty-five years old. That's what my Canadian passport says. In reality, I'm two hundred… Hmm, two hundred and something. I don't like to a
Misha 's my soul mate. I wish I had been with her since she was born, but my own affairs and plans were too distracting, so the first time I saw Misha was when she was ten. She was such an adorable little girl! But after a couple of months, I had to leave. Because of Mariszka. She was always lecturing me that I could have a bad influence on little Misha 's unformed character. I remember with what a painful smile I left the house. I forgave Mariszka. But I haven't forgotten how deeply she insulted me by kicking me out of my parents' house, chasing me away from Misha, whom I love more than all my brothers and sisters put together. Fortunately, she is now in Fredrik's good caring hands. Soon I'll meet them.
I'll meet them all. For the first time in nine years. But my first destination is Oslo. Filming. Entertainment.
Naughty, naughty Maria. And yet, being bad seems to be my calling. To break the hearts and destinies of mortals. Magnificent.
***
My plane landed at Gardermoen, Oslo's large international airport, at nine forty-five in the evening. I had timed my co
September Oslo pleasantly impressed me with its unique and slightly strange beauty, the crowds of tourists and the rapt attention with which all the men in the airport and on the streets of the city stared at me. And yet, the sheer number of beggars, gypsies and fake beggars begging for crowns on the streets disgusted me. They are everywhere, pushy and always jingling the change they have in their paper coffee cups. They know who to approach: they calculate the cost of the victim's outfit without error. That night I was wearing tight blue jeans, a white tight blouse and my favourite eight-inch heels, all couture.
As soon as my feet set foot on Karl Johans Gate, Oslo's main, wide street stretching from Central Station to the Royal Palace, lined with expensive boutiques and cafes, I was immediately the object of everyone's attention. My beauty attracted mortals and my outfit attracted beggars. The gypsies in long skirts and ADIDAS trainers were particularly insolent: some shoved pictures of children under my nose, some tried to shove some magazine into my hands for which they would later demand money, others simply said, "Excuse me" and jingled their cardboard glasses with change in front of my face.
At that moment I seriously regretted that I had refused the customer's car, which would have taken me straight to the hotel. And for what? I was anticipating a lovely walk, but instead all I got was pity pressure, crush and disgust. Quickly catching a taxi, I slipped inside, waited for the driver to stow my travelling suitcase with my equipment in the boot, and soon we were on our way to the hotel, where a suite had been arranged for me at the customer's expense.