I was born during a cold winter night. Of my few memories, it's the haziest one. I do not remember the vampire that turned me, just that he was a man and he was familiar. I do not remember how I escaped the palace, though I must have killed many judging by the amount of blood on my clothes later, when I was conscious again. I don't even remember the turning itself.

I remember Ariadne. No, not my sister. My sister died sometime during those months I spent in that hole. I never learned what my husband did with her body and, frankly, I did not care either. No, the Ariadne I speak of was my daughter by my husband, a child that took after him so much I began to despise her. I loathed her as I had loved my son, a child who died nameless. I never learned what my husband did with him, something I deeply regret.

Ariadne, though… She was a despicable child. Spoiled, vain, constantly looking for any way to earn her father's praise by finding fault in others, especially me. It was she who told him when I tried to kill myself in the tub. The beating he gave me for that is one I have thankfully forgotten the details for. Except for the blow to my head, of course. She hated me almost as much as I did her.

And so it came as a surprise when, as I lay in the vampire's arms incapable of movement, feeling my life siphoned away with my blood, she screamed and tried to attack him with a torch.

Foolish girl. The blow against the wall cracked her head open. Dead immediately. But she saved me. She made him drop me. And her scream alerted the guard. The vampire was not able to complete the task before he was forced to leave.

I know the turning must have hurt, but I cannot remember it. I don't remember fleeing Knossos never to return, but I do remember one other thing about that night.

I awoke chained to a post in a cell underneath the palace. The metal chain groaned when I strained against it and snapped easily with a final jerk of my hand.

There was a scent in the air, one I recognized as my husband. A sharp hatred flooded my veins. A scorching fire razed my throat. I needed to find him. I followed the path of his scent. With one strike of my fist, the guard at the door crumpled to the ground, dead. I tore the door down as I entered.

"Angerona," he gasped. "You're alive."

I did not respond.

"Come to kill me have you?" he smirked. "Too bad you won't succeed. I own you. Or do you need me to shove you into a storeroom again to remind you? You don't like closed, dark spaces, do you Angerona? Is that where you want to be the rest of your miserable life? In a hole? You're so pathetic, Angerona. Just like your father, just like your worthless sister." He stepped closer, his hand raised to touch my cheek. "You can't do anything to me." His hand reeled back then to strike my face.

I would be lying if I said the crack of his bones wasn't utterly pleasing.

He cried out in pain and stepped backward, holding his injured hand. "Why you—" A dagger flashed into view. I caught the blade between my hands a short distance from my chest. We both stared in disbelief as I uncurled my fingers. They were unhurt, but the metal was twisted, blunted.

"What are you?" he gasped. I looked into his eyes and saw a reflection myself: paler than I had ever been before, my dark hair loose around my shoulders and my eyes an unholy red color instead of their usual blue. I did not look human.

I answered honestly, as one hand tightened around his neck and the other positioned itself on his chest, just over his heart. "A monster."