I was the first to arrive.

Dead on time, as Lucian would say while snorting. Thing was, I just had little to distract myself with these days. No hunger, no thirst, no pain. No need to breathe, never a moment when I felt tired.

Or human. But then, that was the point.

Ghencea Cemetery had become something of a meeting place for us in recent months. Bianca had asked why we couldn't switch to somewhere cheerier one day.

'Because I used to hang around here,' I'd said, grinning my death's head grin. She'd rolled her eyes.

Ghencea is located in sector six of Bucharest, and it's usually a quaint, quiet place. A few famous names buried here, but nothing that would make you visit unless you had someone here.

Like I did.

Alex Horia was the second to come, much to my annoyance. This was his home, couldn't he get up faster? It's a bad sign when you're outpaced by your guests.

Alex rose through the ground, tall and translucent, with a face that was somehow gaunt and round at the same time. He'd died years before me, though not of his own choice.

As far as Alex could tell, he'd died when his asthma had finally done him in. He'd been born like that, and people had always warned him not to strain himself, but he'd never listened. Always darting about, looking to learn things and help people. He'd always participated in marksmanship contests, from throwing darts to archery. It was before such a contest that he kicked it.

'Hey, David,' he rasped, floating over to join me. I was standing under the old oak where I'd thought I'd leave the world behind. He looked at the tree and sighed. 'Nostalgic?' He asked with a mixture of affection and exasperation.

'You know I'm not,' I replied. 'This is the only place in Ghencea where I can feel like myself. I think I get vertigo if I stand anywhere else.'

"You feel like you're falling?"

"Is that what it means? Shit."

He sighed, again. He often did that around me. "And you used to be a teacher..."

"That was years ago! And it's not like I taught languages."

'No one would have let you do that,' A new, amused voice said. We turned, and there was Mihai Codrea. Former tennis player, now coach, he had excelled at everything in high school, where we'd first met. He'd never held it above me or anyone else, but I've always felt quietly frustrated around him.

Mihai wore sporty clothes, as always, which were covered in arcane wards. As a mage, he never felt safe outside his own home-or even there. So, he took precautions. The wards, meant for everything from reflecting energy attacks to deflecting weapons and burning projectiles, hung around his body like a mantle of chains. They would have been invisible to mundanes, but my dead eyes were sharper than any man's.

Bianca followed after a few minutes. She was in her usual form, the one she wore when away from her iele sisters. Short and stocky, with blonde hair and blue eyes behind thick glasses, she was cute enough, in a nerdy sort of way. In her true form, she was ravishing-or so I've been told. My blood doesn't flow, my flesh is cold and my mind proof against most outside influences.

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Lucian dropped from the sky with a whoop, hovering above a grave like a giant, scaly hummingbird. As a zmeu, Luci was beholden to wild, fierce passions. But most of his kind have learned, by now, that you can't kidnap maidens and hold them for ransom. It just doesn't work. Luci was tall and broad, a tailed, winged, green-scaled man with knees that bent backwards and muscles that could crush tanks like cardboard. His face was dominated by a long, fluttering moustache, which did nothing to make him look human.

Andrei Dravich entered the cemetery grunting and grumbling, as was his wont. He was in his lean, dark-skinned human form. Born of rape during World War 2, Andrei's father had been a bastard of a Soviet captain and his mother an unfortunate gypsy. Andrei was older than us all by several decades, though, thanks to his nature, he'd never age past his prime. When he embraced what he was, he could become a bear, or something between one and a man.

My father, Constantin Silva, was the last to arrive. You'd have never guessed the old priest was sixty if you saw him on the street. His hair was still mostly dark brown, as mine had been before it had become grey, and he was dressed casually. Still, I could hear the crosses and icons he always bore on his person shifting and tinkling, under the rustling of his clothes.

Pops saw me, gasped, and pulled a mirror from a pocket I couldn't spot if you paid me. Faithcraft-channeling his belief to shape reality. Not magic, as pops' mana was dormant, like most people's, but just as impressive.

He thrust the mirror into my hand, and I quickly understood his reaction.

I looked like I have for the last few months: grey-skinned and grey-haired, with ink-black eyes and a mouth like a shark. My neck still bore the marks of my death, so the world could never forget it, perhaps. Despite my regeneration, which meant I couldn't even be erased from existence unless you were channeling holy power. It's why I always wore a scarf.

But something had changed. My flesh, which was usually strong and taut, had started sagging, and I saw a chunk drop from my cheek and fall to the ground. My friends looked at me with wide eyes. Luci swore under his breath.

Usually, not feeling pain is a boon. But it also means you can't tell what's wrong with you unless you look.

'Oh, my boy... what's happening to you?' Pops asked, shaking his head, hands clasped as if ready to start praying.

'It's why I called you here,' I said carefully and, despite everything, I somehow felt like I was choking. "It's like... I'm being rejected. I've started falling down, unable to move, and now..." I looked at my disfigured face in the mirror, and grinned bitterly. 'And now, I'm falling apart, as well.'