The interfolk girl looks over her shoulder at me from the window. She is slight, frail, yet with determination in her wide turquoise-tinged eyes. The ring of red present in all vampire irises creates a stark contrast with that oceanic hue to her orbs. Her hair has taken on a greenish tone in her state of undeath, melding with the golden wheatfield color from her time alive.
The girl wanders toward me, stepping on skinny legs as if a newborn doe, unsure how to manage herself. She is barefoot, padding along, raising her sharp chin and slightly tilting her head to regard me like a curious morsel.
Sephania’s small vampirex friend hardly comes up to my chest, though I’ve heard every rumor imaginable about her.
“You are Sephania’s master,” she says matter-of-factly.
“No, I am the master of thismanor,” I answer flatly. “Sephania has no master. If anything, she is the mistress ofme, for my own master has been dead for ages.”
She sniffs lightly. “I smell her on you.”
For some reason, even with my ageless experience, this slight girl unnerves me. In a way, it’s refreshing, knowing she is not one to be underestimated. I know it’s a matter of her new bent on life—her vampirism, of which she is unaccustomed.
“I smell her on you too, little daisy,” I reply.
“Not in the same way. Why do you call me that?”
“Because you’re wispy, hardly there, and a strong wind will blow you away.” My shoulders rise in a shrug. “We do not have much time to get acquainted—”
“I think I’m wrong,” she blurts. The girl begins to circle me. I allow her to inspect me like I’m one of her soldiers—likesheis the general, when I am so used to filling that role with my own people. “It’s not Sephania I smell on you, sir.”
The diminutive vampirex is behind me now, and I don’t bother turning around. The marker of her presence is too loud inmy head; if she tried anything violent or foolish, she wouldn’t get within a foot of me.
“It’s the man who turned me I smell on you, somehow,” she finishes. When I finally glance over my shoulder at her, she reels, sniffing the air unpleasantly. “How is that possible?”
My lips curl. “It’s complicated.” I reach out and pat her arm, so frail it’ll snap in two if I squeeze too hard. She is not built like my little temptress. “I came here because you are not safe. We must move quickly.”
She blinks. “Not safe, sir?”
I nod gravely. “If you can smell my scent, or Sephania’s, and can recognize it, then you can sense my marker—a link to find me anywhere in this huge house.”
“I . . . think so. But I don’t know how to use it.” her thin brow arches helplessly. Before, she seemed so sure of herself. Arrogant, even, like me, with her newfound power and strength. Now, she looks like little more than a child. Weak, helpless, needing direction.
“You will sense me when you need to,” I say.
The thin line of familiarity—dangerous familiarity rolling through the house—becomes brighter and louder in my head. It’s a tinge of power I’ve felt for ages and can identify easier than my own hand.
“For now,” I tell Palacia, and gently hold her chin so she’ll listen. “Flutter to my study room when you hear my warning, little daisy.”
The infiltration is suitably silent. I have to give the intruders respect in that aspect: They’ve planned this well.
I know these invaders won’t underestimate me. Vampires for generations have stopped doing that, which fuels my arrogance and confidence. I’m not blind to my own qualities.
And yet, there is something essential these bastards are missing: They haven’t accounted for my shadows, because the ability to manipulate and weave them is so new to me. They haven’t had time. It’s a fragile ability, windswept and unprotected until I know more about it and spend years acquainting myself to it.
In my mind, closing my eyes, I feel the dead hearts of at least six infiltrators. I decide to call them what they are: hunters. They are not here to spy, not here to scout and report. They are here to kill . . . or capture.
The six malevolent assassins roam my halls unbidden, like they own the place, and that makes me angrier than anything.How dare they try to claim my land as their own.
I’ll not have their tainted boots scuffing up my rugs a moment longer than I have to.
So I get to work.
I start at the southern end of the manor, furthest away from Palacia. Moving into a well-lit storage room, where a lantern flickers on a wall sconce, I draw my saber with one hand, and with the other I twist my wrist.
My shadow curves, blooming into a portal. When I tentatively step in, I smile, because my foot disappears.
My power has returned.
