Lothar’s head throbbed after rematerializing. It was a valuable gift he had inherited from his mistress, the power to transform into beasts – but using it was never a comfortable experience. The feeling of one’s body reordering into another kind of flesh always brought with it some kind of pain. After flying for the first time, his whole body had ached and he could barely stand. The experience was burned into his memory.

  Slumping against a cracked stone wall, Lothar gritted his teeth and looked down at the bloody mess of his arms. Mangled fingers, a limp and mangled arm. Even with a vampire’s regeneration, having a snapped bone sticking out of his arm was no easy fix.

  That bitch. Lothar growled under his breath. She must suffer.

  He closed his eyes in concentration. His mind reached out for the Countess, sending out a wordless call for her. A ripple sent out through the ether, a craving without name.

  Only a few minutes passed, but it felt like forever. Lothar winced as pain – sharp in some areas, dull in others – tormented his body.

  The door opened, a woman stepped into the ancient disused room. Not just a woman – her.

  “My mistress…” Lothar groaned.

  Countess Lyria looked as beautiful as ever, in that irresistably cruel manner of hers. A pale, angular face with hard eyes, framed by flowing red hair. She wore her favoured gown, black accented with green. The Countess had owned it longer than Lothar had been in her service.

  “I have failed, mistress,” he confessed. “I was maimed and humiliated.”

  Countess Lyria stared, emotionless. “Who disposed of my thralls?”

  “A wolfchild,” Lothar croaked. “A hunter and a dog of the Church. I almost had her but she wounded me too severely to continue the fight.”

  The Countess’ eyes widened and she bared her fangs. “They brought in a professional, did they? Peasant rabble. They will be punished soon enough, but this hunter is our priority.”

  “Please, my mistress. I need to heal.” Lothar looked at her like a begging pup. “Just a few drops will accelerate the process. Please.”

  “Very well,” Countess Lyria said. “You are quite mangled. But first -” her voice turned cold, “apologize for disappointing me.”

  Lothar cringed. Shame filled him. It was the only thing left on earth that made him truly repentant – her disapproval.

  “I’m sorry, my mistress. I disappointed you, I beg your forgiveness.”

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  “There we are,” she crowed, stroking Lothar’s hair.

  The Countess unsheathed a stiletto and cut the palm of her hand. Her blood practically sang to Lothar, calling him to taste it. She placed her hand up to his face. Obediently, he licked and sucked from her wound. Strength flowed into his body, the pain dulled. Before long, he was sated, licking his lips for every last trace of his mistress’ blood.

  “Go and rest,” the Countess commanded. “Mend your injuries as soon as you can. We must dispatch the dog who maimed you.”

  *

  In the predawn gloom, Vadja took step after heavy step. She had been walking for four or five hours with a dying man on her back – even for her, it was too much. Her breaths came out shallow and heavy, inhale and exhale in cyclical repetition. With gritted teeth, she looked up at her destination.

  A stronghold loomed, the endpoint of a dirt road. Its walls stood squat, low to the ground like a beast that crouches in anticipation of a fight. Dim light from high windows beckoned Vadja forward. Ever closer she advanced, ever larger that great silhouette grew. She walked willingly into the maw of a beast or so it seemed. Her mind wandered from thought to thought as her body ached under her burden.

  That foolish farmer from Ammeldorf flashed in her mind – poor sod, reckless in his desire for revenge. She saw the crimson pooling in his crushed forehead, his expression twisted with the fury that had ruled his heart when he died. He would see his wife in next life, one hoped.

  Vadja growled. Hope – useless. I have no room for idle hopes. Not here, not now. Come what may, my enemies must perish.

  The black walls were imminent. They embraced her, blocking the blue of the sky. Vadja fell to her knees, gasping. She wanted nothing more than to sleep.

  An old teaching swam in her head:

  The Lord’s true people will come to find millstones around their necks;

  March on and bear its weight, for the righteous are ever burdened by the wicked.

  *

  An old man sat in an ornate chair whose arms and back were carved with scenes of battle. Tired eyes cast their gaze into the distance. Wind descended from high windows and caused the tapestries on the walls to gently rustle. Torches illuminated the hall with a dim light that cast shadows on the old man’s face – a craggy mask of cynicism and exhaustion etched with harsh lines.

  Footsteps echoed on the stone floor. The old man’s eyes regained some focus and his thoughts returned to the present. Grim ruminations such as his would have to wait. A footman, worn down despite his youth, approached the old man’s seat.

  “Speak,” the old man commanded.

  The footman bowed quickly and began: “My lord, you must come at once. A stranger came to our gates.”

  “And why does this stranger holds such import?”

  “My lord, she brought your son.”

  The old man’s eyes narrowed. His fingers clutched his seat’s armrests as if hanging on for dear life. Then he rose to his feet.

  “Waste no time!” He barked, filled with vigor. “Guide me to him at once!”

  Following the footman with a stride belying his age, the old man marched into the courtyard. Servants stopped to see what was going on, looking upon a group of guards. These guards attended to two people – one unknown to the old man and the other quite familiar.

  Pepin von Achen was unconscious, bloody, a rag tied about his neck. A guard examined him for injuries. His golden hair, so lovely, was matted with sweat and dirt. Tears welled in the old man’s eyes. He turned his attention to the other figure, a woman in a torn and beat-up cloak. Groaning, she looked up at him, wild eyes shining yellow.

  “Vampires beset this land,” she croaked. “I must kill them.” The woman cast a glance toward Pepin. “One of them got him. He may die – do not bury him!” She stumbled to her feet, barely able to stand. “If he dies, you must burn him!”

  The old man stared at the stranger, face to face and his expression hardened. A half-mad woman had no right to speak to him in this way.

  “I will care for my son,” he said in a harsh voice. “You will explain yourself fully.”

  “I -” the woman started.

  The words died in her mouth and she fell to the ground.