Companions (2 page)

The soldiers had paid him little mind on the ride to the city, and they showed him even less attention now.
They
were happy to be in Tirgoviste, their thoughts on women and drink and sleeping on straw-stuffed mattresses rather than cool earth with the stars for a blanket.
Fools,
he thought, and kept his sanity through the rest of the ride up to the castle by remembering the feel of the ground beneath him as he slept alone deep in the empty forest.

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By the time they reached the castle courtyard, he knew what he must do to accept the size of the place and the shape of the seething energy bottled within. Evil thoughts came to everyone, he reminded himself, a city only held more people than the countryside. More people allowed for more sin in one place, that was all. He had work to do, and as much as he wanted, he could not block his mind off from the thoughts and emotions all around him.

So, when his guards brought him to the proud boyar who demanded to know his business in Tirgoviste, he only showed the prince's ring to the boyar and made them give him a room in the highest tower overlooking the city. There he stood alone and looked out the narrow slit window and opened himself until he was so immersed in the soul of the city that there was no place in his heart for fear. He became Tirgoviste. The process caused him to spew his guts a few times, and it made his head ache, but by the time the watchmen called out the hour of midnight, he was ready to begin his work in the city.

He went out walking. The guards gave him no protest when he said he would go alone. Who cared what a Roma did, despite the prince's orders? He grew quickly lost in the twists and turns of the street.

Hordes of whores and beggars and cutpurses appeared out of the shadows, wheedling and threatening.

He would not let himself flinch away from the touch of their hands, though he took neither woman or boy, gave no coin, and left a thief or two bleeding out their life in the piss-filled gutter. By dawn he had found no strigoi, but he knew what he needed to know and the first thing that must be done. Then he had only to find his way back to the castle to order it.

"It is wise of Prince Vlad to finally grant the church the honor it is due."

He smirked as he overheard the words the bishop said to the boyar as they stood in the square outside the cathedral.

"This is a fine way to celebrate the feast of the Magdalene," the boyar answered. His voice was calm, but his gaze shifted around the square, resting briefly everywhere but on the bishop and the
dhamphir
standing nearby. The boyar was a creature of Prince Vlad's court, carefully schooled in blank-faced lying, but his near panic was a silent shout against the
dhamphir
's senses. He did not give too much attention to the men of power and their meaningless talk. He looked around cautiously, eyes narrowed.

The wide space before the great open doors of the church was decorated with banners and flowers.

Tables piled with food and drink filled the square, along with the city's merchant and craftsmen families in their finest clothes. Soldiers with bright tabards over polished armor looked as decorative as the banners that fluttered from the windows. Straw and wood were set in great piles to the sides of the cathedral steps in preparation for a bonfire. The merrymaking had been going on since daybreak, and wine and ale flowed as freely as the laughter. The prince had indeed granted the people of his capital a great holiday, and they made the most of it. At a signal from the bishop, the crowd parted, making way for the parade that had been heading to this spot for hours.

Sacred music played by very bad musicians sounded at the head of a procession consisting of clergy and more of the prince's soldiers herding the poor of the city, the beggars and the whores and all the scum of the street toward the church. The tables set up outside were but measly fare, compared to the feast waiting inside the church, for heralds had announced a beggars' banquet was to be the prince's gift to the most wretched of his people to commemorate the feast day of a whore turned saint.

Those who watched the procession might be a merry lot, but many of the rabble that had been rounded up at pike and sword point had a surly, wary look about them. There were enough foolish grins at the promise of a feast among the city's poor to keep the rest calm enough. Many of them blinked like half-blind rats, once out of their alleys and exposed to the full light of day. The stench that rose up off most of those in the procession came from more than their rags and the filth crusted on their skin. To the
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dhamphir,
the taint of the strigoi came off the walking dead in hot, sick waves. His inner eye saw the invisible puppet strings stretching away from the mass of bodies toward the sleeping master who claimed their service.

But he could not see where those threads led, for they were many and tangled. This told him that there was more than one strigoi for him to hunt. It would be a hard chase to hunt several of the creatures down. This morning's work was only the opening move in the game.

The bishop and many priests doused the beggars with holy water as they were made to climb the cathedral steps. The scent of fresh-baked bread and hot, roasted meat drew the beggars forward. The soldiers and a double line of black-robed monks made sure no one strayed away from the church. The
dhamphir
followed after them. When all the poor and outlaws of the city were inside the church, the
dhamphir
tossed a lit torch inside as soldiers pushed shut the heavy cathedral doors.

The bishop did not know that kindling and pitch were spread across the floor of his beloved church and piled on top of the banquet tables. The smoke and fire would spread quickly, even quicker than the screams that began even before the doors were closed. Just to make sure, the
dhamphir
gestured.

Soldiers under the command of the boyar held back the stunned crowd and clergy in the square, while the rest of the men hurried to shift the woodpiles and start the blaze that would consume the cathedral from the outside. Many of the soldiers looked sick and terrified at what they did, but they all knew what happened to any who hesitated to obey Prince Vlad. Better to massacre worthless dregs of the street than risk their own impalement.

Better to kill the slaves of a strigoi quickly and under the sight of God,
the
dhamphir
thought.
Better
to free their souls than keep the poor bastards in the living hell forced on them by their demon
master.

He expected to be stalked. He walked the streets of Tirgoviste alone that night and the next, not really expecting the attack to come so soon, but leaving himself open just in case. No one came after him. He watched his back in daylight as much as he did at night. He knew the masters would want revenge for the death of the slaves. The only question was whether the strigoi would take revenge personally or send mortal minions to do the job. Why the strigoi chose to enslave the dregs of Tirgoviste he did not understand, but he could feel no taint in the souls of anyone else in the city. Perhaps he would take the knowledge of what they had planned before he killed them. Then again, probably not. He wasn't really interested in how their minds worked.

The boyar sent word to Prince Vlad about the executions. The bishop sent complaints about the massacre. Citizens kept to their homes and kept their thoughts on the matter to themselves. The soldiers complained at the lack of whores, and a waiting stillness settled over the capital city. On the third day, word came from the prince that he would come to inspect the feel of his city. The
dhamphir
did not like that the prince was coming. It felt, somehow, like a trap. His loyalty was to the Roma people, and he thought it best for the Roma people, as well as for all the
gajo,
to keep the strigoi from controlling a man who was already a harsh and heavy ruler.

So, on the third night after the burning of the church, he went out of the city to seek the scent of strigoi in the countryside. It was when he went into the forest that the trap was sprung, not for the prince, but for him.

They surrounded him in a clearing, five strigoi, more than he'd ever seen together before, more than even he could hope to defeat at one time, and a handful of their special ones: companions. He took the heart out of the youngest of the strigoi before the others fell on him. He did not expect to die quickly after what
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he'd done to their kind, so it was no surprise when they tied him to a tree and began beating him.

"I told you he would be too curious to stay safe within the city," Rosho told the others. "I know this one."

Rosho pulled his head up and backhanded him. "I tasted his blood once." He tasted it now, licking it off his fingers. "Potent. Like wine." Rosho struck again. The blow could have taken off his head.

Rosho had not been there when he was captured. The
dhamphir
was not a man who nourished many hopes, but one of them was to never see anyone from the darkest days of his boyhood ever again. Not without the means to rip their chests open.

"You… tasted him?"

The strigoi female who'd spoken looked shocked, sickened. All the strigoi stared at Rosho. The
dhamphir
almost laughed at how confounded the monsters were to hear of a breach of their unholy rules.

Rosho did laugh. "His mistress was weak." He laughed again. "I was her guest. It was hospitable to share." He gestured to the companions, and the privileged slaves backed quickly out of hearing distance.

Rosho then caressed the
dhamphir's
face, making the injuries ache even more. His jaw was broken; so were many other bones. He hurt like hell, but he would mend soon if left alone. All his injuries would.

That was one of the gifts passed to him from his father. His strigoi father.

"He killed his own father," Rosho said, aware of the
dhamphir's
thoughts. "And the mistress his father bound him to for his own good."

"Never mind his sins against his nest. He lives to destroy all our kind," the female said. "Kill him for that."

"That was the plan," one of the others said. "You were right, Rosho. We only had to puzzle him a little before his vaunted defenses slipped."

"He's dangerous all right, Pyotr," Rosho said, "but not very bright. An ignorant peasant boy." He turned to face the strigoi. "A peasant you've feared for years."

"A peasant, eh?" a new voice spoke from out of the darkness. A woman's voice, but deep and commanding. A jolt as powerful as lightning went through the gathered monsters. Fear blossomed just below the surface of their arrogant shells. Even disdainful Rosho shrank into himself, raising all the defenses in his mind, but still terror leaked from him. From all of them. And all this from the sound of a woman's voice. Despite the pain, the
dhamphir
looked curiously into the night, wanting to see this monster's monster, willing Rosho to get out of his line of sight.

"Move away, boy," she spoke to Rosho. "Let me have a look at this prey you've taken without permission."

"Olympias, we thought —!"

"Did I give you permission to think?" the one called Olympias cut the other female off. "Did I call a hunt?"

"But he's… the
dhamphir!"

"I've heard of him," Olympias answered.

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"His crimes — "

"Despite what you might have heard," Olympias said coldly, "the hunters still rule the night Stand aside, Rosho."

The strigoi moved, and he finally saw the woman they so feared. She was the tallest woman he'd ever seen, as tall as he was. She was thin, of course, but all lean gristle and muscle, with a sharply boned face and square, stubborn jaw. She was beautiful in the way a fine knife is beautiful. And her eyes —

He wished to God the moment their gazes met that he'd never looked into her eyes.

Her eyes were the night, with all the stars in it and all the flames of every fire that had ever burned.

He had never feared fire. He had never feared the strigoi. And he didn't fear her.

It was much worse than that.

The hell of it was, he knew it was the same with her. She stepped up to him, where he hung from the tree like trussed meat, and put her hands on him. She caressed him as Rosho had, but from her —

"You need to die,
dhamphir,"
she said and smiled to show her beautiful, glittering fangs. "I need to kill you." Her mouth came down on his, and her voice came into his mind,
But I won't.

CHICAGO, FIVE HUNDRED YEARS — GIVE OR TAKE A DECADE — LATER

"So. Who's next?"

Selena carefully avoided her mother's gaze and the implication in the oh-so-innocent question that was ostensibly about cake. She was well aware of slyly amused looks directed her way from other parts of the room and had the good grace to offer a wan smile all around. A wedding shower was dangerous ground for a single woman in her early thirties to tread, and Selena couldn't just get up and leave. She was the hostess.

Doing her bit for the family cause, she'd made the pretty lemon and coconut cake her mother was dishing out to aunts, cousins, friends, and future in-laws of the bride to be. Her austere apartment was decorated with fresh flowers, silver bells, colored balloons, white lace, and pastel ribbons. There was a crystal bowl full of rumlaced pink punch nestled between cheese and veggie trays on the kitchen table.

Presents were piled on the china cabinet. Thirty women, dressed to impress each other in soft summer dresses, crowed Selena's small Evanston apartment. Amid all the teasing, giggling, and female bonding, Selena had gradually relaxed until she was almost taken by surprise by her mother's attempt at sly innuendo.