“A very clever copy, but it has a flaw.” Marek averted his gaze, blinking rapidly.
A ghidaj must never show the weakness of tears. How many times had his father told him that?
He tapped one of the pearls. Only those belonging to a specific clan could wear its gems and only those akin by blood could touch them. Anyone else would be burned.
“It’s fake. Ravagiu wouldn’t have been able to touch the real ones without marking himself.”
“Why would Ravagiu kill our sister and replace her with a human child? Why not let us know she’s dead?”
“Think about it, Andrei. What usually happens to changelings?”
“They’re killed.” His brother’s answer was prompt.
“That’s right.” Marek returned to the desk, seating himself on its edge and balancing the child on his thigh. “That’s what Ravagiu expected us to do when we discovered his deception. All infants look alike to a certain extent but he knew eventually, we’d find out. Perhaps the flaw in the bracelet was deliberate so I’d see it and know.”
“What do you intend to do?” Dan asked, but before Marek could answer, there was a knock at the door.
Opening it, Dr. Lavelle ushered in one of the soldati returned from the search. The soldier bowed and addressed himself to Marek as he straightened.
“This evening, a family of peasants at the far end of the domain was found slaughtered. We believe they were killed several days after the castel was beseiged. There were four children, two sons, an older daughter, and a baby of ten months. The baby’s missing. Those questioned say they were attacked by soldati wearing Ravagiu livery.”
An angry murmur swept the room.
“We interrogated everyone we could,” the soldat added. “They’re too frightened to do anything except cower in their huts.”
“Are you going to kill her?” Vlad asked.
“Of course not.” Marek’s answer was scornful as he dismissed the soldat with a wave of his hand. “Have the Strigoisti ever harmed a child? We don’t kill children and we never will.”
“What are we…”
“Our Ruxanda’s dead.” For the briefest moment, Marek couldn’t prevent a visible spasm of grief. “This little one has no family now, and she’s been placed in our care, though we were unaware. There’s only one thing we can do.”
“You don’t mean you intend to raise her?” Dan gasped. “As a Strigoi?”
“Brother,” Vlad argued. “You can’t. She’s deomi.”
“Marek,” Andrei protested, his young voice breaking. “We’ll never be able to do it. She can go about in sunlight. She won’t drink blood. That kind of thing can’t be hidden forever. We can shield her, but sooner or later someone will find out.”
“If anyone dares question her differences, we’ll blame it on our stepmother’s family.” Marek sounded as if he’d already thought it out. “Everyone knows the Casa Fantoma’s weak-seeded. Most of their matings produce stillborn offspring. It’s a small miracle Father’s children with Anike survived birth.”
No one had an argument for that.
“From this moment on,” Marek declared. “This child’s our sister, and she’ll be treated as our own.”
“This has to be against the Principiu.” As usual, Dan was practical. “As far as I know, the Law states there’s only one way a deomi can be accepted into an aventurieri household, and that’s as a blood-thrall.”
“Then that’s the way we’ll do it.”
“None of us have ever performed that ritual,” his cousin protested.
“It shouldn’t be difficult,” Marek argued. Settling the child in the crook of his arm, he pulled loose the riband at the neck of her gown. “After Sandor woke me, I went through Father’s library researching how it’s done, and I think I can carry it out successfully.”
He pushed back the collar, baring the child’s neck and shoulder.
“I’m going to try, anyway.”
“Now?” Dan asked.
“Now.” Marek took a deep breath. “Best get it over with.”
Brushing the golden curls from her forehead, he made his voice a quieting drone, speaking loud enough for only the little girl to hear.
“Sleep…sleep and give me some of your blood. Become as we for the duration of your life.”
She looked up at him, her eyes clear and trusting, gazingdirection into his mismatched ones.
“Listen to my voice, little one, and sleep…” He repeated those words until Ruxanda’s eyelids began to droop.
Marek slid her from his arms and set her on the desk. He leaned over her, letting his fangs drop, then hesitated.
“Gods, I hate to do this.”
With extreme gentleness, he pressed his eyeteeth against the child’s neck, not biting but using the pressure of their points against that tender flesh to break the skin.
Everyone was silent. All held their breaths. Andrei looked away. After a moment, so did Vlad.
Opening her eyes, Ruxanda began to whimper.
“Shh, little one.” His voice was soft and soothing. “It’s all right. Go back to sleep, sweetling.”
Her eyes closed again. The little punctures in her neck welled. Marek pressed his mouth against them and inhaled. Just once, just enough to get a half-mouthful of that innocent blood. As the first drop touched his tongue, he understood why rogue aventurieri abducted children and drained their little bodies.
A child’s blood was the sweetest of all, like nectar. A continuous diet of infant’s blood was the ultimate satiation, believed to prolong the drinker’s youth past its usual length of centuries. It was a great temptation to keep drinking, breathing in its delicious purity. With a great effort, he forced himself to stop, licking across the little cut to make it heal.
Marek pulled open his own robe, holding out his hand. Without hesitation, Sandor placed a short-bladed dagger on his palm, wincing slightly as Marek pressed the point against his chest above his heart and slashed the skin with a sharp jerk.
There was a scarlet spurt, bright droplets clinging to the dark hair. On the desk sat a small goblet of milk Marek had ordered Sandor to bring before the others appeared. Picking it up, he pressed it against his chest, letting his blood drip into the cup until the white liquid turned a dark pink.
“This is my heart’s-blood, given to make you of my own flesh.” Putting his arm around the child’s shoulders, Marek held the goblet to her lips. “Here, little one, you must be thirsty. Drink.”
“Wait.” Dan and pulled the cup from the baby’s mouth. “If this is a crime, we should all be guilty.”
He bit his forefinger, holding it over the cup until three drops of his blood fell into the milk.
“He’s right. If she’s to be our sister, our blood should welcome her also,” Vlad said.
Together, the twins copied Dan’s action, letting their blood mingle with that in the cup.
“There now, Brother. Make this child our true sister.” Andrei licked the little puncture on his finger clean.
Giving them all a grateful nod, Marek raised the cup again, pressing it against her lips. “Xandi?”
Opening her eyes, she swallowed, nearly choked and began to cough, then turned her head away, dodging the cup. “No.”
Milk splashed Marek’s sleeve. He raised the cup again. “Come, Ruxanda, sweetling. Drink.” There was the barest hint of desperation. “Please.”
Again she refused, whimpering a little. Her hands came up, tightening into fists and rubbing her eyes. Marek tilted the cup. She coughed, and spat, pushing it away.
“No…don’ wan’…”
“Sabine.” He looked at the doctor. “What’s wrong?”
“She’s a baby, Marek. I fear she doesn’t yet know how to drink from a cup.”
Marek frowned, thinking frantically. An image came into his mind…the real Ruxanda crying and fretful, his stepmother cutting her finger and placing it in the child’s mouth, letting her suck upon it to pacify her. Dipping his forefinger into the milk, he ran the ti
p of the digit along the baby’s lower lip. Her mouth opened. He touched his finger against her tongue. Tasting the milk, she began to suck his fingertip.
“That’s right,” he urged softly. “Keep it down this time. Easy...don’t hurry.”
Making a little mewing sound as she swallowed, Ruxanda continued to suck. While the others watched, Marek wet his fingertip with blood-soaked milk again and again, until the goblet was emptied.
“Let's hope that’s enough.” As he closed the neck of Ruxanda’s dress, tying the bow securely, she put her arms around his neck hugging him tightly. “From now on, she’s protected by our blood, is of our blood, and no one’ll ever know differently.” He looked around at them. “This secret never goes outside this room. Is that understood?”
Everyone nodded.
“Shall I take her, master?” Sandor held out his arms.
“The sun should be down by now.” Marek glanced at the heavily-curtained windows, then at Ruxanda whose eyes were now wide with abrupt liveliness. “I believe our sister’s ready to settle back into the routine of life here.”
He relinquished the little girl to the servant.
“I hope you haven’t adjusted too much to being awake during daylight, Sandor.”
The old man smiled his answer as he went out, speaking softly to the child.
“I’ll go with him,” Sabine said, remembering his own conversion. “In about an hour she’s going to have terrible stomach pains, like the worst colic. They’ll go away soon enough, but being a baby, she’ll be frightened while they last.”
He followed Sandor out.
“What of Ravagiu?” Dan asked.
Marek looked after the departing servant. When he turned to his cousin, his face had settled into the stern expression they’d soon become accustomed to seeing.
“We’ll find him. Some day, somehow, and when we do, we’ll kill him.” He glanced at his forefinger, where the suck-mark was fading. “Not only to avenge our family, but for that child’s people as well.”
Chapter 4
It was a fortnight later, a little past midnight. For the moment Castel Strigoi was quiet. After the tasks of the evening, Marek shut himself in János’ study, thinking back on all that had happened.
He’d wanted to be a scholar, staying ensconced at the university as a bursier-prevazator, the one to whom others came for interpretation of their peoples’ ancient writings. Surprisingly, his father agreed. János Strigoi had been in good health, his taking a young wife evidence of that. Though leader of the assassin clan, he had no true enemies—Ravagiu notwithstanding—so there was no reason his successor couldn’t become the scholar he wished.
During his eleventh year at school, Mak completed his entrance into adulthood. His fellow students celebrated with a minor orgy, smuggling in a female to initiate him into the physicality. Afterward, he thought he was entering a perfect existence, losing himself in his beloved books with an occasional foray into the world of physical love, then returning to his precious volumes again.
With the naïveté of the young, he believed it would last forever.
Then Mircea Ravagiu struck.
In a single evening, the world he’d hoped to inhabit disappeared. Now physicality and his studies were the least concerns in Marek’s mind.
How could I have deluded myself into believing my father would never die, no matter how it happened?
Marek’s fingers slid to the knuckles of his left hand. In the center of each, a small malachite oval, clan-gem of the Strigoisti, had been set into the skin. Gently, his forefinger stroked over the stones before sliding to the wound on his wrist, as raw and fresh as it had been earlier that evening when he, the twins, and Dan, with their gardi and servants as witnesses, made their vow of the sânge ravensa, the blood vengeance.
Their blood had stained the dark granite of the Great Hall’s floor, a visible sign of their desire for justice. Only when Strigoisti revenge was exacted could the stones be cleansed, and the cut on his wrist would never heal until Mircea Ravagiu paid for his crime.
Marek shifted uneasily in his father’s chair, his chair now, as the one opposite had been his mother’s and then his stepmother’s, and would some day be his wife’s when he finally chose a mate.
If I choose a mate. It’s better if there’s no lady to rule with me. Not until this is over…and when will that be?
Even now, after weeks of effort, no trace of the killer had been found.
“It’s as if he’s gone to ground,” Dan had told him, as one by one his scouts returned. “To find him may take centuries.”
“We can wait,” was Marek’s grim reply. “We’ve centuries to spare.”
He thought he now saw the course of his life. For future decades his main goals would be raising his brothers and sister, and seeking revenge on Mircea Ravagiu. There was no time for the ghidaj of Castel Strigoi to devote to the gentle pursuit of finding himself a mate. If that was his future, so be it. His father had once told him he must never fight his fate.
“Don’t argue, my son,” János said that to him, shortly before announcing he’d found his heir. “You’ve a destiny to fulfill and you mustn’t deny it.”
“How do you know that, Father?” He’d dared question that statement. “How can you be so certain?”
“The gods told me,” was János’ surprising answer. “The Oracle spoke to me at your birth. Don’t question your role in life, Marek. Just accept it.”
Marek did question, however, even now, and wondered...
Had his disrespect at being his father’s heir, his contempt for the role of assassin, and his belief in intellectual pursuits being worth more than anything else in life, caused the gods to punish his selfishness by making him become that he had no wish to be? Had his thoughtlessness brought about the deaths of his father and Anike, little Károly, and all the gardi and servants perishing by Ravagiu’s soldati’s fangs?
Surely, I’m not that important to the Ancient Ones.
Getting to his feet, he took the set of A Cauta from the mantle shelf above the fireplace. The three porcelain jars held herbs sacred to the Ancient Ones, and each family member had his own set. Within a night of János’ death, his set had been removed to his now-closed bedchamber and Marek’s put in its place.
Kneeling, he placed the jars upon the hearth, opened each and took out a sprig of herbs, rolling them between his fingers before tossing them into the fire… lavender to acknowledge the gods’ presence and show his devotion…sage to reveal his esteem for their power…fennel to praise them.
Smoke rose as they were consumed.
Green...crimson...white.
A sweet, fresh scent floated out of the fireplace, encircling him. Marek took a deep breath. He sat back on his heels, bowing his head and pressing his clasped hands against his forehead.
Lords of the aventurieri, I cry you mercy. If I’ve offended you, forgive me. For whatever transgression I’ve committed, don’t punish my family or those I protect. I alone bear the responsibility of my sins and I alone acknowledge them. Look to me and no other for my punishment, I beg you.
Opening his eyes, he loered his hands, staring into the fire.
The upward trails of smoke twined together, blending into a soft gray spiral, acknowledging the gods heard his prayer. The smoke vanished. Nothing revealed whether those inhabiting Castel Strigoi would continue to be punished for whatever he had done or if the Ancient Ones were appeased.
Why have they not given me an answer?
Hands clasped, Marek continued kneeling before the hearth.
Two pair of hurrying footsteps and a child’s wailing brought him to his feet. Before the knocks sounded, he scowled at the door.
“Enter.”
Sabine came in, following by the wetnurse, Ilona, carrying Ruxanda, the source of the piteous cries.
“What is it? What’s the matter?”
“Oh, master.” Ilona looked as if she were also ready to weep.
“She’s not still
having problems feeding, is she?” Marek was brusque to cover his concern. He’d thought there’d be no more difficulty after she accepted their blood two weeks before.
“Not exactly, sir.”
“Not exactly? What does that mean?”
“She feeds well enough, sir, but afterward, she cries.” As Ilona spoke, Ruxanda again made that odd wailing sound. The nurse bounced her, patting her back, but the child continued to weep. “Like this.”
“Doctor?” Marek looked past her to Sabine.
“It’s as she says, lord. She feeds well, keeps down the milk and the blood, but cries continually while she feeds.”
“I thought it was the colic,” Ilona put in. “But I burp her and she still cries.”
“Mawik.” Ruxanda twisted in the wetnurse’s arms, saw Marek and held out her arms to him.
As Sabine frowned thoughtfully, Marek took her from Ilona. She put her head against his shoulder and quieted.
“She doesn’t seem to be crying now.” Patting Ruxanda’s shoulder, he handed her back to Ilona. “Nurse her again.”
Obediently Ilona loosened her bodice, revealing a plump breast scored with the faint lines of many scars from when she had bled into her milk for the real Ruxanda. While Marek and the doctor watched impersonally, she scratched at a half-healed scab, smeared the blood upon the nipple and lifted it to the baby’s lips.
For a few moments Ruxanda nursed enthusiastically.
As Marek gave the doctor a questioning glance met with a shrug, the child pulled away and began to cry again.
“See?” Ilona was tearful.
“Master.” Sabine nodded as if something had been confirmed. “I think we need to talk. Ilona should leave Ruxanda here and go.”
Frowning at Sabine’s change in manner, Marek took the child from Ilona, dismissing her. “Go to the kitchen and have cook prepare you a tisane. Something to give you strength.”
With a curtsey, the girl hurried away.
“What do we need to talk about, Sabine?” Balancing his little sister on his arm, Marek walked back to his chair.
“About why Ruxanda cries as she nurses.” The doctor waited until Ilona’s footsteps died away before he answered. He pushed shut the door.
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