Wynn stood in the forge room's back corner near a narrow workbench holding an empty crossbow. She leaned against the wall, trying to reload, but her grip kept slipping, and she blinked her eyes repeatedly. A jangling sound pulled Chane's attention back to his adversary, flailing to remove a smoking quarrel from his back.

The sound came from a brass vial on a chain about his neck. It fell into view from the sorcerer's shirt amid his frantic struggle.

Sorcery required no conjuring vessels, so why was this undead wearing one?

On impulse, Chane snagged the dead man's cloak and pulled him around. The sorcerer, shocked by pain from the quarrel, did not respond quickly enough, and Chane grabbed the vial. A hard jerk broke the chain, and he threw the brass urn onto the forge's hot coals. The dead man's expression shifted from pain to horror as the brass began melting.

No! I can't…

The sorcerer lunged for the forge with outstretched hands, and Chane slashed out with his sword. The undead dodged aside, still fixed upon the brass vial. It caved in over the coals' heat, and a puff of vapor was released with a snap. The dead man's one filmy eye opened wide as his mouth gaped. He looked wildly about the room.

A word-or was it a name? — screamed through Chane's thoughts.

Ubad!

Whispering, unintelligible sounds filtered through Chane's mind. Afraid that the undead sought to cast his own spell, Chane rushed him again, but the room filled with swirling clouds of gray. He lost sight of his quarry and couldn't see anything. As he thrashed about, the vapor began to thin almost as quickly as it had appeared, and the clouds vanished.

The sorcerer was gone. There was only Wynn staring at him from her corner before she slumped to the floor.

Her brown eyes wide with disbelief, the image of her oval face hit Chane as if he'd run into a wall. It had been so long since he'd seen her. He stumbled over to drop down beside her on the floor.

"You are burned," she whispered.

There was a sickly pallor to her skin, something brought on by more than fear, and she kept blinking her eyes. Her hands shook as she clung to the crossbow.

"It is nothing that I can't heal on my own," he said.

"Is he gone? Is Vordana gone?"

"Yes, I believe so… though I'm not certain how or why. A sorcerer has no use for conjuring vessels. I hoped it was something he needed to maintain his existence."

Chane reached out to help her up, and she shrank away from him. Her gaze wandered over him as if she were looking for… looking at something on him. He glanced down to his scorched boots and breeches.

"I will be all right," he assured her.

The reality of his presence seemed to dawn upon her. "What are you doing here?"

"I saw that thing coming after you. I couldn't let him-"

She shook her head, brown braid slipping from her hood. "That is not… you know what I meant."

How could he lie to her, keep her from telling the dhampir? How could he find some gladness in her eyes at the sight of him? The only times in his new existence he had been truly content were those sitting at a study table with her, delving into ancient parchments and sipping mint tea. He clung to the truth buried in a half-lie and held out his hand.

"I came after you," he said. "This backward country with its ignorant peasants is no place for you. I have a good horse that can carry us both back to Bela and your guild. I am not what you think, and with your help, we can make Domin Tilswith understand."

Her round eyes widened even more.

"Please. I would do anything you ask," he said, "if we can just go back to Bela and try to live as we did before."

Chane had never begged in his life.

One tear ran down Wynn's cheek. She dropped the crossbow in her lap and put her shaking hands to her head.

"Do you still feed on human blood? Do you still hunt and kill for your existence? Would you stop this for me?"

Chane tensed. How could he make her understand that most mortals were cattle not worth her concern? They meant nothing. Only the few, such as her and Domin Tilswith, truly mattered.

When he did not answer, Wynn wiped her face with her sleeve. She stopped crying but wouldn't look at him.

"Did you see where the others ran off to?" she asked quietly. "Do you know what Vordana did to them?"

For an instant she had shown concern for him, but now her thoughts were for her companions. He had poured out his most honest desire, and she spoke only of Magiere and Leesil and their dog.

"They were panicked. I would guess that creature played their thoughts against them, perhaps buried them in false impressions, even fears."

"I have to find them," Wynn said, and another tear slid down her face. "You cannot follow us. If Magiere knows, if she sees you, she will try to take your head. So will Leesil."

Now she was telling him what to do?

"Don't you miss the guild?" he asked. "Our evenings together?"

"Oh, Chane. " Her voice broke as she dropped her head low. "Go away! Even if I do, it was not real. You lied about what you are, and now I have to lie to Magiere and Leesil for you. Get on your horse and escape while you can."

Wynn stood up, bracing herself with one hand on the workbench. When Chane reached out to steady her, she froze for a moment. She did not pull away from his touch but neither would she look at him. She put the crossbow strap over her shoulder and walked to the door.

"I know everything has been spoiled and lost for you," she said barely above a whisper. "And I am grateful you were here tonight, but you must go away. Get as far from us as you can."

Wynn left him standing there, and Chane did not try to stop her.

Chapter 9

S hadowed silhouettes flitted between the trees to either side of Magiere as she ran through the woods trying to escape. Each time she swerved to chase one down, it faded back into the forest beyond her reach. These skulking companions made hunger burn in her throat. When her night sight widened, she saw the glint of crystalline eyes in each dark presence.

Undead trailed her every move.

"We hunt," a voice whispered off to her right. "And you hunt."

"We hunger," from her left. "And you hunger."

One of the dark shapes appeared ahead of her between two wilting fir trees. Magiere slid to a stop, her grip tightening on the falchion's hilt.

Its eyes were like stars dragged down from the sky and entombed in the forest. They fixed upon her.

"You belong with us… you know this."

Magiere darted away and thrashed through the low branches. Night's chill ate into her but didn't slow her down. She ran faster, as if loss of body heat freed her. More shapes appeared in the trees, but these huddled upon the ground, alone or together. She heard their snarls, and beneath, the smothered whimpers of their victims.

They were feeding.

Magiere's rage grew. She swerved toward one shadow crouched by a cluster of bushes and raised the falchion to strike it down.

It vanished, and her hunger swelled instead of receding.

What remained was a young man prone upon the ground, limbs flailed out and vacant eyes staring up into the forest canopy. Beneath his slack jaw, blood leaked from his torn throat, and forest needles slowly fell upon him from above. She sensed a remaining trickle of life within him and saw her own hand reaching down for his throat.

Magiere lurched back.

Bodies lay everywhere upon the forest floor. Men and women, old and young. One girl child with eyes wide open sat limp against a tree like a doll on a shelf… like the stuffed doll the girl held in her lap. Bite wounds across her pale body showed through tears in her dress and wool sweater.

"No more left," came another whisper through the trees. "No more blood… but you still hunger. We still hunger."