From the private journals of Dragomir, last of the Carpathian line
**
I send them out once more.
"Track the remaining children," I say. "Bring them to me. I have lost much blood tonight. I need to feed."
They nod quickly. Eager to leave. Eager to be anywhere but here.
I point to one of them. The youngest. The most nervous.
"You. Track the wind spirit that was pulling the children. Use salt and silver filings to trap it."
I extend my hand. In my palm rests a small pouch—salt mixed with silver shavings, fine as dust. The hunter stares at it. Then at me.
He is a half-vampire. Silver burns him. Not as badly as a true vampire—his blood is too diluted for that—but enough. Enough to hurt.
"Master," he says carefully, "I cannot hold silver in my hand. It burns."
I smile. "Then hold it or die this instant. Choose."
He looks at my face. Sees I am not joking. Slowly, trembling, he reaches out. His fingers close around the pouch.
It burns him. I see it in his eyes. The pain. But it is not unbearable. He is stronger than he looks. He holds it for a moment. Then another. Then he drops it.
Before I can strike him, he snatches it from the ground with a leather bag he pulls from his belt. He drops the pouch inside, seals it, and vanishes into the trees.
The others scatter behind him.
I let them go.
**
I hear a knock at my front door.
The rhythm is measured. Confident. A judge, I think. One of my circle. The way he walks—I can hear it even from here—is deliberate. He knows who lives in this house. He knows what waits behind this door.
I take to the skies. Dash forward toward the castle.
The wounds on my face heal as I move. My neck realigns itself, bone knitting to bone, skin smoothing over. By the time I land on the balcony, there is no trace of the spirit's blow.
But my clothes are torn. Blood-soaked. I cannot heal fabric.
I enter my chambers. Strip off the ruined shirt. Pull fresh clothes from the wardrobe. Dark wool. Fine stitching. The uniform of a man who owns the world.
The knock comes again. Louder now. More persistent.
Who is this?
Anger rises in my chest. If this is some petty official with a request, I will drain his blood entirely. I have no patience for games tonight. I have lost children to a spirit. I have killed my own hunters. I am hungry and tired and dangerous.
I descend the stairs. Cross the hall. Open the door.
Outside stands a man.
He wears a long leather coat, dark as pitch. A hat sits low on his head, casting his face in shadow. I cannot see his eyes. I cannot see anything but the outline of a jaw, the hint of a mouth.
"Are you Dragomir?" he asks.
His voice is calm. Flat. Not a question so much as a demand.
"It depends on who is asking," I say.
He does not move. Does not shift. His face remains hidden in the shadow of his hat.
"I am asking you. And I need a straight answer."