Anger at Magiere made him reckless. A drive to feed wormed through his mind as he remembered Chane ripping a woman's throat open.

Welstiel recoiled at his own savage impulse. He could not allow Magiere's actions ever to weaken his self-control again. Welstiel stared down at the woman, remaining still until his calm fully returned.

He knelt and removed an ornately carved walnut box from his pack and opened it. Resting in fabric padding were three hand-length iron rods, a teacup-size brass bowl, and a stout bottle of white ceramic with an obsidian stopper. He took out the rods, each with a loop in its midsection, and intertwined them into a tripod stand. The brass bowl's inner surface was etched with a pattern of concentric rings all the way to its lip. Between these lines were the characters of his conjury. He carefully placed the cup in the tripod.

The white bottle contained thrice-purified water, boiled in a prepared copper vessel whenever he had time to replenish the fluid. He pulled the stopper and poured just enough to fill half the cup.

Welstiel rolled the prostitute onto her back. So much life was lost in bloodletting that little was actually absorbed by an undead who drank for survival. It was not blood that truly mattered but rather the leak of life caused by its loss. His method was far more efficient. He slipped out his dagger and dipped its point between her lips, collecting a puddle of her blood on its tip. Tilting the blade over the cup, he let one red drop strike the water.

It thinned and diffused. He began to chant.

The air shuddered before his eyes. He felt it grow humid and warm in the distortion. The woman's skin started to shrivel.

Her body slowly dried to a shrunken husk as her life drained away. When her heart stopped, Welstiel ceased his chant and the air around him became clear and crisp again. The woman was a brittle shell with sunken eye sockets.

The water in the cup brimmed to the lip, so dark red it appeared black-a red-tinged black like Magiere's hair. Welstiel lifted the cup from the tripod. He tilted his head back and poured the liquid down his throat so that he tasted it as little as possible. A last drop struck his tongue and tasted of ground metal and strong salt.

He set the cup back in place and flattened both hands upon the ground to brace himself. So much life taken in this pure form shocked his system. It burst inside him like burning sunlight and rushed through his dead flesh.

Welstiel waited for the worst to pass.

When he picked up the cup to put it away, it was clean and dry, with no sign that anything had been in it. He packed away the iron rods and white bottle as well. He stood up carefully under a lingering vertigo, but it passed, leaving him clear in his thoughts. Normally he would have found a way to hide the girl's body, but if her corpse were found, it would cause more panic. It would build Lord Darmouth's desire to employ Magiere. There were monsters to hunt down in his city.

Welstiel made his way to the Ivy Vine inn, wondering how Chane had fared all this time being trapped alone in his room. When he arrived, the lobby was empty. He headed up the narrow stairs to their room. He did not bother to knock and opened the door to step inside.

Chane sat on the floor in bare feet, feeding his robin crushed nuts and crumbled bread. He wore breeches and a well-tailored muslin shirt, and looked like any handsome young noble engaged in a pastime.

The parchment and quills still lay untouched upon his bed.

"I see you've fed," Chane said in his rasping voice. "You look better."

Welstiel did not answer. Instead he rummaged through his pack and pulled out a small bag of black charcoal and a wad of tattered clothing that smelled of urine.

"Lord Darmouth has engaged Magiere's services," he explained. "You will keep her occupied by giving her an unusually savage beast to hunt."

Chane blinked, staring at the rags in Welstiel's hand. "What are those?"

"I bought them from a servant at the keep. If you are witnessed during an attack and described as a tall noble with reddish hair, Magiere may wonder. We must create some other creature for her to track. Sit, and I will cut your hair, then use charcoal and oil to dye it black."

Welstiel took out his dagger and motioned to a chair. Chane hesitated.

"It will wash out," Welstiel said.

"But will my hair grow back?" Chane rasped.

The question surprised Welstiel. Not by its vanity, but that it was the first time Chane had shown such concern over anything since crawling forth from his second death.

"Have you ever seen a dead body months after it was buried?" Welstiel asked.

Chane shook his head.

"The hair is longer. And I will not cut much off."

He motioned again to the chair. Chane sighed but obeyed.

Late into the night, Leesil was still awake. Magiere curled against him, breathing softly, lost in deep sleep. He watched her pale face on the pillow. He wished he could join her in the oblivion of sleep, but he couldn't.

Nightmares wouldn't let him.

The name of Hedi Progae opened dark cell doors in his mind that he'd long been able to keep locked. He couldn't close them again.

Leesil tried to focus on the memory of Magiere's mouth, her body, both soft and hard, and her hands all over him. But whenever his eyelids drifted shut from fatigue, he saw the back of Baron Progae's bleeding neck.

Progae's hazel eyes opened where he lay dead as Leesil pulled the bedcovers back into place. Those eyes rolled to glare at Leesil, and his pale lips parted, speaking with Gavril's voice.

"Think only of your mother, father… of yourself… this is how you survive."

Leesil's eyes snapped open.

He'd slipped into sleep for an instant, but he couldn't face it again. Not without smothering away the nightmares, drowning them as dead as his victims. He'd sworn to Magiere never to do that again, but the moment stretched as he watched her beside him. When his eyes drifted closed again, he snapped them open.

He couldn't stand the faces in his sleep anymore.

Leesil slipped from under the blanket. Magiere rolled, and he froze until she grew still once again. He pulled the blanket and sheepskin cover back in place over her bare body, and walked softly to the door. He stopped for a moment, looking back at Magiere's sleeping form, then stepped into the hallway and gently shut the door.

The inn was silent. The stairs were empty, even of cats. He crept downstairs, and two steps creaked lightly under his feet. All was quiet in the common room, and he stepped around behind the bar and found the cask of red wine Byrd stored there.

Leesil opened the cask and picked up a tin cup from under the bar. When he poured out half a cup, he stared into the red liquid. His hand shook slightly, and he gripped the cup with both hands.

He could put it down, go back upstairs to Magiere.

He knew this, even as he drew the wine to his lips and swallowed.