Ventina's eyes narrowed with a threatening cock of her head. Hedi did not back down.

"Baron Milea prepares to come for me, so we can escape the city. You can move more freely here than I. Help me, and you, Faris, and Korey may come with us. Emel has wealth and loyal men, and he will protect you. Help me and you will be free with your daughter."

Ventina backed slowly away from Hedi, suspicion growing with each step. There was one moment where Hedi was sure she saw the woman's hope grow, but it vanished like a candle flame caught in an evening breeze.

"You do not know," Ventina rasped, slowly shaking her head, "how many years we have been here. You sat next to him at your fine dinner, and you think you know Darmouth?"

Hedi was about to answer when Ventina lunged at her. It was Hedi's turn to retreat, the embroidery needle clasped in her hand behind her back.

"Do you think Korey was always an only child?" Ventina growled, then paused to let her words sink in.

Hedi understood but did not let it show.

"There are many ways to die," Ventina went on. "Some you couldn't imagine for yourself, let alone for a child. Seek your escape, and Darmouth will know. I won't listen to this madness!"

She whirled and headed for the archway. There she stopped, still facing out of the meal hall.

"What keeps me from going straight to my lord with this treachery?"

"Because you know Darmouth," Hedi answered evenly. "Because I do know him. Any whisper that you were offered a chance to betray him will only raise his suspicion toward you… and it will grow. You are no fool,

Ventina, if you have lived this long in his service. You will never speak a word of this to Darmouth."

This was the catch, and Hedi's security for her gamble. Whether Ventina agreed or not, she would do nothing in spite or fear. Ventina remained a moment and then fled, her red skirts swishing in her wake.

Hedi closed her eyes, cursing herself. She had played her hand too soon or in the wrong way. Instead of an ally, she had made another enemy.

Chane walked the streets toward the Bronze Bell and his next victim. Welstiel had told the locals that vampires developed a "taste" for certain kinds of victims. So why not support such a ridiculous lie? When he reached the more affluent district, or what passed for such in this city, he took to the alleys. It was unwise to try for a kill in the exact same spot, but somewhere close would serve well enough.

His tattered clothing reeked, and he was certain the cowl over his head was lice-ridden. The long, torn shawl was no better. Welstiel had jaggedly cut his hair, colored it black, and smeared coal dust on his face. He had left his longsword behind, as Welstiel said it did not fit Chane's new persona. He looked and smelled like the lowest dregs of mortal cattle, and this should have been humiliating or enraging, but Chane didn't care.

Standing at an alley's mouth, he scanned the main street beyond. Welstiel told him to pick a pretty noblewoman. Chane had no argument with this.

At first only soldiers in motley arms and well-dressed men passed by. There was one young man in reasonably fine garb, perhaps the son of a well-to-do merchant or local official. He was too young, and a woman would still be more effective for outrage and panic. Chane sank back in the alley against the building's side, wondering how long this would take. Perhaps his unsuccessful meal behind the Bronze Bell had left the local women reluctant to be out at night.

"No, Jens," a feminine voice said from the street. "I asked you to pack my red purse. How do you forget the smallest instructions, even when I write them down?"

Chane peered around the corner.

A lovely young woman with auburn hair and a dark green cloak headed his way with a pensive-looking manservant following close behind. The only other person nearby in the street was a peddler. The wares of pots, pans, and kitchen instruments dangling from his body clattered as he hobbled away in the opposite direction.

"Forgive me, m'lady," the manservant answered. "I don't recall your red purse in the packing list."

They passed the alley's mouth.

Chane grabbed the woman's face, palm covering her small mouth, and clamped his other hand around the manservant's throat. He hurled the woman backward into the alley as the servant began to struggle. Chane clenched his grip. He felt and heard the man's windpipe crackle and collapse under his thumb. The manservant clutched at his own throat, face reddening in silence, and Chane dragged him into the alley.

The girl had tripped on her gown and fallen to the frozen mud of the alley. She sat up and opened her mouth to scream. Chane slammed Jens into the alley wall. The woman sucked in a shocked breath at the wet crack of her servant's skull against the brick. Jens's gaping mouth and eyes remained open as Chane released the body, letting it slide to the alley floor.

He closed in on the woman.

She crawled backward, and Chane stepped on her voluminous skirt to halt her retreat. He looked down at her, knowing she saw his eyes and teeth in a face not quite human. Chane put all the force he could muster behind his maimed voice, and said one word like the hiss of a snake.

"Scream."

Her mouth opened wide and round like her eyes. All that came out were her own quick rasps.

Chane grasped the front of her cloak, pulled her up, and pinned her to the wall. He hardened his fingernails by will and sank them through her clothes into her chest.

She screamed, and a faltering wave of pleasure passed through Chane as he bit into her throat

Her flesh was soft and hot with fear, but he drank only enough to weaken her. He slowed, licking at the wound to make the moment last a little longer, then pulled back and twisted his fingernails in her skin.

She screamed again, trailing into panting whimpers. This time the sound brought Chane only melancholy. When she tried to pull his hand away, he pushed his fingernails through layers of her clothes and flesh.

Her sounds of pain and horror would attract all the attention he wanted, but she wasn't putting up enough of a fight, barely a pretense of self-defense.

Chane didn't cover her mouth as he burrowed his face into her bloodied throat. He ripped her flesh open with his teeth, but took care not to collapse her windpipe. She cried out and began a series of moans as he dropped her to bleed out on the alley floor. Pounding footsteps in the street told him it was time to slip away. He scurried to a deep black doorway down the alley and paused to watch.

A soldier skidded on the wet cobblestones as he passed the alley mouth and hurried back to see the woman. He had no torch or lantern and nearly tripped over the manservant's body as he rushed to her. Another guard arrived with a torch held high, the light exposing both victims. Both guards stared at the woman.

Blood had stopped spilling from between her fingers clamped about her throat. It pooled about her head, slowly running along crevices between the cobblestones. Her brown eyes were still open.

"Get Lord Geyren-now!" the first soldier yelled.

The second guard dropped the torch beside his companion and ran back the way he'd come. Shouts and confusion followed.

Chane knew he should slip away, but a strange fascination kept him there. He watched longer than he should have.

Armed men and gasping townspeople began to collect at the alley's mouth. Chane heard an anguished shout.

A young man in polished boots pushed through the gawkers to stand over the young woman's corpse. He wore a royal-blue tunic and an open indigo cloak. When he crumpled to his knees, he took no notice of blood soaking into his fine breeches.

"Marianne?" he asked, reaching out for her red-stained fingers. He pulled them away, exposing her throat. "Marianne!"