One of the few times Chane forgot his unfortunate state of servitude was while he hunted.

Toret smiled at Simask. "Come, come. There's a much better inn down the street called the Rowanwood. The food is excellent, and they have the best wine cellar in this part of the country." He paused a moment, then feigned a surprised epiphany. "Perhaps you can do business with the proprietor."

Toret's relaxed and friendly manner put the young couple at ease. They strolled down the street, occasionally passing another late evening citizen enjoying a walk, and once, a city guard who returned them a polite nod.

Chane remained silent while Sapphire and Toret chatted away with Simask and Luiza. They turned onto a sloping road toward a merchant district outside the inner wall. The area had grown unfashionable over the years, and after hours was all but deserted. Chane was almost bored by the time Simask suddenly stopped and looked around, realizing the street lamps had grown scarce, the buildings were dark, and there were no other people about.

"Did we miss the Rowanwood?" he asked. "Perhaps we went too far."

Without warning, Toret grabbed him. He slammed Simask hard against the clay-plaster wall of a closed shop.

Chane had long since ceased being surprised by his small master's speed and strength. Toret's lips curled back to reveal elongated canines. He exhaled into Simask's face once before releasing him.

"Run," he whispered.

Toret rarely toyed with his food. Chane preferred such pretense and foreplay himself, but understood Toret's concern for secrecy. Most Noble Dead could muddle or smother their victim's memories, so normally they left their prey alive but disoriented. Some developed more pronounced abilities, but neither Chane nor Sapphire could do more than simply blur a victim's recollection.

There was a difference in Toret's attitude tonight. Chane silently rejoiced, anticipating a brief respite, and the release of all the frustration of his slavery spread through him like warmth.

Simask tried to dodge around Toret and reach Luiza, but Sapphire stepped in his way, laughing.

"Not that way," she said, and pointed down an alley. "That way." Another low-voiced laugh exposed her fangs.

Simask ran. Luiza screamed in shock as her husband's form receded into the dark. She backed into the middle of the street.

Sapphire started after the husband. Toret hesitated long enough to look to Chane.

"No one knows them here. Do what you want, but leave no trace when you're finished."

Then he was gone down the alley after Sapphire.

Chane saw Luiza staring at him in a mix of terror and… pleading hope? He knew his appearance suggested a vassal lord or liegeman who protected women like Luiza, the fair and fragile.

"Sir," she said. "Please…"

He walked quietly toward her, backing her up until they reached the alley's other half across the street. He tilted his head toward the opening.

"Go," Chane said.

Luiza sobbed once and tripped over her skirt as she turned to flee. She managed to catch herself and keep moving.

Chane let her run. He waited just a little longer and then followed.

Her head turned once as he trotted steadily after her, not caring for silence any longer. She sobbed loudly again and screamed for help at the footfalls closing quickly behind her in the alley's darkness. No one would hear her. Or if they did, they wouldn't care.

He caught Luiza effortlessly, and as he grasped the little red hat and a handful of her hair, he felt a slight disappointment.

There were appropriate times for a quick and poignant kill. But not now. This was too easy.

To his surprise, she twisted away and with both hands grabbed an empty vegetable crate on the ground. With all her strength, she struck him across the side of the head. The crate shattered around him.

The impact almost hurt, and elation returned.

Chane snatched her wrists and bound them in one grip. He grabbed the front of her clothes with his other hand. He slammed her body up against the alley wall, pinning her arms above her head.

He forgot Toret. He forgot Sapphire. He forgot his lost mortal family and his mother and all the trappings of life that he still missed. This mattered. This moment.

Luiza struggled, and for a short while Chane allowed her to. It was fascinating how easily he could push his dead form to accomplish anything he demanded of it, and what little the living could do to oppose him. He felt her useless squirming in his grip begin to weaken. Looking down, he took in the horror on her face and watched as her cheek brushed against him and her tears disappeared, soaking into his black cloak.

Chane let himself feel the shiver and heat of her skin against his fingertips, and then he concentrated until his fingernails hardened under his will and ever so slightly elongated. He pulled his hand back, slashing away her coat, blouse, and all fabric from around her throat. His mouth closed down on flesh.

He rarely tasted blood until a short while after feeding, and then there was only a salt-laden, coppery residue. During the act, he only felt warmth and strength filling him, as if blood were only a medium carrying the power of life into his possession. Nothing in his memory compared to this. It was the only aspect of his undead existence that brought him joy. Chane knew it was time to stop only when he could no longer sense any life pouring into him, and the mix of oblivion and euphoria faded.

He returned to his current existence-a slave.

Toret expected him to drop the woman's empty husk down a sewer grate, where it would not be found immediately. Such a grate was only twenty paces away. He remained still in contemplation.

After a moment he dragged Luiza's body with one hand down the alley closer to the main street and dropped her. He then ripped her dress further open, shredding it and the undergarments. She must look savaged and mutilated by something unnatural.

The night Toret turned Chane, he'd ordered, "You will stay in Bela and serve me."

Chane could not disobey, but there were loopholes to consider. If the bodies of lovely young women were found with throats ripped and clothing shredded, would the constabularies or city guards begin an active hunt? Chane could take care of himself, but if fate were kind, Toret could lose his head.

He crouched down for one last look at Luiza's still open eyes. His body coursed with life's energies now, but he felt sad as he wiped the blood from his mouth. The hunt had been so short and staged. Straightening his cloak and pulling his gloves on, he walked back toward the Damask Throne.

Leesil shifted cards about the faro table that evening, stealing brief glances at Magiere, who stood behind the bar pouring drinks and talking sparingly with patrons. Everything should have felt like it had before the events of months past. The Sea Lion was fully restored-better than restored. He should have been happy.

After the fire, only the common room and kitchen hearths remained. A local carpenter who remembered the old bar quite well had created a nearly identical version. It glistened with dark, fresh stain. The building had been lengthened and slightly widened, and the common room hearth now stood near the room's center, its backside open like the front. Patrons circled around it or nestled close to either open side for a little extra warmth.

Hanging above the hearth facing toward the bar was a sword. Regardless of how much Caleb had scrubbed it, the blade remained partially blackened and marred. Leesil considered having it polished and restored but then thought better of it. This was Rashed's sword, the warrior undead that Magiere had tricked into the flames as the old Sea Lion burned. She'd fished the blade from the ashes as a reminder of what she and Leesil had accomplished for Miiska. Displayed not in pride or triumph, it was a tribute of respect for those who died and shouldn't be forgotten-Brenden the smith and his sister, and Beth-rae, Caleb's wife, among others. That blade symbolized what had been finally faced and overcome at a severe cost.