‘Keep trying. He and Ushoran are keeping something from me, and I want to know what,’ Neferata said. There had seemed to be no pattern before to W’soran’s comings and goings in regards to the pyramid, but what she had learned from her spies over the years had put paid to that supposition. There was a pattern and a reason for that pattern. A reason she was one step closer to discovering.

A familiar scent stung her nose and she hissed in disgust. ‘Who is watching the door, Naaima?’

‘Layla,’ Naaima said automatically. Neferata grunted. The girl was human. They had a number of human servants, all picked by Naaima, who had a way with the lower orders. ‘Why?’ Naaima said, a moment before she too caught the scent. Her eyes widened.

The door to the bathhouse opened, and grinning figures strode in, boots crunching on the delicate tiles. Neferata caught a glimpse of others outside, crouched over a too-pale shape. The girl had tried to bar their way and paid the price for her loyalty. Neferata kept her face expressionless as Naaima hissed in rage. The others reacted similarly, surging up out of the waters and surrounding her.

‘Well, here we all are. How lovely,’ the Strigoi purred, gazing at them with undisguised lust. He was tall and broad-shouldered and his name was Zandor. There were other Strigoi behind him. They were, like Zandor, minor nobles. Neferata recognised them all as Ushoran’s lapdogs, sniffing at his table scraps, always trying to curry favour where they could.

‘These are the ladies’ baths, Ajal Zandor,’ Neferata said blithely.

‘Do forgive me, Lady Neferata, but I was pining for your beauty,’ Zandor said, leering. The other Strigoi chuckled appreciatively. ‘We would speak with you,’ Zandor added sneeringly.

Neferata sighed. ‘Very well, Naaima, take the others outside.’ Naaima looked at her in horror. Neferata frowned. ‘Go. I’m sure I will be perfectly safe here, with Ajal Zandor and his… companions.’

‘Oh yes,’ Zandor said. ‘Perfectly safe, I assure you.’

Neferata restrained the urge to roll her eyes as her handmaidens left the bathhouse. Zandor, like the unlamented Djazk, was infamous in Mourkain for his ribald exploits. He thought a woman was only good for one thing and Neferata irked him to no end, though she had rarely spoken to him. Zandor sank to his haunches, eyeing her. ‘I’m given to understand that you convinced our mighty hetman to spare that oaf Vorag, after he made such a mess of young Feyz at the Midsummer banquet.’

‘Vorag was exiled,’ Neferata said.

‘He should have been staked out on the slopes,’ one of the other Strigoi growled. He was a handsome creature, dark-haired and thin-featured. He wore gold, and polished brass discs adorned his furs.

‘Hello, Gashnag,’ Neferata said. ‘I wonder, did Vorag demand the same when you took Ergat’s fangs last month?’

Gashnag blanched. Zandor chuckled. ‘It is not the deed, but how it was done, my lady. Vorag is little better than one of those beasts he so enjoys hunting.’ He leaned forwards, his features assuming a predatory cast. ‘Why do you support such a brute, I wonder? Are there benefits to a grateful monster?’

Neferata frowned. ‘You go too far, Zandor.’

‘I apologise,’ Zandor said. ‘I merely wondered why you backed one like the Bloodytooth when there are other, more influential friends to be had.’

Neferata laughed. ‘Do you not have enough friends, Zandor?’

‘None like you, my lady. Hetman Ushoran speaks highly of you,’ Zandor said, stirring the water with his hand. ‘And Khaled as well, though he is, perhaps, biased.’

Neferata was silent for a moment. ‘You were Strezyk’s get, weren’t you, Zandor?’ she said.

Zandor stiffened. ‘And so,’ he said. ‘May a man not expand beyond his horizons?’

‘Not if he is wise,’ Neferata said softly.

Zandor stood. ‘I am sorry that you feel that way. I had hoped to avoid a scene, but obviously you will not heed wisdom.’ He turned. ‘Kurven,’ he said.

The vampire who entered the bathhouse was massive. There was too much beast to this one, Neferata knew. He had let himself slip into the permanent red twilight that creatures like Vorag danced along the edge of. Wide eyes bulged over a quivering, wet spear-blade nose, and a mouthful of fangs surfaced from a bramble-like beard. He was a hairy creature and fairly bursting out of his cuirass. A crooked claw pointed at her. ‘I challenge you,’ he growled, mangling the words into near unintelligibility.

Neferata’s eyes flickered to Zandor, who smirked. Memories were short, even among immortals it seemed. Or, more likely, Kurven was a professional duellist. She noted the trio of necklaces that hung from the brute’s neck, each one heavy with extracted fangs. ‘Ushoran will be unhappy with you, Zandor,’ she said, not moving from the water. ‘I am his left hand.’

‘Then maybe it’s time he got a new one,’ Zandor said. ‘Women should not meddle in politics.’ He looked at Kurven. ‘Kill her. We all saw you challenge her. None here will say it wasn’t fair and by the law.’

Kurven gave a howl that rattled the tiles of the bathhouse, and sprang for her. Neferata sank beneath the water swiftly. The brute landed with a splash, his talons gouging the spot where she had rested. She rose behind him, fangs bared. Kurven spun, eyes blazing.

She ducked under the Strigoi’s swipe and slashed him across the face, eliciting a screech. He was more angry than hurt. Quicker than she expected he lunged and caught her, shoving her beneath the water and driving her into the bottom of the bath. This one knew how to fight, unlike Strezyk. She brought her legs up and drove her feet into his belly.

Kurven released her and reared back. Neferata burst from the water, claws stretching for his hairy throat. The Strigoi were cheering, so certain of the beast’s victory that they did not notice the door to the bathhouse burst open to admit Naaima and the others. With vengeful shrieks, the vampire-women dived onto the Strigoi even as Neferata launched herself at Kurven and buried her fangs in his throat.

Digging her claws into his chest, she whipped her head back, tearing his throat out in a welter of gore. Kurven gagged horribly and sank into the water, trying to hold his ruined throat together. Neferata didn’t let him slip far. She hoisted him up, her talons sunken knuckle deep into the meat of his chest. She gave a shove with one hand, and bone buckled and splintered as she dug out Kurven’s heart. Wrenching the organ loose she stared at it for a moment before she buried her fangs in it, swallowing its final, plaintive beat. She let Kurven sink into the darkening water and climbed out, still holding the heart in one hand.

The fight between her followers and the Strigoi had been quick. Only Zandor and Gashnag had remained to fight, while the others had fled as soon as they realised that Kurven was dead. Gashnag lay groaning on the ground, Stregga’s foot pressed to the back of his skull and his blood dripping from her hands. Naaima was far stronger than a puling creature like Zandor and she had him on his knees, his arms twisted behind his back and his scalplock jerked tight, forcing him to stare up at Neferata as she swayed towards him, trailing Kurven’s blood behind her.

‘Somehow, I think you thought that this was going to go differently, Ajal Zandor,’ Neferata purred, sinking to her haunches. She held up Kurven’s mangled heart and showed it to him. ‘I want you to remember this moment, Zandor. Remember my hand on a Strigoi heart, and I want you to recall that it could just as easily have been yours.’ She clenched her fist, crushing the lump of meat. ‘Let him go.’

‘We should kill him,’ Naaima hissed, leaning close to Zandor.

‘Aye, let’s take his fangs,’ Stregga said.

‘We already have,’ Neferata said, gesturing curtly. ‘Let him up, and Gashnag as well. Let’s not keep these fine ajals from their business, shall we?’