If Beaufort’s mouth could have turned down any further, he would have looked like a commercial

for bitter beerface. “No, Milady. Because the thing that allowed the Vampire King—and therefore

the rest of the wampyr—to walk during the day was regular ritual infusions of svetocha blood.

Which is, incidentally, what makes svetocha such high-priority targets for both us and them.” The

grimace eased up into a mirthless grin, one that showed his white, white teeth as the aspect ran

through him again. The fangs look different when they’re exposed and lengthening. Thicker, with a

distinctive curve. “Svetocha have become increasingly rare ever since, for reasons we’re still working to understand.” He finally turned away from me, his eyes roving the class. “Over the course of

four centuries after the killing of the King, the Court scattered. Human populations were also on the

move, and a pale copy of the original Court settled in Greece, since Egypt and, by extension, the

Hittite empire proved . . . unwholesome. Unfortunately, though, Scarabus and his followers could

only train so many djamphir; casualties were high, and the wampyr had the upper hand until fairly

recently, when the Treaty with the wulfen was made.” He glanced at the clock over the door. “I

think that’s enough lecture for today. Open your books to page 285, please, and—”

I dug for my book, but the roaring in my ears drowned out most of what he said next. The marks on

my wrist had mostly healed by now. They were just two innocent little bruised-looking divots, right

where the radial pulse beat. Marks from Christophe’s teeth.

I didn’t take. I only borrowed. Remember that.

He could have killed me. I remembered the ripping, tearing, awful sensation as something more

than blood was pulled out of me. And that was only three long, hellish gulps. And after that he’d

called up fog to shield us and hunted the vampires chasing us and—

“Milady?” Beauforte’s voice. “Be so kind as to read us the first passage on page 285.”

“Yeah.” I flipped two more pages. “Sure. All right. Two eighty-five.”

My eyes wandered and I had something caught in my throat. But I got through three paragraphs on

something about the patterns of vampire migration during the Peloponnesian War and wasn’t called

on for the rest of the class. I made it through by just putting my head down and staring at the pages,

my eyes blurring. I’d catch hell for it on quizzes next week, but Jesus. Remembering someone sucking your blood—and soul—out of you isn’t comfortable.

What would it be like to have that happen until you died?

I shifted uncomfortably every time I thought about it, and by the time class was over I was so ready

to get the hell out of there. So it came as a complete surprise when the silk-button-down boy in