Aleksander turned slowly. “A servant? No. I will serve no one again in this life or any other.” He considered his options. Could Brother Azarov be made to understand what he was, who he was? “You must listen closely, Azarov. You are on the precipice of something great—”

“Do not come near me! You are a heathen. A heretic. You would lead us into battle and see us murdered on the field.”

“The Starless One—”

“You have no right to speak of him!”

Aleksander almost laughed. “No man should be forced to grapple with irony so furiously.”

“Brother Chernov!” Azarov called.

Down in the market square, Chernov looked up and waved. He and the other pilgrims carried baskets and crates full of food and supplies.

Aleksander yanked Brother Azarov behind the cart and clapped a hand over the pilgrim’s mouth. “You have asked for miracles and I have brought you miracles. You don’t understand the forces at work here.”

Azarov thrashed in his grip. He had the strength of the soldier he’d once been. He wrenched his head free. “I know evil when I see it.”

Now Aleksander had to smile. “Maybe so.”

He let a nichevo’ya form behind Azarov, towering and bewinged. Calling on merzost was painful, like a breath torn from his lungs, a moment of terror as his life was ripped away to form another. Creation. Abomination. But he was used to it by now.

Azarov’s eyes widened as he saw the shadow of the monster behind him. He never had a chance to turn. A whimper squeaked from his lips as the nichevo’ya’s clawed hand burst through his chest. He looked down at it—black talons curled around his still-beating heart. Then he crumpled.

Murderer! Yuri’s distress was like an alarm ringing in his skull. You had no right!

Be silent. Azarov was willing to die for me and he did.

Aleksander glanced around the wagon. The pilgrims were still approaching. He had mere moments to decide what to do with the body. The nichevo’ya could carry it away but would be seen taking flight with Azarov. He would have to bury the pilgrim beneath the weapons and hope to retrieve the body when they returned to camp.

He heard shouting from the market square. Some kind of storm was moving in, the clouds casting dark shadows over the town.

No, not a storm. It was moving too fast for that, a blot of darkness spreading over the houses. Everything it touched turned to shadow, seeming to hold its shape for the barest moment, then dissolving into smoke. Kilyklava. The vampire. Had he somehow drawn the blight to Adena, or was it mere coincidence?

People scattered, screaming, trying to outrun it, trying to hurl themselves from its path.

Aleksander couldn’t look away. The shadow raced toward him. Brother Chernov and the others dove from the road, abandoning their bread and cabbages.

Run.