He spoke rapidly then in a language of coughing swallows, as if the dialect itself resented every sound it allowed to escape.

The speech of High Cromlech.

Whatever he said, it opened Uther Doul’s eyes wide for several moments. Then he, too, advanced.

"Oh yes, Brucolac," Doul said. His voice was as hard and edged as flint. He gazed over Bellis as if she were not there, straight at the vampir. "I know exactly what you are. I, more than anyone, know exactly what you are."

The men stood a few paces apart, unmoving, with Bellis between them like a reluctant referee.

"I give you the courtesy of the gentry’s title, Deadman, " hissed Doul. "But you’re no more gentry than me. You’re ab-dead, not thanati. You forget yourself, Brucolac. You forget there’s another place where your kind are given leave to live openly. Where your refugees flee. You forget that where the dead rule and protect the quick, there’s nothing to fear from you. You forget that there are vampir in High Cromlech." He pointed at the Brucolac.

"They live beyond the quick ghetto. In hovels. In the shantytown." He smiled. "And every night, after the sun’s descended, they can crawl safely out from their shacks and shuffle into the town. Stick figures in rags, leaning against the walls. Exhausted and starving, hands outstretched. Begging." His voice was soft and vicious. "Begging for the quick to take pity on them. And every so often one of us will acquiesce, and out of pity and contempt, embarrassed by our soft philanthropy, we’ll stand in the eaves of a building and offer up our wrists. And you and your kind will open them, all frantic with hunger and fawning with gratitude, and take a few eager swigs, till we decide you’ve had enough and take back our hands while you weep and beg for more, and maybe spew because you’ve gone without a hit so long your stomach can’t handle what it craves, and we leave you lying in the dirt, blissed by your little fix.

"In High Cromlech we know exactly what you are, Brucolac." He smiled again.

"Junkies. That some of us indulge and some of us hate and all of us, quick and dead, pity.

"So do not," he spat suddenly, "try to intimidate me. Because, yes, Brucolac, I know exactly what you are."

No one said any more. The two men faced each other, immobile. Only the Brucolac’s tongue moved, tasting the air.

And then he was gone.

Bellis blinked and looked around her at a trail of displaced air, where dust motes roiled and languidly followed the Brucolac’s sudden fleeting passage. She held her head. What has he done to me? she thought. How does he do that? Hypnosis? Godsdammit, he’s quicker than Doul…

Uther Doul was looking at her, she sluggishly realized, as her heart slowed and her breathing became normal.