and her staring eyes caught his, freezing him in place.
Why would I do that, Khaled? she said. Why would I do that when I am so thirsty?
Khaled pulled himself away from her. ‘No!’
So thirsty, Neferata said, not letting him break eye contact with her. Her will crashed down on him like a black wave. For weeks, her mind had wormed its way into his, even as it had Anmar’s. He had come incessantly to gloat over her, to speak of his dreams and plans and desires.
He wanted to be caliph, did young Khaled. But he was the son of a concubine and thus not in line for the throne, and besides, there were a dozen brothers ahead of him.
But I can change all of that, Khaled, she said, and he leaned close. You know I can. Abhorash told you, didn’t he? He told you what I am and what my kiss can give you, she continued. Her thoughts became his thoughts, and trapped his mind in a fog of red.
‘Khaled,’ Anmar quavered, reaching for him. ‘Please Khaled, close it…’
Free me, Neferata said. Free me!
‘Khaled…’
Khaled’s fingers tightened on the wood. Then, with a convulsive jerk, he ripped it free of her heart. Neferata sucked in a lungful of dry air and emitted a shriek, her long unused vocal cords flexing painfully. But mingled with the pain was the raw pleasure of life renewed. Life, so long denied her, flowed through her dry veins and she stretched, feeling the air and listening to the sound of her prey’s hearts as their rhythm sped up. The sweet smell of fear filled her nostrils and she hissed in pleasure.
Khaled stared stupidly at the splinter of wood in his hand, then up at Neferata. Her eyes blazed with a hunger long denied. ‘Yessss,’ she said.
‘Oh, no,’ Khaled said, stepping back, horror suffusing his features. ‘Anmar, get out of here!’
‘Khaled – what–’ Anmar began fearfully.
‘Run!’ Khaled screamed, lunging for Neferata with the wood. She uncoiled from the sarcophagus, leaping over him and landing between his sister and the door.
‘Too late, my Kontoi,’ Neferata rasped, claws flexing. She caught Anmar as the girl backpedalled. ‘Too late…’ Her fangs sank into the girl’s neck as savagely as those of a starving jackal. She worried the girl’s throat, tearing flesh and cracking bone, her tongue stabbing hungrily into the wound.
Khaled howled with loathing as he smashed the wooden spike into her shoulder. She snarled, dropping the half-dead girl, and batted his improvised weapon from his grip. Then, with sinister tenderness, she took his face in her hands and kissed him, smearing his mouth with his sister’s blood. He grabbed ineffectually at her wrists as she pulled him close.
‘Do not struggle, my love,’ she purred. ‘Soon you shall have all that you desire. This, I promise…’
The City of Mourkain
(–600 Imperial Reckoning)
The sun had been blotted out by thick clouds that spread like oil across the sky, as well as the surging, wheeling flocks of carrion birds that circled overhead waiting for the day’s reaping to be done. Unfortunately, Neferata had no time to admire the graceful curve of the birds’ flight.
The orc crested the palisade, venting a full-throated bellow of berserk murder-lust as it took off a Strigoi’s head with its crude axe. Neferata wove around the tumbling body and impaled the orc on her blade, causing it to stiffen and scream. She jerked her sword free in a crescent of blood and spun, lopping off its head as she came back around.
Even as its twitching carcass tumbled to the palisade ramp, more of them were pushing to fill the gap. Daubed in brutal, blue tattoos and war-paint and animal skins, they came at her in a rush. Their minds were too dull to enrapture with her dark skills, and she settled for dealing out quicksilver death. Stepping over the bodies, she saw that the others were faring similarly well.
Khaled, clad in the armour of one of Ushoran’s guard, cut and slashed in the wedge of metal and flesh that defended the master of Mourkain as he struggled with one of the warlords of the green horde that crashed like an ocean tide against his walls. Ushoran was wearing armour himself, eschewing his more bestial habits in order to play the hero for his people.
Like always when he was in public, Ushoran wore the face of a god. Painfully handsome, strongly built, he towered over his guards and at times, he seemed to be protecting them, rather than vice-versa. The