into the room. A heavy-set serving man entered, dragging a frightened boy along. The hunger coiled in me, I could smell the blood I needed, smell it even over the reek of unwashed bodies, theirs and my own. The earl took the arm of the struggling child, holding it firmly against my mouth. The hunger wrenched and twisted inside me like a living thing as I turned my head, forcing my lips away from the terrified boy. After a few minutes the earl released his hold and left the room, followed swiftly by the servant and the boy. This was repeated on the following nights, until upon the third night the hunger overpowered me and I fed.
I was allowed no more than a mouthful before the boy was wrested from me and bundled out of the room. Another night passed before Northumberland returned with a man, dwarfish in stature and obviously foreign. The earl stood gloating, then knelt on a cushion that the little man had placed on the floor beside my cot. He smiled as his doublet sleeve was removed and shirtsleeve turned up above his elbow. “You are in no doubt, Doctor?” he asked absently, not taking his eyes off me.
“None whatsoever,” the dwarf replied. “It is no different than being bled, my lord.” The earl nodded and pressed the vein in his wrist against my lips. The hunger possessed me and I sunk my teeth into the vein, filling my mouth and letting my pleasure overflow into the man who fed me until the connection was forcibly broken by the dwarf. “That will do, my lord. That is enough.” The earl collapsed against the side of the cot, his eyes heavy with satisfaction.
“Oh no,” he said, “oh, not at all like being bled, and not nearly enough.”
They kept me hungry, and my need forced me to continue feeding from the earl. In the fourth week of my captivity, the pattern changed. After I had fed, the earl took a dagger and slit my shirtsleeves from wrist to shoulder, then motioned to the doctor, who advanced slowly, holding a cup in his left hand. Ashe approached; he drew his right hand from the folds of his gown. I struggled against my bonds, straining futilely to break them when I recognized the object the little man held: a fleam. The dwarf placed the point against the vein in my inner elbow and gave the bar a quick firm tap with the cup, lowering it quickly to catch the dark blood that flowed freely from the wound. The knife was not made of steel, but of some hardened wood, so that the wound would remain open in my undead flesh. When the cup was full he handed it to the earl and swiftly bandaged the cut to close it.
Northumberland, a self-satisfied smile on his face, raised the cup in a salute, and drained it. I felt tears of despair scald my cheek, and I turned my face away. The act of blood exchange was meant to be a gift, a loving act of sharing. This was a violation, a defilement, and it left me feeling broken, degraded.
Time passed, maybe a week, maybe more, every night bringing a repetition of the bloodletting, and some nights more than one. I had retreated into a silence, distancing myself from what was being done to me in an effort not to go mad; I fed mechanically and no longer fought the knife. One night, after handing the empty cup to the doctor, the earl spoke to me. “How many times must the exchange take place?” I looked beyond him, making no response, even when the earl ripped the rags of my shirt from my body and nodded to the little man at the brazier they had set burning in the corner. An instant later a scream tore from my throat as the earl pressed the glowing end of a burning oaken brand against the skin of my chest, then tossed it aside and repeated his question. When no answer came he reached for another brand.
“Three times, maybe four,” I whispered, staring at the end of the brand, glowing cherry-red and cunningly carved into a circled five pointed star.
“But I wonder if that’s true?” the earl murmured, a mad luster glazing his murky, opaque eyes. He applied the brand again, to the other side of my chest, crooning almost as a lover when my scream rent the air and sank into a whimper. After a