Sister of the Dead - By Barb Hendee & J. C. Hendee Page 0,19

with effort, as if her bones and joints ached. Chane waited until she reached the fire pit and the girl joined her. The girl picked up a folded rag and lifted the teapot. When the two were close together, Chane stepped up behind the old woman and snapped her neck with one quick jerk.

Her body crumpled to the floor.

The girl dropped the teapot, and water splashed across her dead grandmother. Chane had his hand over Adena's mouth before she could inhale to scream.

She clawed wildly to remove his grip as he leaned close. Her hair smelled of musk and straw, until the fear leaking from her pores overpowered all other scents. He wanted to let her struggle a bit longer until that smell made his head swim with bliss, but he had been too long without the taste of blood and lost control of himself.

He shoved her against the wall and bit into her throat. One outward rip of teeth opened the wound, and he bit down on her throat again. The rush of warm blood flowed into his mouth, down his throat, filling him with life.

At first she struggled, her choked screams muffled beneath his palm. She soon grew silent and stopped moving. Normally, Chane lost himself in euphoria and did not truly taste the blood itself. This time, its flavor engulfed his tongue and gave him a satisfaction he had not experienced before.

He applied more pressure and fed until her heart stopped. When she died, life no longer filled him with each swallow, and he dropped the girl's corpse.

Chane paused to steady himself against the wall. His body was having trouble absorbing life so quickly. No matter what happened with Welstiel, he would not deny himself again for so long.

In this moment, his entire existence seemed one long path of obedience. First his father, then Toret, and now Welstiel. Even filled with warmth and strength from the girl's blood, he shuddered at the thought of his father, Viscount Andraso.

The man was a master of masks. Everyone outside his family and close retinue found him charming, all smiles and good humor. Behind closed doors, he wore another face. His only pleasure derived from domination and cruelty. Chane's mother was a small, bird-boned woman who loved books and music, and she was Andraso's favorite victim. Chane loved her, but every year he watched her disappear further inside herself. He feared his father so much that he never defended his mother. This failure still weighed upon him. But on the day he came into his inheritance, he fled to Bela to find a new life, never realizing what new existence would find him instead. He later learned that his mother had died by her own hand. He did not return home for the burial.

Standing in the hut, feeling stronger than he had in weeks, Chane resolved never to become Welstiel's puppet. They would use each other, and that was acceptable, but the choice to obey or not would be his.

He left grandmother and granddaughter where they lay and walked out into the dense forest. With luck, Welstiel would still be rolling on the floor, mumbling to himself. Chane wondered exactly what sort of creature Welstiel might be. Noble Dead had to feed four or five times in a moon to retain full strength, and to the best of his knowledge, they did not dream.

Chane detested the constant mist and dampness of this somber forest. Who would ever choose to reside here? He started back for the shrine when a figure stepped though the foliage directly in front of him.

"Where have you been?" Welstiel asked.

Chane had not even sensed Welstiel nearby. His traveling companion was not in his usual meticulous state, and his uncombed hair hung in tufts down his forehead. His gaze dropped to Chane's chest with an expression of disgust.

Chane looked down to see that his shirt was soaked.

"I had to feed, " he said, "or I would have been no use to you by morning. "

Westiel stared at the blood a moment longer and then straightened himself. "Did you at least get rid of the body?"

"No, I let them lay. No one saw me, and we'll be far gone by morning. "

"Them?" Welstiel's jaw tightened visibly as he glared through the dark toward the village. "Which hut?"

Chane heard the creak of leather as Welstiel clenched his gloved hands.

"The second one... on the right, " he answered.

Welstiel pushed through the brush toward the hut as Chane followed. He opened the