Court of the Undying Seasons

I

BEGINNING

1

I wasn’t born a monster.

As a child I had no bloodlust, no desire to manipulate or control. No dream of immortality. I wanted to survive the long winters. I wanted my mother back.

But now I must face them as my mother did. Now I feel as murderous as a monster, as cold as one of their walking corpses.

They arrive in our village like a funeral procession in an enclosed black carriage drawn by a matching set of four horses, with two more following, just as the first snow begins to fall.

It’s risky for a carriage not to carry skis at this time of year in case of deep drifts, but the wheels and horses look to be in fine condition. Better than fine. The stallions in back have no leads and yet no one astride the polished leather saddles. Eerier yet, there’s no one atop the driver’s seat of the carriage.

The horses seem to halt on their own. The carriage rolls to a stop at the edge of our village square, a stretch of frozen dirt with a dry basin of rough-hewn stone in the center that the headman generously calls a fountain. The square still smells of fish, offal, and dung—the remnants of the market, packed away for the occasion. Now the space only serves to make the clomping hooves echo forlornly in the late autumn air.

The carriage sits, gleaming and malignant in the dying light, an ill omen made real. As we all wait in a line, shivering, I wonder without hope if it’s empty.

Of course, it isn’t.

Only when the snow-shrouded sun finally drops behind the mountains do they flow like water out of the carriage: one male, one female, and one seemingly neither, all clothed in finery. Long velvet cloaks, gowns, and robes in deep red, black, and silver. I’m wearing whatever scraps I could find, though the scarves and shawls wrapped around my neck and waist serve a dual purpose, hiding what I want hidden.

Showing your neck to them is bad luck. Showing what’s at my waist would be a death wish.

They clearly have no such concerns. Their skin flashes everywhere despite the cold, their complexions and hair as varied as their clothes. The female has fair skin, perfect brown curls that fall to her waist, and full crimson lips to match the color of her eyes and her plunging gown. The male has light brown skin, black hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail, and a black silk shirt crisscrossed with knife belts over dark leather pants. The third is remarkably pale, with snow-white hair, silver eyes and robes, and no telltale signs of being male or female. I’ve heard they can be like that, among the many ways they can be—live however they want, at seemingly no cost to themselves.

The only similarities among these three are their unnatural eyes and flawless faces, not a wrinkle or pockmark in sight. They all look to be in their early twenties, late twenties at most, but I know they’re not. The creatures’ faces never reflect their true age. Despite their seeming youth, they’re long dead. And despite their cold limbs, they move like stalking predators.

They are predators. Predators that glow like lanterns in the darkness, inviting their prey to be consumed like moths to flame.

I want to back away. Only Silvea standing next to me in line holds me steady. She’s my only friend. And maybe more than that, if only on my end. I need to make sure she’s safe, and a place at her side is more appealing than these creatures will ever be. Far more tempting than becoming one of them.

Even when I’ve been starving, lying awake at night getting gnawed at by a nameless longing for something, someone, someplace I don’t know, I’ve never hungered for an endless existence sustained by the blood of others. Never for shadowy figures with gleaming eyes and red lips and mocking laughs to haunt my waking hours as well as my dreams. Never for luxurious, frozen courts that never sleep, cloaked in garments of scarlet and gold, silver and midnight.

I’m the child of a dead fisherman, and I lost my mother to them. They are the enemy: overtaking our lands, usurping our gods, terrorizing our nights.

Drinking our blood.

To want to be like them, to live a richer life despite being dead, to share their hideous craving, would be worse than a foolish dream. It would be deplorable.

But that’s why they’re here.

The male holds out a black bag, his lips quirked, while the female says in a musical, disinterested voice, Is this all?

It’s quiet enough to hear the falling snow, no one brave enough to speak. But it is all, according to their terms: all the children I’ve grown up with and have mostly hated and occasionally tolerated, now on the cusp of adulthood, standing before them.

Silvea shifts in place, and her shoulder presses against mine, startling me. I immediately tilt away, assuming it was an accident, but she leans closer. I stay exactly where I am, hardly daring to breathe. She never usually touches me. I let myself lean back into her, just a little bit.

Even now, I wish she were somewhere else, but wishes won’t feed you, as my father used to say. This is our first Finding ritual, but the rules have been in place since before anyone can remember: Once per year, these creatures come to six different villages, and all youths aged seventeen to nineteen must gather for a drawing, like children at the Midwinter Festival lining up to receive a hotcake.

The only gift we’ll receive here is our lives, if we’re lucky. And if we’re unlucky, death. If you choose the wrong lot, the creatures give you a new life that’s no life at all—and you’re supposed to thank them. To revere them.

I hate them.

They must not be too impressed with us, either. Or at least the female isn’t. She glances at the male, her red eyes shining like wet blood. Nothing to pique my interest here, Maudon, but let’s get on with it.

The male—Maudon—drinks us in with his dark gaze before he moves to the head of the line. His eyes are completely black, I realize, the pupils indistinguishable from his irises. As he stands before each of us, holding up the bag, his stare could swallow me whole.

I suppress a shiver. I don’t know why he seems so interested. The others who have come for past Findings usually seemed bored. Never mind that this seemingly mundane task determines our fates.

And yet, no one in our village would dare defy that fate by hiding or fighting. No one does anything but the role that’s assigned to them. For me, it’s all the same:

Listen to your father or be beaten.

Gut fish for pennies or starve to death.

Gather in the square when the creatures tell you to or be hunted.

Even their bag is luxuriant, its black silk gleaming like Maudon’s clothes. They make all of us standing in the line seem dull and lifeless in comparison. And especially pungent, in my case. Odd, since they’re the ones who are dead. Dead things usually sag and smell.

While I haven’t dreamed of becoming one of them, I have fantasized about killing them when making precise slices into cold fish bellies with my fillet knife. It wouldn’t be murder because the creatures aren’t alive, or so I tell myself.

Maudon steps in front of me and Silvea. He spares me only a glance, taking in Silvea like he wants to eat her. She pulls away from me, straightening her shoulders to bravely meet his gaze. He pauses before her longer than he has any others, tipping his head as if listening to something. For some reason, the female is staring fixedly at Silvea, too. Both their gazes are alight with what looks like hunger. I know too well what they hunger for.

But then Maudon reaches out and brushes Silvea’s cheek with one light finger, almost a caress. She shudders, and I want to smack his hand away.

Maybe they think Silvea’s pretty, not just delicious. Under her patchy fur hat, her hair is a flowing blond, compared to my lank, dull locks that I keep hacked short. The better to keep clean—as clean as possible, given what I do. My hair always smells like fish. Silvea smells like herbs, her skin is washed and clear, and her blue eyes are bright and determined.

The creatures like pretty people. At least, they’re more likely to steal pretty humans. I wonder why they even bother with a Finding when they can just snatch anyone they want in the night.

As Silvea reaches into the bag, I twitch, wishing I could stop her. It almost seems to swallow her hand.

A smile grows on Maudon’s face.

This can’t be good.

Before Silvea can withdraw, I glimpse a white feather between her fingers. I know what it means—it’s the only white one among dozens of black. It signifies who they’ll choose. The sacrifice. The foundling. The one they take to Castle Courtsheart, their horrible fortress. The one they take everything from.

Only I see the feather’s color because of how close we stand. Silvea’s the only one among the group who would let me draw so near with the stink of fish about me. For that alone, I would do anything for her.

But she saved my life once. I was seven, and I got a fever after cutting my palm on a fillet knife just after my father fell into the sea while fishing—probably drunk—and drowned. She took herbs from her mother, the healer, drew the poison from my wound, and brought down my fever. Like I was worth saving.

I’ve loved her ever since, desperately, hopelessly, and she let me stay close. She taught me how to read—as a healer-in-training, she had to learn to follow herbalists’ and anatomists’ journals—and she often shared what little food she could from her own meager plate. She’s been one of the few people in the village to show me kindness. To not look away from me. To see me as more than a half-starved, walking pile of fish guts.

Perhaps now she sees me as someone worthy of standing beside her.

And for that, I would die for her.

I move faster than my sense of self-preservation can. I stuff my hand inside the bag, over Silvea’s, nudging her aside before she can reveal the feather.

Let me go first, I breathe in a rush. When everyone stares at me, I blurt, I’m older.

It’s true, even if I don’t look it, standing shorter than Silvea and far scrawnier—and barely older, a fresh nineteen years to her eighteen.

No, Fin—! Silvea tries to pull away, but I wrench the feather from her fingers under cover of fabric, unseen by any of them standing in front us. Stop!

She must have glimpsed the white feather, too. She’s trying to save me again. But it’s my turn.

And even if it kills me, maybe I can make my dreams come true at the same time: A knife against cold flesh. Revenge against them, for taking my mother from me. I’m prepared. I have my fillet knife strapped to my waist, buried under the folds of my dirty shawl.

The smile vanishes from Maudon’s lips. His pit-black eyes widen and his nostrils flare, giving me the barest glimpse of outrage lurking behind the smooth mask of his face. Even the female hisses like a cat.

Blood and piss, I curse in silent fear. Somehow they know what I’ve done.

They wanted Silvea. Not me.

And now they’re going to kill me where I stand.

But then the pale, silver-clad one arches a brow as fine as frost. Age is about the only thing we honor as you humans do. Don’t you agree, Maudon? Claudia? It is the filthy one’s right to go first.

I can’t help but wonder what the creature means. Do they not respect wealth or social standing or husbands or fathers—what humans seem to honor most and all of which I lack? Does that mean I won’t be less than nothing among them, like I am here?

Before I can help it, my chest clenches around something other than fear. I don’t want to know what the feeling is.

"Are we going to let them all start doing that now, Revar? Maudon asks with the suggestion of a sneer. Next they’ll be shouting over one another who is the oldest or the youngest instead of waiting in a nice line."

Revar shrugs. In any case, the claim has been made. I will honor it, as you should.

The female, Claudia, watches Maudon until he grudgingly nods. After that, the anger in both seems to subside—clearer by the feeling in the air than their expressions, which haven’t changed all that much.

Silvea withdraws her empty hand, but I don’t yet reveal the feather. I stare back at them over the top of the bag, my heart pounding against the walls of my chest like a fist. As if I can fight this. But I can’t fight. Not them.

Not yet.

A horse paws the frozen earth, breaking the silence. I still can’t move, and yet those three perfect faces, too smooth and still, watch me patiently. Like they have all the time in the world. Or they’re bored again, now that the moment of drama is over.

So be it.

Silvea’s sob cuts the heavy gloom as I pull the white feather from the bag. It looks so clean next to my hand. Revar was right. Dizzily, all I can think is, I am filthy.

You got the white feather! the baker’s son shouts in horror. As if he cares. As if he never threw rocks at me.

My eyes fill with tears, my throat too choked to respond. This was my choice. I knew what would happen. But Silvea’s grief slices me like a knife I wasn’t expecting.

All the more reason I go in her stead. Besides, she’s the healer’s daughter. I only gut fish. Even from a practical standpoint, it’s better she stay and I go.

Finally, says Claudia. We have our chosen one. The wait was killing me. There’s a spark of humor in her voice, but it dies as her red gaze passes over me.

Her look is murderous. She obviously resents me for taking Silvea’s place.

Already two of the creatures hate me, and I haven’t even left with them yet. An unfortunate beginning to my ending.

Their horses’ breaths send great plumes of fog into the air. The beasts’ eyes gleam with an eerie yellow light, like someone lit a candle behind them. Save for that glow, they’d only be dark, empty windows.

Enthralled, then. Forced to do the creatures’ bidding. But still alive.

Still alive, I tell myself, swallowing my tears. I’ll still be alive. Though I doubt I will be for long. I want to believe I can fight or flee later, but I know the truth. Soon, I’ll be as cold as the creatures before me, whether I have strange eyes and flawless skin or empty sockets and worms riddling my flesh.

Or, maybe worst of all, I might be warm and alive but have someone else’s will shining behind my eyes. They need servants, after all. It makes me think having my blood drained might be the preferable end.

My only comfort in going with these creatures is in the possibility I might understand how they live—and see if I can end them forever. This is the best chance I’ll ever have.

Sighs rise in the village square, likely only in relief. No sadness. Few will miss me, and none would even think to help me. We used to be a fighting people, great warriors and raiders. But that was before they came. Now, at most, there might be an embarrassingly quick scuffle and a river of blood splattered across the snow.

Not everyone would even want to resist. Some view being selected as the highest honor. An incredible chance to escape this life.

The creatures certainly see it as a gift. The vampires. I might as well let myself think the word, if not say it. I’m about to join them, after all.

Maudon smiles again, showing fangs of pure white. Welcome to the start of your first undying season, young one.

What a marvelous season it will be, says Revar. Your name is Fin?

I manage a jerky nod. I don’t want to tell them the name started as a mocking insult when I began carrying buckets of cast-off fins and guts to the village cesspit as a tiny child. It ended up sticking, like a stench. Even my father was calling me that before he died. Now no one remembers my original name. I’ve gotten so used to Fin I don’t mind it.

Fin, as in the flattened appendage of a fish, which can be as thin as parchment, nigh translucent, and angular, as you are. Deceptively simple for something so well designed for its environment. Revar looks me up and down, but surprisingly, there’s no cruelty in their silver eyes. Maybe calling me filthy was more a statement of fact than an insult.

I’m so flattered I can only blink in response.

Well then, Fin. Revar gestures the way to the carriage, offering me their arm. Let us hope you have hidden spines, because your environment is about to change.

I can barely catch a full breath. I look at Silvea, hoping to find comfort.

But the force of her glare hits me like a punch to the belly.

You dirty, backstabbing bitch, she growls, pale cheeks flushed. Tears pool in her blue eyes, making them burn. I should have let you die when I had the chance.

The bottom falls out of my stomach. My insides feel like they’ve dropped to the frozen ground.

She did have the chance. And she not only saved me, she seemed to see me.

Now there’s only hatred in her eyes.

What? I let out in a pained gasp. Silvea…

And then it dawns on me. Silvea wanted the white feather. She wanted to be chosen. Perhaps she was shuddering with anticipation, not dread, when Maudon touched her. She’s not even wearing a scarf around her neck, even though she’s bundled up everywhere else. I was too nervous to notice.

I hope you die, she says.

When she spits in my face, I understand that I never really knew her at all. Never truly saw her, blinded by my foolish love. Just as she never really saw me.

Her words wound me deeper than anything ever has before. They leave something hard and cold behind, and I seize it like a weapon.

I will die, I reply, not bothering to wipe my face. But you’d better hope I die all the way or else I’m coming for you.

I relish the fear in her eyes for a petty moment.

Revar holds out a silk handkerchief. It looks far too nice to be within an arm’s length of me, never mind touching my skin. But they keep it raised until I take it and swipe at my cheeks, now hot with anger and betrayal.

She’s beneath you now, young one, Revar says, offering their arm again. Forget her. Come.

I turn away from Silvea and follow the three vampires to the black carriage. Maudon and Claudia move to mount the two stallions behind; at least I won’t have to ride with them. Revar opens the door for me. Aided by a too-cold hand, I step into the darkness. I’m leaving behind everything I’ve ever known, but any farewell turns to bitter ashes in my mouth.

I don’t look back. It’s surprisingly easy not to.

I wasn’t born a monster.

But, if I live long enough, maybe I will become one.

2

At first, there’s silence in the carriage. Revar sits across from me on the richly upholstered bench. They lean back, silver eyes glowing in the moonlight. The interior looks different from anything we would have in our village: rich black silk and velvet embroidered with curlicues of silver. I think the vampires brought such styles with them when they moved into—rather, conquered—our lands.

Revar looks too still against the swaying movement of the carriage, like some sort of ghostly apparition. I feel sick to my stomach and try to focus on the flicker of the moon through the bare trees outside. The approaching winter has left all of them skeletal.

I wrap my rags tighter around myself, unable to keep my teeth from chattering. The carriage is freezing—vampires don’t need heat.

I’ve heard the stories of how they hunt, unbothered by rain or snow. How they can see in the dark. Track by scent. Run faster than any human on foot and bring you down, tearing into your neck quicker than any wolf or wildcat.

I’ve seen the bodies to prove it.

"Running is not really my specialty … but then that’s not surprising in a vampire of the Silver Court, Revar says conversationally. We prefer reading."

I stare at them for a moment, realizing with horror how they responded to something I never said aloud.

You can hear my thoughts? I say, before I can cover my mouth. Blood and piss. I should draw as little attention to myself as possible. Make myself as thin as parchment. Translucent. Until they don’t notice my sharper edges at all.

I pointedly do not think of the fillet knife hidden under my shawl.

Yes, I can hear them, Revar replies. You’ll learn the trick of it soon—in your second season—as well as gain some measure of protection against it.

That’s how they knew that first Silvea, and then I, had the white feather. They must have read it in my mind as if I’d shouted it.

Perhaps that is indeed how they knew, Revar says. "But who can say? The ability doesn’t come equally to all—mine is particularly strong—and vampires can’t read one another’s minds."

Interesting.

Maudon seemed to want Silvea, I say hesitantly.

We can develop fixations on humans, the vampire says in a way that makes me think this one doesn’t often. But that is not what the Finding is supposed to be about. The Finding is about discovery.

So even though I didn’t exactly follow the rules, he didn’t follow them first? That’s why you let me use my age as an excuse to go before Silvea?

Exactly.

Not because you wanted to help me, I can’t resist thinking. It’s easier to keep my mouth shut than it is my thoughts silent. I’ll have to learn quickly.

I supported your claim because I was curious, too, Revar says, and then gestures at the dark landscape outside. It’s why I come on these Findings—humanity is a curiosity. A chance to discover something new. They turn back to me, pinning me with those bladelike eyes. You, for example. Why would you put yourself in this situation when you hate vampires so?

"For my friend," I say, folding my arms tighter. Luckily my bitterness is strong enough to drown out the rest of my thoughts—the part about knives against cold flesh. About revenge.

Ah, you’re learning how to mask your thoughts already. Revar sounds pleased, but then their voice drops. That human wasn’t your friend.

I gathered that, I say through gritted teeth, tears threatening to spill. I dash my hand over my eyes. I’d still rather be with my own kind.

Revar smiles, surprisingly gentle. Do you know where we’re going?

Courtsheart, I whisper.

What do you know about it?

Not much, I admit. It’s a castle. A prison.

It’s more like one large castle and four smaller castles within a fortress, Revar clarifies. And it’s not a prison. For vampires, it’s where the five courts debate and mingle. For you, it will be a school, where you have your first few undying seasons as a novice, and where you’ll decide which court you wish to join as a newborn vampire.

But I can’t escape.

The vampire shakes their head slowly, their stark silver eyes almost sad. No. You can’t. They shrug. "You won’t want to leave, soon enough."

When will it happen? How? I don’t bother to hide my apprehension.

You’ll be given vampire blood to drink at a ceremony called your Beginning. This is what will allow your training to commence.

I once stole a pan of chicken blood from a yard where the bird had just been killed. I was so hungry I just drank it, already cooling and thickening. I nearly threw up.

I imagine vampire blood is more disgusting than a chicken’s, since vampires are long dead. It would certainly be colder.

Revar ignores my horrified look. You’ll only take a little at first as you adjust, and more over time. It will grant you new abilities in a limited fashion at the start, which will increase in potency along with the blood in your system. You’ll learn to hone these abilities before you become one of us fully. He pauses. It’s … safer, that way.

Nothing about this sounds safe at all. I can’t resist clutching my stomach, folding over on the carriage bench, my head practically between my knees.

I almost made it, at nineteen. Next year, I wouldn’t have had to attend the Finding, if the vampires had even come to our village at all. They only draw foundlings from six villages at a time, and ours wasn’t selected every year. I can only remember two Findings before this one, and barely the first one when my mother was taken, it was so long ago. Even if our village had been unlucky enough to be chosen two years in a row, I would have been too old.

My mother didn’t make it, either. She was nineteen, too.

I only remember fragments of her face. Even then, those fierce eyes and smiling lips, shaping the sound of my name—the nearly forgotten one—might be something I cobbled together from dreams. Even if I remembered her fully, it wouldn’t help me find her. Whatever has happened to her, she’s not the mother I knew and loved. I wouldn’t recognize her, and she wouldn’t remember me.

For all I know, she could be toiling away in some dark court, her hair gone gray and thin, her hands rough as she scrubs bloodstains off a floor, her ribs poking through dirty rags. Swollen bite marks on her scarred neck, eyes strangely lit, a vague smile on her face. A human thrall. That image of her has haunted my nightmares more than any other. Her fierce gaze lost and hopeless behind the glow, her lips cracked and bleeding as she grins.

I shudder. It’s my worst nightmare—and not just for her, but for myself. Death would be better.

Child, your thoughts are loud. Another gentle smile from Revar. I didn’t know your mother was a foundling. That is likely something you’ll wish to keep to yourself.

I jerk upright in my seat—too fast. I’m dizzy. Hungry, despite being nauseous. Why?

Human bonds don’t matter to vampires, for the most part, and you’ll want to emulate us as quickly as possible. For the most part. An interesting qualification, but what they say next drowns out the thought: Forget your mother. She has forgotten you.

I nearly choke, but not because the thought is new. I’ve heard those exact words before, from a half-forgotten visitor, long ago. I thought I’d maybe dreamed it, but now I remember …

A cat, sitting by my pallet late at night, while my father snored nearby. A cat with eyes that glowed like coals. A cat that seemed to speak without words …

I scramble to change the subject. Remembering is the opposite of what I’m supposed to be doing now, according to Revar. Is that why you take us when we’re young? I ask, adjusting the ragged strips of cloth wrapping my hands. So we forget quickly?

"Indeed. And because you also learn quickly. We can make vampires out of older humans, but they take to the life less well. They have their own thoughts molded by years of human experience. That has led to strife among us in the past. This system of selection was designed to carefully increase our ranks with those most likely to thrive, in the most controlled and considerate fashion."

Considerate? I say. Much like safe, considerate doesn’t seem to enter into this. How? And for who?

"Whom, Revar corrects absently. For both humans and vampires. When humans feel they or one of their family have a chance of becoming one of us, it makes them less rebellious. Less resentful."

Does it, now? I say, a hot fist of anger gripping my chest.

The vampire smiles. Maybe they appreciate the thought of gaining immortal life. Your lives are short and brutish, and ours shine like stars in comparison.

Vampires are supposed to be the new gods. The old worship has long been forbidden—which doesn’t bother me, since I’ve never cared for the idea of the Father or his marauding sons and vicious daughters, a description that covers most of the old pantheon. But I’m not about to worship vampires, either.

Revar tips their head. Or perhaps humans simply hate to imagine what it would feel like to kill a vampire wearing the face of a daughter or a brother—never mind that we can and often do change our faces. Either way, for better or worse, we want humanity to feel involved with us beyond…

It’s the first time the vampire has hesitated. Beyond being your food? I say, unflinching. But why hold a Finding when vampires can just pick whoever they like most?

"Whomever. We do that, too, but it’s strictly controlled. A vampire needs to gain permission from their House to take on a novice—a still-human vampire-in-training, Revar clarifies. And they mustn’t already have a novice or an apprentice."

Apprentice? I brace myself as the carriage goes over a bump, but Revar barely sways.

A newborn vampire who is still studying under their maker after joining their chosen House. It’s what you will become in your fourth season at Courtsheart, after your noviceship.

Maker. The word makes me swallow. It doesn’t seem much better than Father or gods.

"Think of it like a patron if that makes you feel better, Revar says. Do you know what a patron is?"

Before I can shake my head, a thought suddenly comes to mind. Not a memory, exactly, but more an illustration of the word: a painter, leaning over her canvas, brush in hand, a richly dressed merchant-type standing over her shoulder. A supporter of both art and artist. I’ve never seen anything like it, certainly not in our village.

Revar doesn’t seem to notice my confusion. Except, in this case, the novice, and later the apprentice, are both the painter and painting in one, and their patron is the one who molds them. They sigh. "Maker is still more precise, but sometimes one must sacrifice precision of thought for another’s comfort. Not very Silver Court of me, I must say."

Realizing what has happened, how I’ve understood what I have, I claw at my temple, scrambling away from Revar. Don’t do that! I cry. Don’t get in my head!

Revar arches a frosted brow at me. You should grow accustomed to it. But for the duration of this trip … as you wish. The vampire settles back, folding their hands into their lap.

They pick up right where they left off. Of course, one’s favored human must also be of a proper age, as we’ve discussed. Beyond that, it’s only up to the vampire, once they’ve gained permission from their House, to decide whom they wish to take as a novice. This could lead to accusations of favoritism with regard to whom we choose … or to a false sense of security. So, as you know, each year we randomly select six young humans to attend Courtsheart.

So I’m an unfavored foundling, without a vampire … patron? The word is still strange.

Revar purses their lips. "Maybe mentor would be preferable?"

Either is better than maker. Whatever they’re called, maybe I’ll soon wish I had one. I only have vampire enemies, so far.

I slide back down the bench. It’s all very … considerate.

Indeed, Revar says, perhaps failing to notice my sarcasm. And, of course, our own purposes are served. We maintain a robust population, ensuring no House gains undue sway, and we’re less likely to be ambushed by humans and left out in the sunlight with stakes in our hearts.

Huge fortresses and vampire armies probably help with that, too, I say before I can help myself. Revar puts me at ease, despite everything they’re saying. Perhaps too much at ease. There are no doubt many things I shouldn’t say. But then the vampire could probably just hear my unspoken thoughts, anyway.

Revar nods in concession—either to my words or my silent musing, I don’t know. But are you not better off? We are able shepherds of the human flock, no? Our influence—and, at times, our more direct control—has often improved your lot in life.

I don’t know much about geography or politics, but I know my lot, either back in my village or in the shape of a white feather, isn’t better because of