From the back, she bounded over her courtyard wall, let herself in, then dashed up the stairs.
Kaderin yanked off the clothes she'd filched from Myst, took an appraising glance, and tossed them onto the do-not-resuscitate laundry pile. She hopped into the shower, washing away all the blood.
As she lathered her hair, she didn't think about the vampire. At all. She ignored questions about why he'd been in that castle and what exactly had made him want to end his forlorn existence. All that information, such as where he had been a warrior, was incidental.
After she won the Hie, and when she was ready, she'd return to finish him.
In the meantime, he would be searching for her. Vampires who'd found their... their Brides didn't tolerate losing them. But he wouldn't be able to find her, knowing nothing but her first name. The villagers would scurry away in fear before each sunset, staying away at night until she could return—or they would face her promised wrath.
And anyone else from the Lore who could reveal that information would run from the sight of him simply because he was a vampire. He was an outsider everywhere, with everyone, whether human or Lore creature. And while she competed in the Hie, he certainly wouldn't be able to locate her. In the coming weeks, she'd never sleep in the same place twice and would be racing to the farthest reaches of the earth, obtaining prizes, jewels, and amulets.
She'd face him when she chose, and on her terms. Yes, everything was under control.
6
In the last three days, Sebastian had found it hellish to be around so many humans—a blood drinker, a predator, walking among them as if he were still one of them. Especially since women had begun gazing at him longingly, and even following him, to his consternation.
But he reminded himself what was at stake and completed task after task in anticipation of finding Kaderin, even as he had no idea how to do so. The villagers, his only lead, had disappeared, at least during the nights. Of course, she'd warned them.
After all this time away, he'd finally returned to Blachmount, and he'd been awed as ever by the old manor, even if it was as decrepit as his own holding. He'd dug up gold from his chests, then sold the coins in Saint Petersburg. Cash in hand, he'd bought clothing at the only place he knew wealthy men acquired clothing—Savile Row in London. He'd been to the port of London once when he'd been mortal and remembered it only vaguely. Yet one mental picturing of it put him there.
Money got him tailoring appointments after sunset, and each night before he set out in that city, he forced himself to buy and drink blood from the butcher.
He'd done these tasks because he wanted to become a man she could want. But he was also desperate for anything to keep his mind occupied. At every turn, he wondered where she was at that moment and if she was safe. She'd cried that morning, had doubled over in pain.
And he couldn't find her.
Her accent had a tinge of a drawl, but that helped little in determining her place of origin. He couldn't trace to her home country to begin a search, because he didn't even know what continent she lived on. Besides, his brothers had told him that vampires could only trace to places they'd already been. If she wasn't in Europe or Russia, then he couldn't reach her.
Again and again, he'd thought, If only I could trace directly to her.
The idea that a vampire didn't need to know how to get to a destination, only to envision it, didn't make sense to Sebastian. He'd traced from Russia to London to buy clothing, but he couldn't imagine the exact route. If merely seeing the location was the requirement, then why couldn't a person be a destination?
What if there was more to tracing, and his brothers didn't understand everything about it? They had been newly turned themselves all those years ago and had admitted their ignorance about so much in the Lore.
It might be that vampires traced to individuals every day...
Sebastian was unique among his family—he was the dedicated scholar, the one introspective son among four. In battle, Sebastian had used cunning as much as strength, relying on foresight as much as on past training. He was a thinker who liked to solve problems, and his father had instilled in him the belief that the mind was capable of unimaginable feats if one were strong enough to believe them possible.
And Sebastian needed to believe that tracing to her was possible. The alternative was to wait out the villagers, which was untenable.
His family had known he'd been courted by chivalric and church orders, as well as other secret sects of arcane knowledge, seeking to recruit him. What they didn't know was that he'd accepted an offer with the Eestlane Brothers of the Sword, learning about the world from isolated Blachmount, corresponding with masters of physics, astronomy, all of the sciences. Eventually, he'd even sailed the Baltic and North Seas to be knighted in London.
While his brothers had been fighting each other or chasing women, Sebastian had been studying, growing confident in his ability to learn.
It might just be that Sebastian's sacrifices then would benefit him now, as he chased the only female who'd ever mattered to him.
Filled with a burning determination, Sebastian had traced back and forth to places he only vaguely remembered from boyhood, studying the amount of effort, the amount of mental clarity, required.
He convinced himself that he just needed to see her as clearly as a location.
There was danger inherent in tracing to a place unseen. She could be under an equatorial sun at noon, and he could be too stunned to get away. She could be on a plane. If his trace was mere feet off, he could be sucked into an engine.
Hell, it would have been worth it.
Perhaps when Kaderin had determined that everything was under control, she might have done so too hastily.
Since that night, her blessing had been behaving like an engine in an old Karmann Ghia convertible— sometimes it slipped. There she'd be, cruising along, the same as usual, then, out of nowhere—a slip.
For instance, right now, she felt an odd, hollow kind of ache. She thought she was... worried. Coincidentally, Kaderin had a pressing urge to know if her niece, seventy-year-old Emmaline, the daughter of Helen, was better. The last time Kaderin had checked in with her New Orleans coven, she'd learned that Emma had been critically injured by a vampire.
She rang the manor, hoping she wouldn't get Regin the Radiant. Kaderin wasn't ready to talk to her, not yet, not so soon after her reckless morning with the vampire.
Regin's entire race had been annihilated by the Horde.
Kaderin had molded Regin into a killer like herself, training her and stoking her hatred of vampires. 'Sword up! Remember your mother,' she'd told the girl again and again, and all the while she was telling herself, Remember your sisters.
Don't be Regin...
Regin answered with: 'Bridge. Uhura here.' Kaderin sighed, then shook her head at the Star Trek reference. Kaderin did not appreciate Star Trek references.
Yet that was the thing about Regin. Aside from her boiling hatred of vampires, she was easygoing, quick to laugh, a prankster.
'Hi, Regin, it's Kaderin.' She swallowed. 'I'm calling to check on Emma. Is she any better?'
'Hey, Kiddy-Kad! She's totally better. She's healed already.'
'Healed?' Kaderin asked in surprise. 'This is great news, but how can it be? Did the witches help?'
'Actually, she's already wed that Lykae—that hateful one we wanted to neuter—two nights ago.'
Had Regin just purposely glossed over that question? Kaderin wanted to know more but had always believed that in digging for secrets, she was begging Fate to somehow reveal her own. And now with her new secret? Kaderin would let Regin coast by so very easily right now.
'I can't believe she married him.' The werewolf had absconded with Emmaline, taking her back to his castle in Scotland.
