As they entered the camp, Qarakh sensed a power permeating the atmosphere, as if the air itself crackled with barely restrained energy. He knew that Alexander was near. Deverra felt it too, perhaps even more strongly than he, for she kept glancing around like a rabbit that knows a predator lurks near. Qarakh felt an urge to reach out and touch her, to reassure her, but he kept his hands on the pommel of his saddle. Such an expression of tenderness was not only inappropriate because he was khan, but here it would be taken as a sign of weakness. Neither he nor Deverra could afford that.
They slowed their mounts to a walk as Rudiger led them toward the center of the camp. As they passed, Qarakh noted how no one—Cainite, ghoul or mortal—looked at them. They merely continued going about their business as if their camp had visitors every night. Qarakh wondered if Alexander had ordered them to display such nonchalance, or if they were so confident in their prince’s power that they were truly unconcerned with who these newcomers were and what they wanted.
Careful. That’s exactly what Alexander wants you to think.
As they approached the center of the camp,
Qarakh smelled the stink of burning wood and light stung his eyes. He squinted and managed to make out a slim figure sitting in a wooden chair before a blazing fire. Alexander of Paris.
Rudiger brought his horse to a halt. When he spoke, Deverra rapidly translated: “Your Highness, may I present for your pleasure Qarakh and the priestess Deverra.” There was something about the knight’s posture and tone that made Qarakh think Alexander didn’t completely command the man’s respect. If so, that was useful to know; any discord between the prince and his knights could only be an advantage.
“Thank you, Rudiger,” Alexander said, and Deverra translated. “Would you dismount and join me by the fire?” Alexander’s smile was thin and cruel. Qarakh soon saw why: Small beads of blood-sweat erupted on Rudiger’s forehead as he stared at the flames. Cainites possessed an almost animalistic fear of flame, which reminded them of the killing fire of the sun.
The Mongol warrior was no exception. The Beast inside him recoiled at the sight of the flames, but Qarakh continued to sit calmly in his saddle. He understood that Alexander was testing him, and he would not give the Ventrue the satisfaction of seeing him react to the fire. He wondered how Deverra was faring, but he didn’t look at her; he could not take his gaze off Alexander lest the prince think she was more to him than a simple ally.
Alexander looked at Rudiger, smiling cruelly as the knight demure from approaching the flames. He then turned to Qarakh and Deverra. “Welcome. Perhaps the two of you shall join me?” The Ventrue spoke in nearly flawless Livonian, his tone polite and reserved, but Qarakh could sense the power behind the elder’s words. He wasn’t making a request so much as issuing a command.
Qarakh paused a moment to let Alexander know that he chose to dismount of his own volition before he did so. Out of the corner of his eye, he was pleased to note that Deverra did likewise. Two ghouls came forward to lead their horses to the camp’s stable, and Alexander dismissed Rudiger, who was clearly relieved to remove himself from the proximity of the campfire.
Qarakh stepped toward Alexander and the fire. His eyes had adjusted to the brightness, and he could see that the Ventrue appeared relaxed despite the nearness of the flames. Physically, he wasn’t impressive, at least from a martial standpoint. His body was that of a boy-man, not a child but not an adult, either. But Alexander’s power came from his blood and millennia of experience, and together they made him almost unimaginably strong. He wore a purple tunic, black leggings, black boots and a flowing purple cape. Qarakh knew that Europeans thought of purple as the color of royalty, and he was certain Alexander had chosen it for that very reason. Qarakh noted that the Ventrue wore no armor beneath his tunic and carried no weapons: a sign both of hospitality and of strength. Despite himself, Qarakh approved.
As he approached the prince, Qarakh caught a whiff of ancient decay, like old bones buried for untold centuries and finally unearthed. He knew it was the scent of Alexander, the smell of time itself.
The prince gestured to a pair of empty wooden chairs set up next to his (but not too close), and with a nod, Qarakh accepted the invitation and took the one on Alexander’s right. Waves of heat rolled off the fire. Qarakh’s Beast whimpered like a frightened cur, but he ignored it. He was a Mongol, born to the harsh life of the steppe. He had endured far worse than a little heat in his time.
He expected Deverra to take the remaining seat, but the priestess held back and stared at the fire with wide, fear-filled eyes. Qarakh understood that she was fighting her own Beast, attempting to force it into submission so that she might come near the flames, but she was losing the battle.
“If it would make your companion more comfortable, she is welcome to stand behind us next to Malachite,” Alexander said, gesturing over his shoulder.
Qarakh looked in the direction the prince had indicated. Thanks to the glare of the fire, he hadn’t noticed before, but standing ten feet behind Alexander was a man garbed in a black robe. His hood was down, revealing the misshapen, distorted features of the Nosferatu. Many Cainites found them repulsive and shunned them like the lepers they resembled, but Qarakh knew better than to judge by appearances. Few things were exactly as they seemed.
Deverra gave him a look that was half apologetic and half pleading, and he nodded his assent. With a grateful smile, she backed away from the fire and, giving it a wide berth, walked over to stand beside
