He tethered his mare to the single wooden pole in front of his ger. The other tents in the camp all had similar poles with horses tied to them as well. Qarakh didn’t remove his mount’s tack. That was work for a ghoul. He’d dismounted and walked with Deverra as they spoke, leading the horse behind them, and the mare was much better for it. Still, she needed a rubdown, water and food. Qarakh bent down and entered his ger through the single low door facing south. The doors in all the tents in the camp faced south, as was only proper.
Even though Qarakh was khan of this tribe, his tent was like all the others in the camp, inside and out. Woven red rugs covered the floor, and the bed for his ghouls was against the left wall. A man and a woman wearing simple Livonian peasant garb lay there, cuddled together beneath a fur blanket. Normally a tin stove stood in the center of a ger, but since Cainites hated fire, only the handful of tents used solely by mortals had them.
Qarakh removed his sword, bow and quiver, and placed them on the ground to the right of the door. He then walked over to the sleeping ghouls and kicked the male’s rump to rouse him.
The mortal woke with a start and sat up. He blinked groggily for a moment, but when his eyes finally focused, his mouth broke into a wide grin. “My khan! You’re home!”
“Tend to my horse,” Qarakh said.
Still grinning, the male—a youth barely into his manhood—said, “At once, my khan.” He threw back the blanket, rose and started toward the door of the ger.
Before he could crawl through, Qarakh said, “Hold.”
The youth stopped and looked up expectantly.
“When you finish with the mare, tell the other ghouls to inform their masters that I wish to hold council after sunset.”
“Yes, khan.” The youth hurried off to do his master’s bidding.
The female roused then and opened her eyes. “You’ve come back to us.” Her tone was that of a woman welcoming home a lover.
The Beast that laired inside Qarakh growled softly at the implied familiarity. The woman was merely mortal, after all, a ghoul and a servant. But she was also Livonian, and the mortals of these lands still held fast to their ancient beliefs, and they viewed Cainites not as demons, but rather as supernatural beings akin to gods, as Deverra had taught them. Qarakh wasn’t always comfortable with this perception, but he had found it useful in establishing the tribe.
So he did not chastise the woman. Instead, he sat down next to her.
She sat up, and he smelled the odor of sweat and semen on her. She and the male had lain together not long before he’d entered the ger.
Good. The exertion would add spice to her blood.
“Your face is more pale than usual, my khan, and I can see the hunger burning in your eyes. You must feed.” She rolled up the right sleeve of her tunic and without hesitation offered her bare wrist to him. Qarakh preferred not to drink from the necks of those mortals who gave themselves to him willingly, lest he risk damaging their living soul, which all Mongols knew resided there.
Qarakh could smell the blood surging hot and sweet through her veins, and he could deny his hunger no longer. He grabbed her wrist, brought it to his mouth, and plunged his teeth into the flesh. The woman gasped—half in pleasure, half in pain—and Qarakh began to drink. As he swallowed mouthful after mouthful of life itself, the woman ran the fingers of her free hand through the wild tangle of his hair. He found the intimacy of her touch distasteful, but even though the Beast’s growling became louder, he decided to allow it. The Livs often wished to touch the “gods” as they fed, and desiring contact with the divine was a natural impulse for mortals.
After a few moments, he began to draw less and less blood until finally he pulled his teeth from her crimson-smeared wrist. If he allowed himself, he would drain her dry, and as satisfying as that might be, it would be wasteful. Alive, she could continue to produce blood for decades to come. Dead, she would be worthless.
No! howled the Beast inside him. I—We still hunger!
Hunger was a frequent, if not particularly welcome, companion to those who lived on the steppe, and though Qarakh’s mortal days were years behind him, he well remembered what it was like to have a belly that was never quite full. The hunger for blood was much stronger, of course, but if he had been able to face the specter of starvation on an almost daily basis as a man, he should—
“Have you gone to see your friend yet, my khan?” The woman’s words were slurred, as if she had drunk too much wine. She lay back on the bed, eyes half-closed, a contented smile on her lips. The wounds on her wrist were already healing.
Qarakh looked at her, his canine teeth suddenly longer, his eyes grown wolf-feral. “What did you say?”
His tone was colder than a winter wind skirling across frozen tundra, and the woman drew the fur cover up to her chin, as if it might somehow protect her from her master. “I—I meant no offense, great khan. I merely asked if you had paid a visit to your friend yet. His name is Aajav, isn’t it? The men of the tribe all say that you always go to see him upon returning home. I thought—”
Qarakh’s hand shot out faster than a striking snake and clawed fingers wrapped around the woman’s neck, cutting off her words—and her air.
“Aajav is not my friend.” He spat the word. “He is much more. He is my brother and my blood.” He squeezed tighter, and the woman—eyes bulging from sockets, face turning a deep dark
