Alexander heard a grinding, clacking sound over the waves and wind, and he realized the blood-swimmers were opening and closing their tooth-filled maws, as if in anticipation of a meal to come.
“When you meet your Final Death, they will be waiting for you.” The other grinned, and now his mouth was also full of shark’s teeth. “As will I.”
Alexander woke with a muffled cry. He threw off his silk sheets, jumped out of bed and assumed a defensive stance, ready to fight. But he was alone in his tent. He waited for a moment to see if any of the ghouls who guarded his quarters during the daylight hours would call out to see if he was all right. They wouldn’t open the tent flap and check; they knew better than to risk exposing their prince to sunlight. He chose his ghouls carefully for just the right combination of intelligence and tractability. And any ghoul idiotic enough to let a single ray of light into his master’s tent wouldn’t live very long afterward. But no one called out, so he must not have made too much noise upon awakening.
The Cainites’ tents were made from black fabric so that even diffuse sunlight couldn’t penetrate the cloth, and though Alexander sensed there was yet an hour remaining until sunset, he was safe as long as he remained inside. Normally the leaden sluggishness that came over him during the daylight hours would have pulled him back into (hopefully dreamless) sleep, but just as a mortal awakening after an especially disturbing nightmare finds it difficult to return to sleep, so too did Alexander find himself wide awake.
With nothing else to do, Alexander sat down at his desk and rolled out his favorite map of Europe. But this time when he looked at it, his gaze was drawn to the blue sections indicating bodies of water. He reached out to touch one—the channel between England and Normandy—but he hesitated and lowered his hand.
In his mind he heard the shush-shush-shush of waves, the wail of sea winds and the clack-clack-clack of hungry teeth.
Chapter Fifteen
When Qarakh rose that evening, he fed from a short, stocky peasant woman who reminded him somewhat of a Mongol female. He then found Alessandro and told him to select two of the tribe’s best people—men who were not only skilled warriors, but stealthy, cunning and swift—and assign them to spy on Alexander’s camp.
“Make sure to choose men who have demonstrated some measure of self-control,” Qarakh said. “This is a duty that calls for patience and restraint, not battle fever.” He thought of Arnulf and scowled. He wanted to ask Alessandro if the Goth had returned to the camp, but he didn’t wish to demonstrate such personal concern before a subordinate, even his second-in-command.
“Right away, my khan.” The Iberian started off, but Qarakh stopped him with a gesture.
“A moment more, Alessandro. Where are my other advisors?” What he really meant was Where is Deverra?
“Wilhelmina is with Eirik Longtooth and Karl the Blue, listening to tales of their battles with the Teutonic Knights, as is Grandfather. Deverra…” He frowned. “I am not certain where she is. The last time I saw her, she was headed in the direction of the woods.” Alessandro didn’t have to say they were the same woods that Arnulf had gone into last night.
“Go select your men.”
Alessandro inclined his head and went off to do as his khan commanded.
Qarakh wanted to go in search of Deverra then, but as khan he had other duties. He needed to acknowledge those who had returned in their tribe’s time of need, as well as greet those allies who had likewise answered the call. He spent the next several hours walking through the camp, speaking with both tribesmen and allies—even the ghouls and mortals. Some were old friends, but most were little more than strangers. Still, he made sure to spend a little time with each and make them feel welcome and appreciated. It was an important task, for he might soon be asking these people—Cainites, ghouls and mortals alike—to follow him into battle, and he needed to strengthen, renew or create bonds with each one of them. Just as a tribe was only as strong as its khan, an army was only as strong as its general.
Midnight came and went without Qarakh seeing or hearing anything of Deverra. Ordinarily, he might have thought nothing of her absence; he would have assumed she was off conducting one Telyavic rite or another. But these were hardly ordinary times. If Alexander’s offer of an alliance was only a ruse—or if the Ventrue had simply changed his mind—he might even now be preparing an attack against the tribe, might have dispatched his own spies or assassins. Deverra was a strong woman in more ways than one, and he had no doubt she could handle herself in any situation. But even so…
With a muttered apology, he broke off his conversation with a Saxon Gangrel chieftain and started walking in the direction of the woods.
“Milord! A word, if you please!”
Qarakh almost didn’t stop—almost, in fact, drew his saber and lopped off the fool’s chattering head—but then he recognized the voice as belonging to Malachite. He was tempted to keep on going, but he stopped and allowed the Nosferatu to catch up to him.
“My apologies if I am detaining you from an important errand,” Malachite said.
Qarakh tried not to let his impatience show. “What do you want?”
“To ask if you have come to a decision whether to reveal the details of this monastery.”
Despite his growing concern over Deverra, Qarakh couldn’t help smiling. “You are a most determined man, Malachite.”
The Nosferatu’s answering smile was a sad one. “So it has been said.”
Qarakh was reluctant to tell Malachite of his experience with the mysterious Cainite in the north. It was all he had to barter with when it came to dealing with the scholar, and he didn’t want to sell the information too cheaply.
“I believe I saw you speaking with Alessandro
