He did the same on the first floor.

At the cellar door, he leaned in. Then went down. The old female’s room was open, and the light from the hall shone inside. There was a lot of pink silk with flowers, and furniture that he had seen in what the humans called France, back when he’d been traveling the Old Country. Over on a chaise lounge, Tallah was fast asleep. She had dressed formally once again, her gown a faded teal, her silver fall of hair loose and tangling in the seed pearls that had been stitched on the bodice.

Beside her was a tray with a cup of tea, some half-eaten toast, and a pot of jam.

The life span of vampires was very different from that of humans, and not just from a longevity point of view. Unlike that other species, vampires looked pretty damn good for their entire lives, up until their last decade or so. At that point, the aging process slammed into the body and the mind, and the degeneration of everything occurred on a fast-rate escalation that led right into the grave.

Tallah was not far from a headstone—

“Sahvage?” the female mumbled as she lifted her head. “Is that you?”

“I’m sorry I woke you. I was just checking on you.”

“Oh, that is so kind. Where’s Mae?”

“She’s on her way back.” He took a deep breath. “You haven’t eaten much.”

“I was not very hungry. That stew last night was so filling.”

“You just rest. You look tired.”

“I am.”

As he went to turn away, Tallah said, “She’s lucky to have you.”

With a noncommittal sound, he headed back upstairs and took a seat at the kitchen table. Checking his phone, he frowned at the time and texted Mae. And then he waited for a response. Which would be coming at any second. He was quite sure. She’d probably taken her car.

He glanced at the clock on the wall. Yeah, that was it. Mae was driving back with her car and it would take her—he glanced at the time on his home screen again—probably another ten minutes. Fifteen at the most.

As the quiet in the cottage seeped into him, he found the past coming back one last time. Good thing. He’d lost his patience with his memories . . . then again, that had been true at the very moment they had been made.

• • •

Tap. Tap. Tap . . .

The plaintive sound led him unto the broad staircase that ascended to the highest level of the castle. As he followed, a dog upon a scent, he was aware that the volume did not change. Though he instinctively knew he was closing in on the destination, the tapping did not become louder. It was as if the sound was in the very walls of stone, in the floor, in the ceiling.

Or perhaps no.

It might well be inside of him.

His journey ended in front of a stout door, the heavy planks reinforced with iron bars. And on either side, silk flags with golden trim were mounted upon proud poles.

He pictured Zxysis, impaled in the rectum—

Tap. Tap. Tap . . . tap.

As if its purpose had been served, the sound evaporated. And the door opened with a creaking, though he neither willed it so nor placed his hand upon its latch.

The master’s bedchamber was revealed, a blast of fresh air rushing forth as if it were anxious to depart the luxurious confines. Then again, all was not well.

In the flickering light of agitated candle flames, a scene of violence had even Sahvage closing his eyes.

Rahvyn’s simple underdress, the one that she had worn many times before, was torn to shreds and stained with blood, parts of it here . . . there . . . on the bedding platform. And beneath a canopy marked with the silks of the bloodline, the smell of blood and sex was at its strongest, even with the open window.

There she had been taken in violence.

“Dearest Virgin Scribe.”

But that was not all. There . . . in the corner . . . there was a bundle of leather, pale, unfinished leather . . .

Zxysis’s skin.

Sahvage drew his dagger palm down his face. Though he had never been a spiritual male, one caught up in prayers or the promised consolation of the Fade, he could not help but utter the mahmen of the race’s name o’er and o’er again—

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Wheeling around, he frowned. The sound was coming from a trestle table by the hearth, and as he approached, he saw that a book lay open beside a black candle, an earthen dish, a dagger, and some herbs. As he breathed in, he caught a scent that was familiar.

His robing.

Lifting the front of the black fall that covered him, he sniffed. Yes, that was what had been pressed onto him—and within the bouquet . . . Rahvyn’s blood.

He looked at the ancient tome. There were lines of ink upon its parchment, the rusty brown color suggesting that blood had been in the quill that had stroked o’er the pages. The letters and symbols, however . . . were unlike any he had e’er seen before. However, he had a guess as to the content.

A spell, for surely these ingredients were inexplicable for any other purpose.

And Rahvyn’s vein had been opened.

He thought of the warnings carved on the outside of his coffin. It was not a difficult conclusion that some kind of containing spell had been wrought upon him, although obviously Zxysis hadnae been successful in the attempt.

Turning the cover over to close, Sahvage grimaced. He did not care for the feel of handling any part of the book. And as for what it was bound in? The ugly leather was riddled with cracks and fissures, as if it were aged beyond centuries. There was also a smell, like curdled milk or decaying flesh.

He dropped his hold and rubbed his palm upon his hip. Even after a vigorous scrub, he felt as though something was retained on his fingers, his palm—

The cover flipped back open of its own volition, the pages ruffling in a rush, sure as if ghosted hands were skimming through them. Sahvage backed away, but stopped as the book came to a rest in a different place than had been exposed previously.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Narrowing his eyes, he recognized the symbols of the language he had learned as a young. Indeed, he could now read what was upon the parchment, and he had the sense that it was a message for him. Or perhaps a calling . . . or a command—

Sahvage covered his eyes. “No.”

He knew not what he was saying, nor to whom. But the denial had to stand true, stand strong. He somehow had the conviction that if he set his gaze upon the pages, if he absorbed the symbols and translated them into words, he would embark upon a path from which he could not depart.

With a wrench, he turned away. The slatted shutters of the windows were, as the drawbridge had been, open and offering a ready exit.

Tap. Tap. Taptaptaptaptaptap—

As the summoning sound started up once more, and became so loud it was the now a pounding like heavy boots upon a wooden floor, Sahvage closed his eyes and breathed deeply of the fresh night air. He had to block out the scents that made him violent, the blood and the sex of an innocent taken by force, rendering it impossible for him to calm himself.

So he needed must put them aside.

As he focused on dematerializing, he was as the others of the household had been, compelled by a sense of survival to depart, depart, depart—

• • •

Sahvage jumped back to present awareness with a full-body jerk and a suck of air. For a moment, the now-familiar details of Tallah’s kitchen were utterly foreign. But then he saw the pots and pans he had washed drying in the rack, the refrigerator against the door, the duffle of guns and ammo on the table in front of him.