The fire was large. They obviously cared not if they were discovered, which suggested they were fighters, and likely to be heavily armed. They were also of his species. He could catch their scents in the mix of the smoke, the horse flesh, the smell of mead and woman.

As he planned his approach, he was grateful for the heavy cloud cover that kept the moon at bay and deepened the shadows to pitch black. Provided he stayed out of reach of that illumination, he might as well have been wearing a cloak of invisibility.

Closing in, the flames made him think of that cottage he had stayed his first two decades in. He had departed from it after his nursemaid first had left him, finding the orphanage that footmale had spoken off. But he had not been able to stay away for long, thoughts of his sire’s possible return making him seek out the structure anew. Over the years, he left again for certain periods, typically the winter months when the wolves were hungry; however, he always went back there.

His sire never did come.

And then the time for his transition had arrived. In the village, there had been a whore who regularly serviced males of the species, but because of his ugliness, he had had to barter the cottage and everything in it in exchange for her vein.

When he had walked away from the site the following evening, with those hateful raspberry brambles and the encroaching forest with its wolves, he had taken a final look over his shoulder. His nursemaid had never returned to check on him, but he had not expected to see her again. And it had been more than time for him to stop pretending his father might seek him out.

With Xcor relinquishing his shelter to another, he became truly adrift in the world.

He took only one thing with him: the collar that had been around his neck until he had used a hatchet to sever its hold upon him. He’d had to work on the leather for hours, his then-young arms lacking the strength to be more efficient. But his nursemaid had left behind only so much water, and very little food, so he’d had to get free.

Fortunately, hunting and killing had been skills that had come naturally to him.

So, too, had stealing.

He had hated it at first. But he had always taken no more than he needed, whether it be food, clothing, or elements of shelter. And it was amazing what one could sacrifice in terms of morals when it came to survival. It was also incredible how one could devise methods for avoiding the sun in a forest of trees, and staying ahead of wild animals … and finding ways to pay for the veins of whores.

The forests of the Old Country became his refuge, his home, and he stayed within them, keeping to himself. Which was to say that he steered clear of the lessers who stalked through the pines and caves, and avoided the vampire fighters who sought them and engaged with them and slaughtered them. He further kept away from the war camp.

That was no place for anyone. Even he, who tried to avoid all and sundry, had heard snippets of the depravity therein, and the cruelty of the warrior who ran it.

Refocusing, he closed his eyes … and dematerialized up into the tree’s thick branches. And then he ghosted o’er to the next one, likewise staying far from the ground, like a monkey.

When one was by oneself with no aid e’er coming, one adapted with an eye toward safety, and both vampires and humans alike tended to be far more concerned with what was on their level, rather than what was over them.

Not much farther forth, he did regard the makeshift camp from a vantage point of a mere ten yards away, and ten yards well above. The vampires were indeed fighters, well-armed and thick of shoulder, but they were drunk and passing a human woman around like a tankard of common ownership. The woman was willing, laughing as she made herself available to each in turn, and Xcor tried to imagine participating in such debauchery.

No.

He cared not for sex, at least not that sort. Indeed, he remained a virgin, for the whores had always demanded far more than he could pay for what was betwixt their thighs—and besides, he was not that interested in such well-plowed fields.

Looking toward the stand of horses, he thought, yes, he would invade there. He would not take a steed, no matter how valuable in the open market, as he did not want to be responsible for another living thing. He had enough difficulty keeping himself alive and fed. Weapons, however, he could use. He had three daggers upon him, and one gun that he did not use. Cumbersome, it was, and then there was the inconvenience of keeping it supplied with bullets. The aim was lesser as well: He could throw a knife with better accuracy. Still, it seemed wise to have at least one upon his person.

Mayhap he could lift another good dagger, one sharper than his dullest? Some meat? A bladder of water?

Aye, those would be of benefit.

Xcor dematerialized down to the ground, crouching behind yet another pine. Their steeds were on the edge of the firelight, the heads of the quarter horses lolling in repose, their saddles packed with necessaries and other property.

He made not a sound as he moved through the undergrowth, the second skins of his moccasins cushioning his weight and masking noise.

The horses pricked their ears and craned their thick necks to regard his presence, one making a whinny of inquiry. He was not worried. He was long schooled in scattering himself into the night even in times of duress, and further, the fighters were otherwise occupied.

Xcor was fast and sure as he went through the saddle of a roan that was easily sixteen and a half hands high, flipping up the heavy leather flaps, digging into satchels and sacks. He found clothing, grains, smoked meat. He took the meat, putting it into his cloak, and moved on to the next steed. No weapons, but there was a lady’s garments with the scent of blood on them in one burlap sack.

He wondered if the female had survived the rutting. He thought perhaps not—

The fight by the fire exploded without preamble, all well until it was not, two of the males leaping up and going at each other, locking hand to throat, their bodies dancing in circles as they each attempted to muscle the other into submission. And then something was on fire, the portion of an outer coat catching a lick of the open flame and bursting into orange and yellow heat.

The fighter did not care, and neither did his opponent. The horses spooked, however, and as the one that Xcor was attempting to raid balked, his hand got wedged in one of the saddle bags, the torque and pressure rendering him trapped.

Such that as the quarter horse spun around, so, too, did he.

Within sight of them all.

The change in the camp was instantaneous, the woman cast aside in a heap, the argument amongst comrades forgotten, the interloper a target for them all. And as yet Xcor stayed attached to the mincing horse, dancing around sharp hooves, trying to rip his hand free.

The warriors solved that problem for him.

Xcor was tackled upward and that was enough to change the angle of his wrist. His arm was suddenly his own once more and good timing in that. He was pummeled in the face by a fist the size of a boulder, but at least it sent him in a trajectory away from the churning steed.

Unfortunately, he spun directly into the path of another of the fighters, and Xcor knew that he had to establish the upper hand fast or be o’erpowered. There was little hope on that score, however—these males were experts in conflict, punches and kicks flying too quick for him to dodge or counter, his breath knocked from him over and over again.

Indeed, he had experience grappling with fists prior to this. But that had been with humans and civilian vampires. What he faced the now was a different foe altogether.

Blows continued to rain upon his head and his gut, coming quicker than he could parry them, harder than he could withstand, as he was passed around like that woman had been, going from one to the other to the next. Blood flew from his nose and his mouth, and his sight went bad as he whirled around, trying to protect his vital organs and his skull.

“Bloody common thief!”

“Bastard!”

A fist pummeled him in the side and he thought he could feel something burst therein. And it was at that point that his knees went out from under him and he landed into the leaves and dirt.

“Stab him!”

“Not done yet,” came a growl.

The boot caught him under the ribs and he went into a flying roll that took him all the way to the fire. He was so stunned that he lay where he stopped on his back, unable to gather his wits sufficiently to cover even his face or curl into a defensive ball.