From the private journals of Dragomir, last of the Carpathian line
**
The Sense
I have lived long enough to grow into the earth.
My feet rest on the forest floor, and the forest floor speaks to me. Every footstep, every heartbeat, every trembling breath—I feel them through the soil. It is not magic. It is simply age. A thousand years of standing on ground has made me part of it.
Tonight, the forest sings.
I close my eyes and let the vibrations wash over me. To the east, a cluster of children huddle in a hollow, their hearts beating fast as birds. To the west, three of my hunters circle a clearing, searching for scent that will not come. To the north, a boy runs alone, crashing through branches, too loud, too scared, already dead.
But Toure is not there. Kofi is not there.
I search again. The entire forest, thirty-two thousand miles of it, mapped through the soles of my feet. I feel every creature within these borders. Every deer. Every wolf. Every child.
No Toure. No Kofi.
Are they lost? Have they found a way to hide from the earth itself?
I open my eyes and begin to walk.
**
The Girl
She is behind a rock, pressed so tight against the stone that she might be trying to merge with it. Twelve years old, maybe thirteen. Dark hair, pale skin, a rosary wrapped around her fingers so tight the beads have left marks.
She prays when she sees me. Latin. The old words.
"Vade retro satana."
I laugh. The sound echoes through the trees.
"I am not the devil, child."
She keeps praying. The words burn—not my skin, but something deeper. An old discomfort. A relic of the time when I believed in such things.
I reach down and grab her by the ankle. Lift her upside down. Her hair falls toward the ground, her rosary dangles, her eyes go wide.
"Stop that prayer," I say. "It annoys me."
She keeps praying.
I rise. Not step by step—I simply rise, lifting into the air until we are twenty feet above the forest floor. She swings beneath me like a pendulum, her dress falling, her face red with blood rushing to her head.
"If you stop," I say, "I will put you down safely. Somewhere warm. Somewhere the hunters will not find you until dawn."
She prays louder.
I rise higher. Thirty feet. Forty. The wind cuts through us both. She is crying now, but she does not stop.
"Vade retro satana. Vade retro satana."
Fifty feet. The trees are small below us. The cold is bitter.
She looks at me. Tears freeze on her cheeks. But she smiles.
"I have done my last prayers," she says. "If you kill me now, I will be with the lord. In peace."
I study her face. She means it. Every word.
I laugh again, but there is something new in it. Something almost like respect.
"What if I do not kill you?" I ask. "What if I turn you? Make you like me?"
Her smile does not waver. "I am an abomination before the lord. I would not choose to become one."
"I will choose for you."
**
The Sound
Before she can answer, a sound cuts through the night.
A hiss. The unmistakable cry of a vampire in distress. It comes from the south, perhaps a mile away. But this is not the hiss of death—it is the hiss of effort. Of struggle. Of something pinned and fighting.
Then I hear it. A heartbeat. Fast, strong, defiant.
Toure.
My hunter has found him. And from the sound of it, my hunter has him.
I drop the girl.
She falls toward the trees, screaming, her rosary spinning through the air. I do not watch her land. I am already moving, diving downward like a falcon toward prey, the wind screaming past my ears.
The hiss comes again. Closer now. I hear something else beneath it—a struggle, yes, but one that is nearly over. Bodies hitting the ground. The snap of branches. The wet sound of fangs finding flesh.
And beneath it all, that heartbeat. Still strong. Still fighting. But slowing.
My hunter has him pinned. He overpowered Toure, i should reward him, blood?money? A way to turn back to human probably?
But,
I cannot let this continue. Not because I care about the hunter—he is replaceable, weak, a half-blood who exists only to serve me. But because Toure is mine. He escaped me once. He tricked me with leaves. He hid from the earth itself.
No one else gets to kill him. No one else gets to drink him.
I dive faster. The forest rushes up to meet me.
Below, through the trees, I see them. My hunter—one of my stronger half-bloods—has Toure pressed against the ground. His claws are buried in Toure's shoulder. Blood soaks the boy's shirt. But Toure is not screaming. He is not begging. His hands are wrapped around the hunter's throat, pushing, fighting, even as his life drains away. He is struggling to breathe, I don't want dead mans blood, its not sweet or warm, it lacks its salt .
I am coming , my little Moor.
Wait for me.