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did
not care for their things .
    There was terror in the woman’s eyes, above
the fresh slice in her cheek.
    She groveled at the feet of the Albanian, who
stood there in his rain coat and hat. That hat ,
thought Rainford, who did not consider himself overly snobbish, what poor taste .
    In the shadows around them dozens of eyes
watched the unfolding. Few of these were known well to Rainford.
Over three centuries he had embraced a near perfect isolationism.
Then these had appeared in his city. They served the Albanian and
when Kreshnik had sought out Rainford they had been with him. In
the strictest hierarchical sense that was supposed to govern their
kind, the Albanian served Rainford, so those turned by the Albanian
and his slaves were also in the service of the dark Lord.
    But Rainford did not trust the Albanian.
Again, part of it was the lack of a sense of history. Kreshnik was
vicious and cruel and even, Rainford would grant him, cunning, but
his overall intelligence was questionable and his allegiance was
perhaps better left unquestioned. In centuries past, Rainford had served ; he had served even when he’d had his own doubts. Now
that he was a standing master, the expectation should have been
that the youngers would serve and abet his own existence until the
end of his days. But this younger generation…Rainford found himself
looking upon them much as he looked upon human beings, as a
separate species.
    “Please don’t kill me,” the woman begged
again. Rainford was surprised and pleased that she was addressing
him and not the Albanian, her master.
    “My dear child, who did this to you?”
Rainford asked her. His tone was soothing. He meant this woman no
harm. Her fate had been sealed the moment silver had polluted her
bloodstream, for all intents and purposes poisoning her for all
others.
    “Th-they were men,” she stammered, looking
down at the ground. “Many men.”
    She spoke about them as if, like Rainford or
Kreshnik or any of the other children of the night gathered in the
gloom, she did not share their humanity. Human men and women often
willingly gave themselves to Rainford’s kind, their blood slaking
his hunger, their dreams and aspirations to share his existence.
But this one in front of him, groveling at the knees of Kreshnik,
she was all too human.
    There were humans, Rainford had known many,
who lived the lives of vampires, abjuring the day, imbibing blood,
though they themselves never bore the mark. Like Kreshnik’s
wives.
    “Did these men have names?” the Lord Rainford
inquired.
    “B-Bowie,” she stammered, “and
Boo-Boone.”
    There was a low murmur among those gathered
in the gloom. The latter name was not unknown to their kind.
    “Boone,” mulled the dark Lord.
    “We found one of their vehicles a few blocks
away,” a voice spoke from the dark and a vampire stepped forward
into the light. The creature was extremely thin and gaunt. It
looked like it had not fed in some time. Rainford stared at the
thing. Its name was Lein and it served Kreshnik. Yet it often
sought to curry favor with Rainford, which reassured the
centuries-old creature that not all of the younger generations
followed the Albanian and his kind blindly; that some recognized
and respected true power in its mighty and dark incarnations.
    Lein held up a plastic bag in which a shotgun
shell nested.
    “Our people are scouring the databases for
the prints, my Lord.”
    “Very well. Needless to say, if there is a
match I want to be informed immediately.”
    “Of course, my Lord.”
    Sycophant , Rainford mentally dismissed
Lein. The dark Lord knew that if this emaciated thing thought the
Albanian could once and for all usurp his own power, it would not
be as deferential.
    “And you,” Rainford spoke up and those in the
dark stepped back slightly, which pleased him. “Was it this Bowie
or Boone who sullied your flesh?”
    A shadow detached itself from Kreshnik,
stepping forward hesitantly. It mumbled