Read The Purest of the Breed (The Community) for Free Online

hair cut short, and a thick beard. He had fifty-six years, but showed nary a gray hair on top of his head nor at his chin. The result of Fiinţă and its youth-sustaining properties.
    Ion turned to look at her, lifting and moving his head in what appeared to be a strenuous effort. His lower lip pouched out a bit and his pupils were glassy with the pain of withdrawal.
    “Oh, Ion!” Pettrila gasped, rushing to him. “Behold you, poor man.” She knelt at his side and took hold of one of his hands.
    “Pretty Pettrila.” Ion touched trembling fingers to her swollen cheek. “What has become of your face, dear heart?”
    Emil grunted out a reply from near the armoire. “The lady needed to be chivvied to come, sir.”
    Ion tut-tutted. “Emil worries after me so. You must forgive him, Pettrila.” He turned his wrist over, presenting his veins to her. “My pretty, pretty Pettrila,” he murmured.
    The scent of Ion’s blood scraped into her nasal passages like a claw-footed beastie. She pressed her lids closed briefly, fighting down a surge of revulsion. Even when she hungered, it was nigh an insurmountable task to feed on Sânge Taică blood, smelling so much like a chamber pot and tasting just as foul. Tonight she doubted she’d even get her fangs to extrude. “Sweet Ion, you grow ill from too much Fiinţă and weak from blood loss. I mustn’t feed.” She gently set his wrist away. “Not tonight.”
    His bloodshot eyes watered. “I ache down to my bones, dear heart. Please, you must do it. You must .”
    “I crave your pardon, Prime Minister, have I intruded on…a moment of the privacy?” The male voice, speaking in thickly accented Romanian, came from over by the door.
    The three of them turned to look.
    Athletic of build, with light-colored hair and mustache, the newcomer stood lance-erect just inside the doorway. He was wearing the dark green single-breasted tunic of a Russian officer and uniform trousers of summer white tucked into the tops of high black boots. A sabre hung at his side, and several loops of gold braid adorned his tunic, along with an impressive collection of medals on his chest: around his neck hung the Order of Saint George. Pettrila’s breath caught. Heavens, not just any Russian officer.
    General Nikolai Pavlovich Kridener, Commander of the 9th Army Corps.
    Striding into the room, the general leered as he looked between Ion and Pettrila.
    Ion blinked his eyes into focus, then craned to peer over the general’s shoulder at the open doorway, surely wondering how the man had come to be here unannounced.
    Removing a glove one finger at a time, Kridener stopped several feet away, his hawk-like gaze running over Ion’s face.
    Noting the prime minister’s glassy eyes and sagging features, perhaps? A prickly dread rippled up Pettrila’s spine. The general’s leer vanished.
    “You’re a man of admirable statecraft, of this I have been assured.” Kridener began removing his other glove, then paused, as if needing to confirm that. “You understand the many importances to Romania of this war, yes?”
    “Of course, General.”
    Romania was making a bid for her independence by fighting on Russia’s side against the Turks, hoping to finally throw off the yoke of the Ottoman Empire, which had held the country in their power for centuries.
    Kridener tucked his gloves into his belt. “Russian high command has ordered us to take the town of Plevna. In the first attempt, the Turks repelled us. For the second, we asked the help of your countrymen.”
    “And we sent you those reinforcements.” Ion ran his tongue along his dry, cracked lips. “Our leader, Prince Carol himself, commanded the troops into battle.”
    Kridener inclined his head. “An excellent fighter, the prince is, this is a truth. Howsoever, the rest of the Romanian soldiers are…they fight as if they have a daze. They are…how do you say—?” He gestured vaguely, searching for a word. “Lethargy in their ways.” He clasped