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made Asharti different now that she had the Old One s blood, and what it might mean that he had an
infinitesimal portion of that blood.
Ian felt his hostess s presence behind him. He turned to find her contemplating him with piercing eyes. He
had felt that kind of evaluation before in a slave market. She wore a gown of deep peach silk that echoed
the auburn in her hair and made her eyes look black indeed. So, you came. Excellent choice. We have
much to do. She pulled the bell rope. Simington, bring the gentleman some brandy. Champagne for me.
And cakes or some such.
The servant disappeared with a brief bow.
I have come for knowledge, Lady Lente.
She draped herself on a chaise upholstered in taupe and cream stripes. Have I not asked you to call me
Beatrix?
I know nothing about you. Our connection hardly warrants familiarity.
And you will not know anything about me. But Beatrix is the name my kind have called me for seven
hundred years. Surely you, newly made though you are, can do no less.
He did not answer. He did not relish being admitted to her kind s inner circle.
The servant brought a tray with two cut glasses, a decanter, and a plate upon it. Ian waved away the nuts
and petit fours, but as the servant retired the Countess poured him a brandy. You will need this.
He did not doubt it. The first fiery gulp was most welcome.
You are right, she observed. You must be given information. We will start with questions and progress
to practicum. I shall evaluate.
At least she was honest about the evaluation part. First I would know what you will demand in return,
Ian said stiffly. He had experience of demands by women such as this one.
She raised her brows at his temerity, then set her lips. I will demand nothing if I do not find you capable.
What I would ask I could not compel. So, you will choose.
Ian reddened. This woman knew Asharti. She knew compulsion. She might know what Asharti had done
to him. Regardless of what she said, she might want to do the same.
I shall determine your ability in the course of our studies. Sit. She pointed. And ask.
He had been thinking all the hours of a sleepless day about what he must know. So he pushed down his
rebellion and sat. First, what is the Companion?
A parasite, she said simply. A symbiotic partner, if you will, that shares our blood. It is not a disease,
you know, but a new level of existence. If it gets into your veins you must acquire immunity from a
vampire s blood to survive. But once you live, your Companion-partner shares power with you that mere
humans cannot imagine. His face must have shown his repugnance. You are still human, but now you
are more, two beings in one.
What can the power do? He leaned forward, elbows on knees, hanging on her words.
Our Companion rebuilds its host, for convenience sake, indefinitely. That gives us what can be, for
practical purposes, immortality.
He could not speak for some moments as that word rattled around in his head. Immortality ? He had
known Asharti and Fedeyah had lived for centuries, but& immortality? At last he cleared his throat and
continued, because he could not think about that word. You mentioned killing vampire minions, last
night. How? How he had wanted to know this!
The damage must be too great for the Companion to repair. A completely severed head separated,
mind you, so it cannot connect is effective. The heart carved out and removed entirely can work,
though rarely. The Companion reconstructs quickly, including severed limbs and missing organs. We
cannot bleed to death. We cannot be poisoned, or contract a disease the Companion cannot cure. We
can kill each other if one is clearly stronger, though it is quite a brutal affair, but suicide is nearly
impossible.
I know.
So it was truly not a welcome gift. How many times did you try? she asked, curious.
He glanced away. He was not proud of his cowardice. Or perhaps he was just ashamed of failure.
Three, I suppose. I hanged myself and healed a broken neck. I went naked into the sun, but apparently
that doesn t kill you. The burns healed. Then I fought a battle against such uneven odds that my wounds
should have killed me. An indirect method but usually effective.
You must have managed to last in the sun until you passed out from the pain.
He nodded.
New ones always think the sun will kill them, she sighed. Most don t have the courage to test the
theory.
What about the strength? Ian swallowed.
As I said, the Companion confers power; physical power, mental power. Thus our strength, and our
ability to compel. You have felt compulsion, I think.
I have used compulsion, too, to feed, he said, as evenly as he could.
I would hope so. Do you induce them to forget what happened?
Yes. He did not admit he gave them joyful, affirming memories instead.
Good. You did well. We can plant impressions, or induce a person to act in a certain way. We cannot
read thoughts, however.
I am familiar with those rules. His voice was almost under his command.
Ahhh. From Asharti. But what else do you want to know?
Is there any way around needing& blood? He held his breath.
She shook her head. That is the hardest to accept when you are not born to the Companion. No, our
partner needs human blood to live. When it hungers, you cannot resist.
I cannot. He looked down and saw that his hands were clasped until his knuckles were white. I try&
I try to take only& enough& He faltered.
None can resist. The trick is to feed frequently, she remarked, and to spread your feeding among
many. I sip only from strong young men. I happen to like strong young men, and the current fashion for
cravats hides all. But we all have our proclivities.
Such a violation! The words were torn from him. We& we re evil.
Come, Rufford. That is not what you have told yourself, is it?
Ian laughed a wretched, painful laugh that bordered on hysteria. Oh no. I have compared myself to a
banker who lives on interest. Self-delusion! It s all a damned lie!
Is it? she asked, almost gently. Is the lion evil when it feeds on the gazelle? And we need not even kill.
Taking blood is the nature of things. It is our nature.
Asharti& he choked, and then could not continue. He could not speak of Asharti s depravity to one he
did not even know.
Beatrix Lisse did an unthinkable thing in a drawing room in Regency England. She came to sit beside him
and embraced his shoulders with one arm while she put her hand over his clasped hands. He tightened
against her pity. Every race has its evil ones, she whispered. Must we all be judged by the worst of
us?
He turned an anguished gaze on her. She did not recoil. A tiny smile she meant to be encouraging played
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