I woke to a familiar chill, still waiting outside Savannah. Why hadn’t Sgt. Williams woken me earlier, despite the darkness?

  No. Not Georgia. A cold cellar. My senses came to me. I shook off the nightmares that were my nightly penance. Despite my initial confusion, clarity came and the pain had burned away.

  I turned and sat on the cot, feet settling on cold stone. The temperature didn’t bother me once I pushed back the sensation. I held up my hand, examining the flesh in the darkness. I saw it perfectly well, every line and whorl distinct. The change was notable. Foss had been right about rest aiding recovery. I’d lend her counsel more consideration going forward.

  The skin was pale and waxy, thinner than my other hand, networked with tiny white scars where destroyed tissue knitted with surviving flesh. I clenched and unclenched my fist. A little stiff, but functional. I wondered if I could get more of that putrid sludge, if I would heal more completely.

  The Thirst pressed its case, reminding me it was only pacified, nothing close to satisfied. I acknowledged the call and recognized its wisdom. Even “Cold Blood” had done wonders for my body and mindset. Fuel. I’d need more at some point.

  A key clicked into the deadbolt. Tumblers turned. The bolt slid open. I was making progress blocking things out and focusing on specific senses, but I wasn’t a quick study.

  Lantern light sliced down the stairwell, bobbing with Dr. Foss’s steps. She carried a brown canvas satchel over one shoulder and a pail of water in the other hand. I was disappointed not to see a clay jug, then felt ashamed of the impulse. I stood to greet her, not forgetting my manners.

  “You’re healing.” Not a question. An observation. She deposited the bag on her workbench and the bucket on the floor. “The affliction’s regenerative properties are remarkable. Despite the low quality of sustenance, the results are profound.”

  “Good evening,” I said. “Yes. I feel functional.” There wasn’t a proper word for my condition.

  “Functional is a start, but we need much more than that, Captain.” She hung the lantern on its hook.

  “Silas, if you wish.” I nodded encouragingly. She had captured me, struck a deal with me, then brought me sustenance. We were familiar enough for her to use my given name.

  “Thank you. I am unaccustomed to such familiarity in my medical practice. With time, perhaps that will develop.” A tiny shred of warmth crept into her tone. I would have to work to earn more.

  “As I was saying, functionality is a baseline, but you’ll need to be presentable as well.” She opened the satchel and removed a bundle wrapped in paper and twine. “New clothes and ammunition. A box of nitrate powder envelopes, .44 caliber lead bullets, and caps. Correct for a Colt Army?”

  Dark green woolen trousers. Charcoal cotton shirt. The box of reloading supplies. It was the most thoughtful, practical, human gesture anyone had done for me since I’d come out west. “How did you—”

  “Think nothing of it.” Foss interjected. “I took the liberty of having Lin Mei, the apothecary, use some of your money. She’s discreet and owes me a favor. Your duster is a total loss, I’m afraid. The fabric was burned to ash on the back, where the sun touched it.”

  “Thank you.” I was off balance. Unaccustomed to such care, a sense of debt weighed on me, despite her using my own coin.

  “You’re welcome.” She motioned to a small metal basin and a bar of soap. “You’ll want to get cleaned up, Captain. You look worse than one of Mr. Abernathy’s clients, and that won’t do.” She referenced her neighbor, the undertaker. It was almost a joke.

  “Of course. Yes, ma’am.” She collected her satchel and went up the stairs, leaving me alone again.

  I grabbed the pail and poured water into the basin. A small mirror hung on the wall above it, a

  single crack running through the glass. The face was a stranger's. Filthy with mud, blood, and ash. Beneath the grime, where it was smudged away, my skin lacked any warmth. Blue eyes stared back, paler than they'd been in Virginia, like the color had been bled out along with everything else. Dark hair plastered to my skull; brown, though it looked black when it got wet.

  I stripped off the ruined clothes. The water in the basin turned black instantly. I scrubbed the grit from my skin, eyes fixed on the water, avoiding the small mirror above. I was afraid of what I’d see, but eventually forced myself to look. Scrubbed clean, hair combed, wearing the new garments and spare underclothes from my haversack, I looked less horrific than I’d imagined.

  Decent. Almost presentable. I was reminded of Julien, a very dapper fellow. Stripped of his accouterments, he was also quite handsome. No flaws in his skin, perfect teeth. Was that part of the ‘regenerative properties’ Foss had mentioned?

  My skin was pale, but not corpse-like. It resembled porcelain or a cloud. None of the greenish gray I’d conjured in my mind. Feeling relieved, I smiled. I’d forgotten about the teeth. I flinched back, then looked closer. I’d never used them and hadn’t noticed anything protruding in my mouth. My canines were slightly longer and more pointed than before, but nothing that would draw undue attention. I’d have to ask the Doc about that at some point.

  I laced up my boots after cleaning them. With my saber and still-filthy Colt belted on, I was whole again. I had money, was armed, and was “nourished.” I wasn’t such a victim. The last thing to do was clean my revolver. I retrieved my toolkit and sat at the workbench near the forge. It had the least clutter.

  The lock clicked again, then her footsteps. “Howdy,” I said, looking up from my work.

  “Hello. You look like a new man.” She nodded approval. “I have some tests I would like to perform, but they can wait until you finish with your gun.”

  I wasn’t sure I liked how she said “tests,” but I had agreed to that. She’d lived up to her part. I’d live up to mine. “Sounds good, Doc. You don’t mind if I call you that, do you?”

  She looked up from the tray she was preparing, instruments arrayed. “No. That is acceptable.” She returned to her work.

  The Colt had lain in the mud long enough for the mud to soak through the nitrate envelopes and ruin the powder. The caps were also a loss. I salvaged the lead and gave it a complete servicing. While I worked, I got lost in my thoughts, a common affliction for soldiers with nothing but time. I kept thinking of Flint and the times we’d had together. Melancholy sank in.

  “He... he didn’t know me,” I said to myself.

  Foss looked up from her journal. “Hmm?”

  “My horse, Flint.” I looked down at the revolver on the table, another vestige of my past. “When I went out to the homestead, he was there. He survived the fire. I’d know that horse anywhere. I heard him. I smelled him.” I paused. She gave me a moment and let me continue. “When I called to him, and he looked at me, he screamed. I’ve never heard him scream that way. He saw me, and saw a monster.”

  My gut twisted. I hadn’t just frightened a horse; I had betrayed a brother in arms. My oldest friend, the one who had been with me through the worst of the war, rejected me, but I couldn’t blame him. The Instinct set me on edge, too.

  Foss studied me intently, her eyes curious. Then, as though cross-referencing against her own research, her eyes brightened with familiar curiosity. “Remarkable.” She wrote furiously. “A cross-species recognition of the Affliction, superseding the long-term previous relationship. The Instinct... perhaps it overlaid your own ‘aura,’ for lack of a better term, that only animals can perceive.”

  “He’s not just some ‘animal.’” My voice was cool.

  “Of course not. He’s not ‘some’ animal, he is ‘your’ animal. Specifically, your mount. That is significant. There are texts in the annals of the Ordo Vesalius dating back to the Middle Ages, detailing the relationship between chevalier and steed.” She tapped her pencil against the top of her journal, then stood. Pacing, she continued, “The phenomena described in the texts were not limited to horses. They spoke of ghoul-beasts, of varying species through the ages. The books hypothesized that a ritual to bind the Anima of the beast to that of the master would create a familiar, or servant. They called them varying antiquated names: Nightmares, Hellhounds, Barghest, and so on. The underlying principle is called the Blood Bond among scholars.”

  “A bond?” I was taken aback, my mind reeling.

  “Yes. The texts I read were theoretical, not practical, but the concept isn’t complex. The process would force recognition and create a bond, or so the theory goes. I will need to do significant research before testing the hypothesis. It could be dangerous, of course. It would be irreversible and likely empower the steed somewhat. But...” She looked at me directly. “You’re a cavalryman. You’re only half as effective on foot. We would be foolish not to try.”

  I nodded, taking it in. She spoke so fast and said things I wouldn’t otherwise believe, delivering them like facts. A ritual to bond him? Would that be right? Flint was more than a horse, he was a friend. Forcing a profane ritual on him felt wrong. But what choice did I have?

  I walked over and sat on the cot, gathering my thoughts, forming a plan. The mission was to hunt Vane, and I needed to gather the resources to kill him. Foss was my logistics officer and de facto intelligence officer as well. She was right. If I had Flint, and he gained some of my potency, I’d be a much greater threat. Still, it felt immoral, or at least amoral, but it was part of a greater plan.

  I needed to trust her and give her all the information available. Maybe something else could be done. Something that didn’t feel dirty.

  “Doc.” I looked up. “You’re the logistics officer, and I need you to have all the information.” I held up the small leather journal. I’d only thumbed through it a little, but I reckoned some of the information would make more sense to Foss than it did to me. Sharing my brother’s innermost thoughts with a stranger felt terrible, but there were entries about Julien and Vane that didn’t make sense to me.

  “I found this in a hidden nook at the homestead. It’s Micah’s.”

  Foss stopped pacing and walked directly toward me. Her expression shifted from a detached professor discussing theories to a focused hunter about to pounce. “Let me see it.”

  For the next hour, we pored over the journal. I sat on the cot while she paced under the lantern, reading passages aloud. Parts of it were devastating to hear. Micah’s familiar rambling style detailed his slow decline and ultimate unraveling. It was hard to hear, but Foss stayed neutral, detached, making it feel like less of a violation of Micah’s privacy.

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  It all started with his fears about consumption, the disease that took our mother from us. He discussed his physical deterioration and the looming dread of dying alone. Then Vane came along. A “savior” out west, offering to relieve his symptoms and extend his life indefinitely with his “miracle tonic.” The price was simple; everything. Before long, he was addicted. He sold everything and moved to Cinder Creek to enter full-time employment. My brother had entered willingly and ended up a blood-addicted Thrall.

  Pity and anger alternated. I wished I could have been there for Micah, but I couldn’t have helped him once he started declining. I was angry that he had been so abused and taken advantage of that he didn’t see it coming. Anything that seems too good to be true is.

  Some of the most chilling parts featured Julien. I started to sympathize with him.

  “Julien visited me today.” Foss read, her voice flat. “He had a lot to say about Mr. Vane. He said that he hates what his brother has become. He’s afraid of him. He says that Mr. Vane has become a petty tyrant and has fully gone rogue. He’s a renegade from their group, claiming to be the Sovereign of Cinder Creek. Julien called it a betrayal of their Sire and the Crimson Sage Charter. Julien feels powerless to act and bound by Mr. Vane’s authority.” She paused, no longer reading Micah’s words but explaining them. “Sovereign is the title for a territorial ruler in vampiric politics. It sounds as if Vane is acting in defiance of the Cabal’s duly appointed ruler of the new world.”

  Foss fell silent, her eyes still on the page. She’d stopped reading aloud. Her jaw tightened.

  “What is it?”

  She flipped back a page, then forward again, as if confirming something. “Your brother mentions scientific advisors. Here—’The physicians from San Francisco came again. Mr. Vane called them his partners, but Julien seemed uncomfortable around them. One wore a compass pin on his lapel.’”

  She closed the journal carefully. Her hands rested on the cover, fingers tracing the worn leather.

  “The Ordo Vesalius.” She said it quietly. “They were here. In Cinder Creek.”

  The name hung in the air between us like smoke from a doused fire.

  I waited for her to continue, but she seemed lost in thought. The lamplight caught the edge of her spectacles, obscuring her eyes. When she finally spoke again, her voice was careful, too careful.

  “The apothecary. Lin Mei. I mentioned she’s discreet, that she owes me a favor.”

  I nodded, sensing this was important.

  “Her father was a physician in San Francisco. A skilled herbalist. He died three years ago.” Foss paused, choosing each word with deliberate precision. “The circumstances were unclear. There was a fire. They called it an alchemical accident.”

  “You don’t believe that.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Mei doesn’t speak of it. Not directly.” Foss opened a drawer in her workbench and withdrew a small brass pin with the compass symbol she’d shown me before. She turned it over in her fingers, watching the light play across its surface. “But once, when she saw my old journal from Boston, the one with this symbol on the cover...” She set the pin down between us. “She went very still. Then she asked me, very carefully, if I knew men who wore ‘the physician’s compass.’”

  “And what did you tell her?”

  “That I used to. Past tense.” Foss’s expression was unreadable. “She seemed to accept that. But there’s something in the way she looks at me sometimes. Like she’s trying to decide something.”

  I studied the compass pin on the workbench. The scalpel pointing north caught the lamplight. “You think the Ordo was involved with her father’s death.”

  “I think her father may have known things the Ordo wanted to learn. Or perhaps he refused to help them with something.” She picked up the pin again, her thumb rubbing across the etched surface. “The Ordo Vesalius doesn’t tolerate obstacles, Captain. When someone becomes inconvenient, accidents happen.”

  The detached, blunt way she said it told me she was speaking from experience.

  “If they were working with Vane here in Cinder Creek,” I began.

  “Then my presence puts her in danger.” Foss finished. “If they connect me to this town, to her shop, they’ll ask questions. And Mei...” She returned the pin to the drawer and locked it. “She’s already lost one parent to them. I won’t be responsible for more.”

  She was holding back. The significance behind her words that went deeper than professional concern.

  “You care about her.”

  Foss’s hands stilled on the drawer. “She reminds me of someone.” Her voice was quiet. Then, as if catching herself being too personal, she straightened. “We should continue. There may be more in the journal.”

  But I’d seen the crack in her armor, just for a moment. Fear without anger made you prey. Anger without fear made you reckless. Foss had both, held in careful balance.

  And I was beginning to understand why.

  “‘Bound?’” I asked, returning to the word that had caught my attention. “What does that mean?”

  “Wait.” She flipped pages. “There’s more. Here. It’s scrawled here, and somewhat convoluted, but I think I can decipher his meaning. A moment, please.” She stared intently at the page, puzzling through it.

  Foss continued, paraphrasing Micah’s writing. “Julien is wracked with agony. Vane is his elder brother, which is true, but Vane has established Blood Dominion over this region, claiming Sovereignty over the territory. Julien explained it’s an ancient rite associated with the Crimson Sage and unbreakable mystical binding. Any ‘Acknowledged’ Crimson Sage member who enters the territory is subjected to Vane’s authority as Sovereign, or they’ll suffer a backlash from the rite.”

  “Just a second.” The words were very similar to the ones Julien used when he turned me. There was some kind of puzzle in all of this, and I couldn’t put my finger on it. “‘Forever binding us,’ Julien said right after changing me. How is that related to this?”

  “The Sire-Child bond is well established in the texts. Julien is your Sire. You’ll have a psychic link forever. It goes both ways. It was an act of will for him to imbue you with true vampirism, rather than leave you as a Spawn or Wight.”

  “Spawn?” The word caught me.

  “A failed Embrace. The vampire drains the victim but doesn’t invest their Anima.” Her tone shifted to lecture. “The corpse rises as something feral. All Instinct, no mind. They hunt, they feed, they rot. Nothing more.”

  A memory of the trail west came to me. Shapes lurking in the dark; too fast, too hungry. The wagon train called them cannibals, madmen driven feral by starvation.

  “I think I encountered something like that once. Before all this.”

  Foss’s pen paused. Her gaze sharpened with sudden interest, but she didn’t press. “The frontier has always hidden more than settlers know.”

  I’d unravel that later. The immediate puzzle demanded attention.

  “Vane has dominion over Julien, and I have a bond with him...” I thought aloud. It all started to fit together. A chain of command and a loophole. “I think I follow. It’s a chain, but it’s one way. Vane has power over Julien because Julien is an ‘Acknowledged’ member of the Crimson Sage or the Rex Noctis in the Old World. Julien has power over me because he said the words when he created me. Some kind of ritual?”

  “Well reasoned, Captain. I believe you are on the right path.” She sounded approving.

  I stood up, my mind racing. “That’s why I’m the weapon. I’m not an ‘Acknowledged’ member of the Crimson Sage, or their Old World Cabal. I’m a rogue element, behind enemy lines. I’m both part of it, and not.” It all made sense. The explanation of the blood bond earlier from Foss, the similarity to the Sire-Child bond, and the Blood Dominion bond within the Cabal. It all tracked.

  I looked at Foss, eyes wide. “That’s why he turned me. He needed me to do this for him. He can’t kill Vane himself, but he could create someone to do it on his behalf.”

  The Doctor was silent for a long while, absorbing my ramblings and considering the implications. “A rogue element. Perhaps. It is plausible. This Blood Dominion sounds incredibly archaic. I have never read about a ritual of this nature, but it is very possible that an old Cabal like the Crimson Sage’s progenitors could have created such a thing. If it is indeed real, you are the loophole, the flaw in the system.”

  She met my gaze, a new respect in her eyes. “Your Sire is not just a manipulator and puppeteer. He is a strategist. He just engineered a weapon to kill his greatest enemy. He will have a contingency plan in case you turn on him.” She smiled, but just barely. “It would probably be best if he never learned that you are also a strategist.”

  “Hunt him. Kill him. Free us both.” I recalled Julien’s whisper with perfect clarity. It was burned into my memory. “That’s what he said to me.”

  My mission was clear. I wasn’t just avenging Micah anymore. This was a rescue and a regicide, but I knew I wasn’t ready.

  I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. “Doc, I need intelligence. When Julien came to the cabin, he moved unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Vane’s the same. What am I actually facing here?”

  Foss's expression shifted, gaining that pedagogical look she got before a lecture. “You’re asking the right question, Captain. The Affliction isn’t uniform. There’s a hierarchy.”

  “Ranks.” I nodded. This was a language I understood. “Commissioned and enlisted.”

  “Precisely.” She paced, hands clasped behind her back. “The Ordo texts describe four general tiers, measured by age and accumulated Anima. You need to know where you stand and what you’re facing.”

  I pulled out my notebook, Micah’s actually, and a pencil. “Go on.”

  She raised one finger. “Fledgling. That’s you. Newly turned, still adjusting. You have the fundamental attributes: Thirst, Instinct, senses, regeneration, and you can develop abilities from your bloodline with practice. But your Anima is raw. Unrefined.”

  I wrote it down. “And the Affliction manifests the same in everyone?”

  “No.” She seemed pleased I’d thought to ask. “Different lineages, different Cabals, even different circumstances of creation can produce variations. Your Surge and Cold Iron discipline may be unique to you or your line. Another Fledgling might develop entirely different capabilities. The curse adapts to the host’s Anima.”

  “So I can’t assume every vampire has the same toolkit.” I kept writing.

  “Correct. But the age-based tiers remain consistent at broad categories, with some differentiation within them.” She held up a second finger. “Lamia. The journeyman stage. Ten to a hundred years old. They’ve refined their abilities, learned control. Most vampires plateau here. They’re competent, dangerous, but not exceptional.”

  “The rank and file.”

  “Exactly.” A third finger. “Elder. A century or more. Their Anima has deepened through sustained existence and feeding. Perfect mastery of their abilities. An Elder’s Surge is to yours what a cavalry charge is to a man on foot. Their regeneration can repair injuries that would leave you torpid for days.”

  I looked up from my notes. “Julien.”

  “A certainty. Impossible to tell without more evidence.” She held my gaze. “That’s the gap, Captain. You weren’t fighting a superior opponent at the cabin. You were facing a different class of being.”

  I clenched my jaw, remembering how easily he’d dominated that standoff. “And the fourth tier?”

  “Ancient. Half a millennium or more.” Her voice dropped. “The texts speak of capabilities that defy normal understanding. Mental domination. Some supposedly no longer require regular feeding. They’re effectively unkillable except by sunlight.”

  I wrote that down, underlining it twice. “And Sovereign? Where does that fit?”

  “That’s where it gets murky,” Foss admitted. “Sovereign appears to be a title, a territorial claim. Whether it grants actual power beyond political authority...” She shook her head. “I’ve found contradictory sources. The Blood Dominion rite your brother mentioned; I’ve never encountered corroborating documentation in the Ordo archives. It could be genuine ancient magic, or it could be myth. I simply don’t have enough data.”

  “So we don’t know anything about the mystical rules binding Julien.”

  “Correct.” She met my eyes. “Assume the worst. Plan accordingly.”

  I looked down at my notes. The picture was clear now, and it was grim. But it was actionable intelligence. “So how does a Fledgling survive in a world with Elders and Ancients?”

  Foss moved to her workbench and picked up a vial of silver. “The same way asymmetric warfare works, Captain. Superior tactics. Better intelligence. The right equipment.” She held up the vial. “Your Cold Iron discipline gives you an advantage most Fledglings lack; you can think clearly while Instinct drives others. That’s rare. And if I can replicate the formulas in these texts, if I can give you alchemical advantages...”

  “A soldier with a better rifle.”

  She smiled, grim and determined. “Not a rifle, Captain. A cannon.”

  Purpose settled into my chest like a coal catching flame. This was military planning. Force multiplication. Asymmetric advantage. I could work with this.

  “Then let’s build that arsenal,” I said. “Starting with Flint. Doc, tell me everything I need to know about the blood bond ritual.”