You can hear a lot from underneath the floor. The village of Silverbrook, nestled in the foothills of the Silver Mountains, was prone to flooding and built on stilts. Ara lay in the mud underneath one of the huts, breathing quietly.

  “I won’t do it, mama.”

  The speaker was Brynn. She was much liked, but new to her womanhood and expected to marry. The people of Silverbrook were as hard as the land they sprung from; but women were women, and men were men. Even a woman who could sling a sack of flour over her shoulder would be frightened by the prospect of marriage to a violent man.

  “If you make me, mama, I’ll… I’ll give myself to the vampires!”

  Ara flinched as the sounds of arguing above intensified. She herself was intimately familiar with the vampires that lived in the caves at the base of the mountains. To be fair, everyone in Silverbrook was familiar with the vampires. They came down at night to administer a tax, of sorts. A blood tax. In return for their cooperation in feeding the creatures, the vampires kept large predators away from the town. Nobody had ever been killed by a vampire, at least directly, but even so, the thought of Brynn walking into their lair was chilling. Ara was uniquely positioned to judge exactly how chilling. She still clearly recalled the night that she herself had ventured into their midst, thinking only of saving her sick mother, who had grown too frail for constant feedings. She closed her eyes and remembered the feel of their leader’s papery skin on her face.

  Absently, she touched the marks under her arm where she’d last been bitten. Normally, someone her age would be left out of the blood tax, but she’d struck her own deal that night, what felt like long ago. The Master of the vampires fed from her directly and he never left marks where people might see. She really hoped that Brynn found a different way to escape her marriage. The Master had bound Ara to him, and his constant, insidious presence in the back of her mind rankled. Crawling on her belly, Ara pulled herself out form under the building and started back towards the hut her family shared. At least she’d never have the problem Brynn was having. The older girl was beautiful, buxom, and blond. People loved her. It was different for Ara, who was dark, lanky, and pale. Women were expected to bear children in Silverbrook. It was necessary. Yet, no one was likely to look at Ara’s thin hips and think that she might be a suitable mother. Her own mother’s personal string of tragedies hardly helped the issue.

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  Her family’s hut was built, protruding stubbornly from a sloped section of land. Her brother, Finn – who would undoubtedly become another girl’s source of well-placed anxiety soon – was wrestling with another boy out front. The other boy, who was older, found himself pinned suddenly to the ground. Finn hit him in the face and bloodied his nose, ignoring his opponent’s attempts to tap out. Entering the hut, she found her mother in the corner, weeping in to the blanket wrapped about her. She stopped and sniffled when she saw Ara. Going to her mother, she sat, and let the woman run too-thin, knobbled fingers through her hair.

  “You’re all dirty, Ara.”

  “Yes, mother.”

  “You should go and clean up. How will I ever end up with grandchildren with you carrying on like this?”

  “Yes, mother.”

  Ara wasn’t certain she wanted to be a mother. To be honest, the older she became, the more thankful she grew that boys were unlikely to want her. Her own mother never seemed to find much joy in her children, even those that were living. There was certainly little joy to be had from those who hadn’t survived to draw their first breaths, the ones that were buried in the garden outside. There must have been something of her thoughts in her expression, because Ara’s mother sighed.

  “Motherhood is a gift, Ara. You’ll understand one day.”

  Ara nodded again and her mother threw up her hands in exasperation.

  “Go and clean up. If you are going to disregard the wisdom that I have to give you, you will at least do it with clean face.”

  Ara stood and scurried away; but not because of her mother’s words. There was a much more insistent voice calling her from the inside of her own skull. When the Master called, she answered.