Living on the road for weeks at a time, it is easy to forget how divine simple pleasures can be.

Even as I was given new clothes, allowed to bathe and shave, I did not forget that I intended to kill the man who offered these indulgences. I took no satisfaction in the thought, no irony. It only made me feel dirty, ill-at ease.

The Baron’s a madman and a murderer, I reminded myself. He’s trying to fashion himself into a nascent Dark Lord. This isn’t the time for misplaced honor.

As a distraction, I stared into the mirror in the comfortable chambers Priska had led me to. Like much in the castle, it was old, over-designed, and beautiful — a piece near half as tall as I was, its bronze border worked into the shapes of dozens of entwining serpents.

It had been a long time since I’d taken a good look at myself. I ran a hand along the freshly smoothed edges of my jaw, trying to remember the last time I’d made use of a razor. My own skin felt cool and unfamiliar.

I looked… not old, precisely. My skin was still smooth and my red-blond hair still untouched by any traces of silver. I looked ten years or more younger than I was, and would for decades yet — another of the Table’s blessings. No, it was something else that made me see age in that tired reflection. Myriad faint scars, a permanent furrowing in the center of my brow, a weary distance in my gold-flecked eyes.

I ran a hand along the scars crossing my left eye. They began just above the eyebrow, running over it and my temple at a sharp angle in four thin, long grooves. The marks ended below my cheekbone, a single line of scar nearly touching the corner of my lip. They were not so faded as my other scars, still dimly burning with a touch of red.

They never really had stopped burning.

I tore my eyes from my own tired image as a knock rapped against the door. I finished lacing the shirt I’d been provided along with the room — a dark green piece with roomy sleeves, comfortable if old fashioned — and cautiously approached the door. I listened, waiting for the telltale signs of heavy breathing, the creak of a great weight, or even a betraying stench. Anything to let me know if it was the ogre or something similarly dangerous on the other side.

Nothing of the sort. I spoke through the door. “What is it?”

The answer came without pause. “It’s me. Just wanted to check in on you.”

I hesitated, then — against my better judgment — opened the door.

Catrin stood on the other side. Like me, she’d changed into a finer set of clothes. The yellow commoner’s dress and bodice had been replaced by a dress gone out of fashion in some previous century, foggy blue in color, with winglike sleeves and silver-green trim. Her unkempt main of chestnut hair had been combed, making it seem longer, nearly down to her shoulders now.

She studied me a moment and made an appreciative sound. “Heh. You clean up well, big man.”

I didn’t quite hide the glance I threw to the hall, checking to see if she’d brought anyone else. Armed guards, or the like.

She didn’t miss the suspicion. “Not here to put you under arrest.” She quirked a misshapen smile very at odds with the courtier’s dress. “Though, I think I could make the look work. Me in a breastplate, little cape maybe? Long boots.”

“What do you want?” I asked. “I thought you’d returned to the village.”

Catrin arched an eyebrow and, without another word, ducked under my arm to move into the room. I tensed, but the movement was so fast and smooth I barely registered it before she was past me.

“They gave you a nicer room,” Catrin noted studiously. She glanced at the mirror and let out a small laugh. “Classic.”

I suppressed an annoyed growl.

Catrin spoke as she began turning the mirror around, so its face was toward the wall. Its weight made her next words strained. “Wanted to check in on you, big man, make sure you were still… alive.” She finished turning the mirror with a grunt of effort.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Making sure we’re not being spied on,” Catrin said, adjusting the sleeves of her dress. “Mirrors, you know? Baron’s a sorcerer. So’s that creepy old crone, Lillian.”

A spike of cold shot through me. Idiot, I thought. You should have thought of that.

“Why are you here?” I asked.

Catrin’s eyes flicked to the door. “You gonna leave that open? Walls have ears.”

I glared at her and, after a deliberate pause, shut the door. I folded my arms and waited.

Catrin propped a fist on her hip, exactly as she had when she’d intervened with the Mistwalkers in the streets of Caelfall. “You’re not actually here to throw in with the Baron’s little gambling club, are you?”

I noted the position of my axe, where I’d propped it against the bed. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Catrin rolled her eyes. “You’re a bad liar, you know? I knew you were improvising back in the village when I gave the corpse eaters that spiel about you being a guest, and you’ve looked ready to take that cutter to every shadow since we got on the boat.” She nodded to the axe. “I’m not blind, big man, and I didn’t help you get here for Orson Falconer’s sake.”

“Then why?” I asked, heart beginning to thump in my chest.

“I work for the Keeper of the Backroad Inn,” Catrin said. “You know who that is?”

I did not. She took my silence in stride and moved to the room’s small window, pressing her ear against the foggy glass as she continued. “Not everyone who lives outside the Grace of the Heir wants to wage war on the Church. It’s not like we’re fond of them — they can be right cunts more than half the time. But the land’s still recovering from the Fall — who knows how many people will die if Orson gets his way? Even in a best case scenario, he brings more attention down on all of us. No one wants another inquisition.”

She turned from the window to face me, her expression losing some of its wry mask. “You work for the Church?”

I canted my head to one side, considering. “Would you believe me if I said no?”

“Depends,” Catrin said, serious. “Answer the question.”

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I unfolded my arms, hesitated a moment longer, and decided to play along. “No, I don’t.”

Catrin let out a sigh of relief. “Good. I believe you. Second question.” And here she met my eyes again, and there was something harsher in that look, something with teeth. “Did you kill the bishop in Vinhithe?”

I went still.

Catrin moved away from the window, back toward the turned mirror. She never took her eyes off me, and there was something catlike in her movements. Cautious. Taut. Ready to spring into action. “Part of my job’s to gather information,” she said. “I’m good at it. Heard a rumor that a man with an axe killed the priest who instigated the Lynspring Inquisitions. A man in a red cloak.”

Her eyes drifted to the Hithlen-forged axe propped against the bedpost, and then to the red cloak hung by the door.

“So it’s blackmail then,” I said. “I do what you want, or you go to the Baron.”

Catrin snorted. “You are paranoid, aren’t you? Listen, big man, I’m not here to start trouble with you.” She held up a placating hand. “I’m here to help. I brought you to the castle to keep the Mistwalkers from throwing your pieces into the marsh, and I’m telling you this now so you know how deep the shit you’re in is. I’m good at collecting secrets, but this news about the bishop’s death?” She shrugged. “It’s going to spread here before long. The Baron could learn it from his own sources, or the villagers will hear it next time the clericons come to collect their tithes. Either way, you’re working on dying time, you understand?”

With a sinking feeling, I realized she was right. I’d made a spectacle of myself in Vinhithe, and — while it was no great city — it was an important enough hub in the region that word would spread of the red cloaked man who’d murdered a high clericon and cut his way out of the streets.

“Why’d you do it?” Catrin asked, more curious than accusing. “Kill the bishop, I mean. Who are you?”

It was a moment before I drew myself back to the situation at hand. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Oh, I can believe a lot.” The woman — the spy, or whatever she was — flashed her teeth in a sharp smile. It faded near as quick as it had appeared and she added, “your secrets are yours, but my point is this — we can help each other.”

I leaned against the wall by the door, folding my arms. “I still don’t really know who you are, or what you want. How do you know I didn’t kill the priest on Orson Falconer’s behalf?”

Again Catrin shrugged. “Could be you did. Would be a smart play for him, drawing attention away from his own lands to create a crisis in a larger city. But I don’t think that’s the case, otherwise he’d have been expecting you and I wouldn’t have had to pull you out of a pit.”

“Point,” I said. Who exactly was this woman, who knew so much and saw to the truth of things so easily? “But that only answers one question. Who are you? Who is this… Keeper?” I’d never heard of a place called the Backroad Inn.

“A man whose business it is to know things,” Catrin said. “You could think of him as a sort of… broker of secrets. Dangerous secrets.”

“And you help him collect those,” I said, starting to understand.

Catrin smiled and gave a single quick nod. “Got it in one. There are old powers in the land, boyo. Older than the Accord, older than the Church, and certainly older than the likes of Orson Falconer. Not all of them are happy about the attention this petty lord could bring down on them. Killing that bridge troll was a poor move. That’s another thing that caught my attention — I eavesdropped on that meeting earlier. Heard what you said.”

Her eyes lit with a flash of fierce approval. “The trolls are old magic. Sacred, and I don’t mean that like a priest would, trying to sell the word holy like it’s an old piece of hacksilver.”

She took a step closer. Dangerously close, blocking me from my weapon. I tensed, but she caught my eyes in hers and suddenly I felt… at ease. It’s difficult to explain what happened. All my tension, my fear, my uncertainty, it all faded away like morning fog. I felt relaxed. Safe.

And more than a bit enraptured. Catrin had large, expressive eyes, and I noted for the first time they were mismatched — it was subtle, but one eye was closer to hazel than the other. It was distracting. Even interesting.

“I’m your friend,” she said, lowering her voice. It wasn’t quite seductive — her voice wasn’t smooth or liquid enough for that, but there was a comforting quality to it. She sounded kind, quick of wit, confident. “Leonis Chancer killed people I knew back in the west. I’m glad someone finally called him to account. Anyone who’s willing to anger the priests to make the world right again is someone I’d like to know better.”

She reached out a hand. The motion was slow, hesitant. It made me want to take her hand and let her know it was alright, that I didn’t mind. She brushed long fingers over the material of my shirt, so lightly I only felt it as a rustle of cloth against my skin.

It had been a long time since anyone had touched me. Wanted me. My reaction was… not controlled. I inhaled sharply, closing my eyes. Catrin noted this and let out a breathy little laugh. It wasn’t a pretty sound, but I found myself wanting to hear more of it.

“Why are you here?” Catrin murmured. “It’s alright. You can tell me.”

I opened my eyes, and once again they were caught in her gaze. Catrin had stepped closer. She was much shorter than me, and had to look up to meet my eyes.

“I’m here for the Baron,” I said, my voice near as quiet as hers. “Because he killed the troll, and because…” here I hesitated, some remnant of caution tying my tongue. “He’s dangerous. He needs to be stopped.”

“You’re some kind of vigilante, are you?” Catrin’s asymmetrical smile returned. She still barely touched me. Teasing. “It fits. I like it.”

I shook my head slowly. My thoughts were coming slower than usual, like there was a mist in my skull. “It’s a curse. I don’t want to be here, don’t want to…”

“Don’t want to what?” She asked, eyes narrowing. Her words were so quiet I found myself leaning down to hear them better, bringing our faces closer.

“I’m not here by choice,” I finished lamely. I wanted to tell her, to tell someone about my burden, my Penance of Blood.

And why not tell someone? There was no vow against it, no oath I’d sworn to keep the truth of my duty a secret. I’d only done so out of necessity.

Out of shame.

“It’s alright,” Catrin said. “It won’t leave this room, I promise. You can tell me. You can trust me, Alken.”

Our lips were nearly brushing now. Again she flashed that thin smile, and my eyes were drawn to her teeth. Strangely clean teeth, pale, with very sharp canines.

Her words cut through the fog in my thoughts. She was not the first to say them to me.

The scars on my face were burning.

With an effort of will, I shut my eyes tightly to block out the sight of hers and focused inward. It was only then I realized how loudly my senses were warning me of danger. The core of golden power in me was practically blazing in alarm.

I inhaled through my nose, breathing in Catrin’s clean scent — a subtle perfume, clean linen, woodsmoke… and something else beneath it all.

Blood.

I opened my eyes, and golden elf-light shone through them. The shadows in the room crumbled away, every line of furniture and wall sharpening. And I saw Catrin, not as she’d been, but as she truly was.

She was a pallid thing, her gray-tinted skin hugging her bones, her mismatched eyes clarified into bloody spheres. Her teeth were all pointed and dipped in red, and pointed were her ears where they protruded from hair that was frost white instead of chestnut brown. Dark veins crawled across her flesh, poisonous, webbed. Her neck was too long and her mouth too wide.

Without thought, without hesitation, words snapped from my lips. Not a prayer, but similar — an invocation of repulsion against the Adversary. The creature in front of me was not a demon — not truly — but it wasn’t many steps removed.

There was a flash of nearly white light, and Catrin let out a shout of surprise. She recoiled faster than I could follow, retreating to the window on the far side of the room in the time it took me to blink. Her masque was gone now in truth, not just in my auratic sight, revealing the thin, macabre thing that was only superficially like a woman, the folds of her blue-green dress hanging from thin bones and thinner skin.

I lunged for my axe and had it between us by the time she recovered. The creature’s pointed features shot up, recovering from the backhand of power I’d hit it with. It let out a loud, serpentine hiss through wolf-sharp teeth.

“Stay out of my head,” I growled, lifting my axe and letting amber flame play along its edges as I channeled aura through it. “Vampire.”