It was better than hunting the humans in the caves, or burning a vampire who’d been bad. It was better than anything he could remember.

His memories of his human family were vague. There were times he woke from a dream and for a moment was in a bedroom with pictures of race cars on the walls and blue curtains at the windows. There were monsters in the closet of the bedroom, and he cried until she came.

She had brown hair and brown eyes.

Sometimes he would come in, too, the tall man with the scratchy face. He’d chase the monsters away, and she would sit and stroke his hair until he fell asleep again.

If he tried very hard, he could remember splashing in the water, and the feel of the wet sand going gooshy under his feet and the man laughing as the waves splashed them.

Then he wasn’t laughing, he was screaming. And he was shouting: Run! Run, Davey, run!

But he didn’t try very hard, very often.

It was more fun to think about hunting and playing. His mother let him have one of the humans for a toy, if he was very, very good. He liked best the way they smelled when they were afraid, and the sounds they made when he started to feed.

He was a prince, and could do anything he wanted. Almost.

He would show his mother tonight that he was a big boy now. Then there would be no more almost.

When they stopped the horses, he was almost sick with the thrill of what was to come. They would go on foot from here—and then it would be his turn. His mother held tight to his hand, and he wished she wouldn’t. He wanted to march like Lucius and the other soldiers. He wanted to carry a sword instead of the little dagger hidden under his tunic.

Still, it was fun to go so fast, faster than any human, across the fields toward the farm.

They stopped again, and his mother crouched down to him to take his face in her hands. “Do just the way we practiced, my sweet boy. You’ll be wonderful. I’ll be very close, every minute.”

He puffed out his chest. “I’m not afraid of them. They’re just food.”

Behind him Lucius chuckled. “He may be small, Your Majesty, but he’s a warrior to the bone.”

She rose, and her hand stayed on Davey’s shoulder as she turned to Midir. “Your life,” she said quietly. “Begin.”

Spreading his arms in the black robes, Midir began his chant.

Lilith gestured so that the men spread out. Then she, Lucius and Davey moved closer to the farm.

One of the windows showed the flickering glow of a fire banked for the night. There was the smell of horses closed inside the stable, and the first hints of human. It stirred hunger and excitement in Davey’s belly.

“Be ready,” she told Lucius.

“My lady, I would give my life for the prince.”

“Yes, I know.” She laid a hand briefly on Lucius’s arm. “That’s why you’re here. All right, Davey. Make me proud.”

Inside the farmhouse, Tynan and two others stood guard. It was nearly time to wake their relief, and he was more than ready for a few hours’ sleep. His hip ached from the wound he’d suffered during the attack on their first day’s march. He hoped when he was able to close his gritty eyes he wouldn’t see the attack again.

Good men lost, he thought. Slaughtered.

The time was coming when he would avenge those men on the battlefield. He only hoped that if he died there, he fought strong and brave first and destroyed a like number of the enemy.

He shifted his stance, preparing to order the relief watch when a sound brought his hand to the hilt of his sword.

His eyes sharpened; his ears pricked. It might have been a night bird, but it had sounded so human.

“Tynan.”

“Yes, I hear it,” he said to one of the others on guard.

“It sounds like weeping.”

“Stay alert. No one is to... ” He trailed off as he spotted a movement. “There, near the northmost paddock. Do you see? Ah, in the name of all the gods, it’s a child.”

A boy, he thought, though he couldn’t be sure. The clothes covering him were torn and bloody, and he staggered, weeping, with his thumb plugged into his mouth.

“He must have escaped some raid near here. Wake the relief, and stay alert with them. I’ll go get the child.”

“We were warned not to step outside after sundown.”

“We can’t leave a child out there, and hurt by the look of him. Wake the relief,” Tynan repeated. “I want an archer by this window. If anything out there moves but me and that child, aim for its heart.”

He waited until the men were set, and watched the child fall to the ground. A boy, he was nearly sure now, and the poor thing wailed and whimpered pitifully as it curled into a ball.

“We could keep an eye on him until morning,” one of the others on duty suggested.

“Are Geallian men so frightened of the dark they’d huddle inside while a child bleeds and cries?”

He shoved the door open. He wanted to move quickly, get the child inside to safety. But he forced himself to stop his forward rush when the boy’s head came up and the round little face froze in fear.

“I won’t hurt you. I’m one of the queen’s men. I’ll take you inside,” he said gently. “It’s warm, and there’s food.”

The boy scrambled to his feet and screamed as if Tynan had hacked him with a sword. “Monsters! Monsters!”

He began to run, limping heavily on his left leg. Tynan dashed after him. Better to scare the boy than to let him get away and very likely be a snack for some demon. Tynan caught him just before the boy managed to scramble over the stone wall bordering the near field.

“Easy, easy, you’re safe.” The boy kicked and slapped and screamed, shooting fresh pain into Tynan’s hip. “You need to be inside. No one’s going to hurt you now. No one... ”

He thought he heard something—chanting—and tightened his grip on the child. He turned, ready to sprint back for the house when he heard something else, something that came from what he held in his arms. It was a low, feral growl.

The boy grinned, horribly, and went for his throat.

There was something beyond agony, and it took Tynan to his knees. Not a child, not a child at all, he thought as he fought to free himself. But the thing ripped at him like a wolf.

Dimly he heard shouts, screams, the thud of arrows, the clash of swords. And the last he heard was the hideous sound of his own blood being greedily drunk.