Alexander-Fyn-Sanguinarian

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    From her tower chamber, though her hearing was no more than Sanguinarian 109
    ordinarily good, Evangeline stood listening intently when a cry rose up that was definitely not seagulls or any other such bird. It was a woman. She ran to the window and struggled with the stiff, old latch until it opened. A piercing cry carried on a freezing blast of wind made the hair on her scalp grow tight. She distinctly heard a woman screaming, “Dominic, come back.”

    * * * *

    A light snow fell, making Raven’s black hair look gray in the moonlight. His shoulders were sprinkled with snow and his chest where his jacket and shirt lay open. He had left his cloak and hat with his horse, which was tied up in the forest behind Speke Hall. For several hours he had rested with the animal, waiting for the sounds of activity in the Hall to die down, for the lamps to go out. He walked now around the perimeter of the great house, listening for sounds, attempting to locate the man he had come for.
    Raven knew Speke Hall well. The minor gentry who had once owned the Tudor Manor and let it fall into the most appalling disrepair, had sold it to the Watt family who were in the process of restoring it, just as Raven would restore Castle Haven very soon. The moon cast no light over the dilapidated West Range where he walked, wondering if he should enter through this part of the house. The entrance to the courtyard was through the North Range, but he was far more likely to be seen there, by a servant or a night watchman.
    In the darkness he heard a slight creak and saw a window frame along the wall so rotted that it sagged as he looked at it. With both strong hands he pushed at the soft wood until it fell in, sliding his long body in after it. He walked on silent feet, ignoring the rodents scurrying about him as he disturbed them, and made his way toward the staircase in the West Range which, unlike Castle Haven’s main staircase, was narrow and steep.
    His government intelligence man had told him his quarry would 110
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    be in the blue bedroom, just along the upper landing from the staircase. On silent feet he made his way there and quietly opened the door.
    Only one candle lit the room, which after the complete darkness of the hallway was just bright enough to disturb Raven’s sensitive eyes. He squinted.
    “What the devil?” The man was about to climb into bed where a servant girl lay shivering, waiting for him. She was very young and frightened, but whether it was at the sight of Raven or the prospect of bedding Reginald Alt he could not tell. But he did not want her blamed in any way for the man’s death.
    Raven met the girl’s eyes, holding them just long enough to entrance her. She was of low intelligence, an easy victim. “Get out and go straight to your attic. Do not alert anyone.”
    The girl stared at him for several long seconds before moving. All the time Alt was going to the wardrobe, fumbling in a panic for a weapon. In no hurry, Raven closed the door behind the girl and stepped silently up to the man just as he brought forth a pistol.
    Usually Raven took a victim from behind—it made it easier for them both. This night he had no choice and his lightning-quick hand flew out, his knifepoint catching the light of the candle.
    The next few moments passed very slowly as they always seemed to when he killed someone. Raven pointed the razor-sharp tip of his blade at the jugular vein. Even in complete darkness he could have found it by instinct. The small light from the candle allowed him to see perfectly where the tip entered the man’s neck and then thrust deeper while Alt’s eyes bulged and stared straight ahead. A strange gurgling sound came from his throat.
    Raven withdrew the blade, allowing the blood to flow freely. Alt clutched at his neck to stanch the flow, but he was already falling.
    Raven caught him to prevent a thud on the floor boards. Laying the man down carefully, he snuffed the candle and left the room.
    The hunger that was already upon him before he left Yorkshire, Sanguinarian 111
    and the sight of the blood weakened him. The urge to go back in and lap it up was so strong that he stood rigid on the spot, controlling himself with immense difficulty. Blood from a dead person had no transformative energy and the idea of blood from a man like Alt made him sick.
    A scent assailed his nostrils the moment he calmed down and allowed himself to think. A scent so subtle no ordinary person would have