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rigid as a corpse. She lay down beside him, draping an arm across his heaving chest, and nestled against his neck. The urge to rend and tear was still there, but she forced it back and let out her fangs slowly, then kissed his neck. It was salty with panic sweat. She bared her teeth, bit gently, not yet piercing the skin.
    Quentin groaned and some of the tension went out of him. She found the vein in his neck and bit harder. Her knife-sharp fangs pierced it smoothly as Quentin gasped, and rich red blood welled up into her mouth. A shiver of pleasure went through her, and with it another surge of bestial frenzy. She had to force herself not to bite and pull, not to dig her claws into his chest. Instead she only pulled him tighter and drank deeper, letting the warmth of his heart-fire spill down her throat and spread from her stomach through her aching empty veins. The feeling was delicious, intoxicating, stronger than kvas, sweeter than brandy, more comforting than hot broth on a cold Kislev night.
    Quentin moaned beneath her and she caressed him absently as she closed her eyes and lost herself in a salty sea of sensation, a soft pulsing susurrus of sound and rapturous fulfilment.
    ‘Mistress,’ murmured Quentin. ‘Mistress, stop.’
    She didn’t understand the words – hardly heard them. They were only faint discordant notes hidden behind a soaring crimson melody.
    ‘Mistress…’
    A loud noise behind her brought Ulrika’s head up with a snarl. She looked around. Countess Gabriella stood in the door, Rodrik at her shoulder.
    ‘That is enough,’ she said.
    Ulrika stifled a growl and looked down at Quentin. He was deathly pale, except for a stain of red at his neck, and glazed with sweat. He barely had the strength to open his eyes.
    ‘You did well restraining your more savage instincts,’ said the countess as she entered the room. ‘And I applaud you for it. Now you must learn moderation.’
    Rodrik crossed to the bed and swore under his breath as he looked down at the boy. ‘Blast her, he won’t recover for days!’
    Gabriella ignored him and held out a hand to Ulrika, then raised her from the bed. ‘Congratulations, child. You are well on your way.’
    Ulrika swayed slightly, drunk from the blood, then curtseyed. ‘Thank you, mistress. Though I fear I nearly failed again.’
    ‘You are learning,’ said Gabriella. ‘I am proud of you.’
    Ulrika’s chest swelled. She was proud of herself too. Though it had been strong, she had conquered the beast within her. She had proven that her will was stronger than her nature. But another glance at Quentin twisted her stomach and made her feel unclean. Was it right to be proud of doing that to a man?
    His eyes fluttered and he reached up to clutch at her hand with weak fingers. ‘Mistress,’ he whispered. ‘I am yours, always.’
    She turned away, sickened, and withdrew her hand. It was offensive to her to see a strong man so weakened and enthralled – and she had done it to him. She suddenly felt nothing but contempt for him, and for herself. Or perhaps she had only drunk too much blood.
    ‘And if this same duke were to grab your bosom?’ asked Countess Gabriella. ‘Or pinch your behind?’
    ‘I would slap his face,’ said Ulrika. ‘If he did it again I would challenge him to a duel.’
    The countess sighed. ‘No, my dear. You would not. You would at most slap his hand with your fan, but you would do it while smiling and looking at him from beneath lowered lashes.’
    ‘Ursun’s teeth, I’ll be damned if I would!’ said Ulrika. ‘I don’t even have a fan.’
    She and the countess were again travelling in the shuttered coach as it raced through the snow-covered countryside. They sat together on one bench while Lotte tended to the prostrate Quentin on the opposite bench and fed him hearty soup. It was the night after their daylight stay at the inn. They were to pass out of Sylvania and into Stirland sometime after moonrise, then continue on their way