81

You let the shock of Julian Sim's return fade, then check your Nixon watch as you take it off. It's 6:20 a.m. You secure the door, drop the dead bolt, and strip out of your streetwear. You don't even have time for a shower, so you just unroll the sleeping bag and make sure your phone is charging.

You dream of flying high over the Alps at night, the roar of a single-seater engine in your ears, a silk scarf wrapped around your throat to keep off the cold, though you are already colder than anything else in these skies. Your dream shifts to a huge moon over a city you know so well that no name comes to mind, all turquoise domes and tall towers, black against the midnight sky. And then the same city, except it is only a village: low mud huts, donkeys, children laughing. It's morning, and the sun feels hot against your back and your bare limbs.

Not dreams. Memories. And one last memory, one that you know isn't yours: you remember forcing your eyes open after years of darkness and looking up at two eager fledglings—one from your own clan, one Clan Ravnos. You remember watching, frozen, as the Ravnos's fangs slide out.

You open your eyes for real and check your phone. It is 5:49 p.m. Sunset. Aila is asleep again. Your fangs are protruding; you shake your head until they go away, though you keep remembering the coating of dust on the elder's throat as you sank your teeth into her.

You shower, scraping the last of the filth out from under your fingernails. Then you decide where you're going. You don't want to keep Prince Lettow waiting as you make a decision.

Your first stop will be—