Blood to Blood Read Free Page A

before.
    Instead they ventured into her world. They pried open the castle doors and moved through the great chambers, stripping them of every article that held any value. Some of the older men were familiar with the lower chambers and invaded them as well. She could sense them, pulling the remaining tapestries from the walls, taking even the charred scraps of those nearly destroyed by the fire. The leader, the one who knew the labyrinthine corridors beneath the castle the best, actually opened the door where Joanna retired during the day and shone a torch into its blackness.
    Her eyes glowed red in the torchlight, her face a pale white blur, thankfully unrecognizable in the glance he had of it. He gave a small cry of surprise and retreated, barring the door from the outside.
    She relished his terror for a moment, then rushed forward, barring the way from the inside as well, surprised that she'd never thought of locking it before.
    It would keep them out, but at night, when her powers were strongest, no bars could hold her.
    When it was as dark outside the castle as within her chamber, she left its sheltering walls. For the first time in nearly a century, she ventured beyond the familiar haunts of the mountain, traveling almost to the crossroads town of Bukovina. Stopping just outside it, she hid in the shadows beyond the fires of the Gypsy encampment.
    She could recall the Gypsy bands of centuries ago, how they would come into her village, bringing songs and music. Like her, they seemed frozen in time—their wagons, their language, their music. She could hear it, carried in a faint breeze that brought with it the scent of life, of blood.
    She watched. She waited, hoping someone weak enough to give her courage would venture within reach.
    The band had not expected to encounter any enemies that night, or they would have circled the wagons. Instead, they had pulled into a narrow field just off the road and laid them out in a half circle. The men were on one end of the caravan, close to where the horses were tethered around a blazing fire, no doubt intended to keep wolves and other predators at bay. They drank heavily, telling tales of old conquests, sexual and otherwise.
    The women were on the other end of the crescent, well away from them, speaking softly of more important things at a smaller fire. Even then, they were busy, stirring a stewpot simmering over the coals. Occasionally one of their children would crawl out of a wagon, carrying a bowl and asking for another helping of dinner.
    Children! The women fed what would be her food.
    Joanna's hunger was not isolated, as it had been when she was alive and so often hungry. Instead she could feel it as weakness, a craving too strong to resist.
    Yet, when a little girl ventured so close that all Joanna had to do was reach out and clamp a hand over her tiny red mouth and drag her off into the shadows, she found she could not do so.
    Not so small, she thought, rationalizing the reluctance while her body screamed for blood.
    Later, when only one man still sat at the dwindling camp-fire, no doubt to keep the horses safe from thieves, she moved closer to him, coming up from behind.
    The scent of him—old sweat mingled with the garlic and smoked meat of his evening meal—made her wince with disgust. Had her need not been so great, she would have returned to the shadows. Instead she forced herself to move forward, half woman, half wraith, gliding toward him, silent as the night mists.
    When she was almost near enough to touch him, a horse whinneyed, the sound sharp and anxious. The man stood and scanned the darkness. By the time he had turned to look behind him, Joanna had vanished.
    He started to call out to the others, then took a deep breath and shook his head. "Too close to their lair," he mumbled to himself, looking up the mountain, then quickly away, as if his interest might attract something unholy. Something dangerous.
    He feared her. It gave her some satisfaction.
    If he