The companion is a vampire's property. A vampire may do with a companion as he or she will. It is death to a companion who attempts to harm a vampire.

IN THE LAND BEYOND THE FOREST, 1457

He was a Roma peasant, but the boyars across the campfire were afraid of him. He was not surprised at their fear, but having a pair of nobles in their furs and jewels, with heavy swords on their belts, come humbly into the camp of his familia, did make him curious. Curious or not, he did not make it easy for the boyars by asking them what they wanted. He sat across from them, well back from the fire so that his face was shadowed, and ate roasted chicken in silence while they got up the courage to say what it was they wanted.

The rest of his familia gathered behind the boyars, staring at them. He was aware of the eyes of his people, their thoughts and feelings, always so aware that he had stopped paying much attention to them a long time ago. He knew they feared he'd brought them trouble and hoped that he'd bring them wealth. When strangers had sought him out in the past, he'd always come back with gold. But no one had ever come to him before tonight that was not one of the Roma people.

Finally, one of the boyars tugged on his thick beard and said, "Are you the dhamphir?"

It was his oldest uncle in the crowd standing behind the seated boyars who cackled, and answered, "He'd better be, for he doesn't look like any Roma we've seen before."

He was tall. He was blue-eyed. But gajo soldiers raped Roma women all the time. Who knew who his grandfathers were? His parents, though, everyone knew who his parents were.

"He is dhamphir." The words came from his mother. If she said it was true, it was true.

This assertion brought the other boyar to his feet. His jaw jutted out proudly, and his hand was on his gold-chased sword hilt. "The prince has sent us to bring you to him."

While the rest of his familia gasped, he considered what the boyar had said. The prince was not a man to be disobeyed, not if you didn't want your hat nailed to your head or a stake stuck up your ass. The prince sending for a Roma peasant was seriously bad news for that peasant. Unless, of course, that peasant was a dhamphir. But if the prince had need of a dhamphir, that was seriously bad news for the prince.

He did not fear the prince; he feared nothing, either mortal or demon, but he was mindful that the existence of all Roma was precarious. He would not put his familia and his tribe in danger by refusing to go with the boyars. He tossed aside chicken bones and got to his feet.

"I will go with you."

He didn't go with the boyars only because of concern for his people. He went because he wanted to see what sort of trouble Vlad the Impaler had gotten himself into. "Do you act on your feelings, dhamphir?"

The prince expected no answer just yet. When he did speak, the only word the man seated before him wanted to hear was yes. So he waited, down on one knee, gaze on the cold stone floor, head carefully uncovered, and his body as still as death, to find what it was he would be saying yes to. It would be deadly dangerous, that was certain, otherwise the man who ruled the towns and villages and great estates would not have brought a landless road rat into his own bedroom to ask for help.

He didn't think much of the prince's bedroom. A man with the power to plunder the countryside ought to surround himself with piles of gold and silver if he was going to waste his time living inside thick stone walls. This prince didn't seem to need much more than a sure awareness of his place at the top of the world. He had a bed, a chair, and a fire in the grate behind him. The prince's clothes were rich, embroidered with pearls, but his bed hangings were shabby, and there were no rugs on the floor to ease the discomfort of a kneeling Roma with bony knees.

"I trust my feelings, always," the prince went on. Prince Vlad banged a hand down on the chair arm. His back was close to the fireplace, and he wore a heavy robe lined in thick black fur. "And my feeling about Tirgoviste is not a good one. Evil dwells there."

It was good to see that the prince was warm, but a cold chill permeated the dhamphir from the cold stone walls and the cold night air, but mostly from the fear he read in the great man he knelt to. Silence drew out for a while, and it occurred to him that the prince was not going to name the cursed thing that so disturbed his feelings about his capital city. The word was too dirty for his lips, perhaps?

If the prince would not speak the word, he might not want to hear it. So, practicing discretion, he said, "The vermin I hunt rarely come into walled towns. They prefer drawing their victims to isolated places."

"So I had heard." Prince Vlad gestured sharply. "If it is true that it is their nature to live like wolves, what do I care if they thin the herds of the old and crippled?"

Because the herds are humans, and mostly Roma. This prince was not shepherd to his kind, but he was. He cared.