Josh Reynolds - Neferata

That alone necessitated his eventual death. But not yet, she thought. Razek was a known quantity now, and the dwarfs might yet come in handy, beyond the obvious. Tapping her lip, she glanced at Iona. The red-headed former concubine had flourished since being given the gift of Neferata’s blood-kiss. She had transformed from a starveling wretch into a magnificent creature, her bedraggled looks amplified into feral beauty. ‘And how are the gods, Iona? Are they satisfied with their offerings?’

‘So their priestesses assure me, mistress,’ Iona said, curling a lock of fiery red hair around one pale finger. ‘The sangzye is collected without comment. Our people place little value on blood,’ she added, shrugging. Neferata smiled in satisfaction.

The transplantation of the Nehekharan cults had taken close to thirty years of effort on her part; something to keep her interested during her idle moments. Small temples to Djaf, Phakth and Ptra now occupied the central plaza of Mourkain, and their priestesses had all been gifted with her kiss. Granted, those temples and their practices would be unrecognisable to any inhabitant of the Great Land.

Blood was the holiest of sacrifices, and each god accepted their due in the temples of Mourkain. The sangzye was a tax of blood, levied on the devout; it served to keep the growing population of vampires in check.

‘Ajal Djazk,’ Neferata said. She looked at Rasha, who smiled thinly. Djazk was the latest troublesome nail in need of hammering down: a minor lordling who’d attempted to subvert several of Neferata’s handmaidens through bribery and other, less subtle methods. He was a brute and a slave to his passions. He was not alone in such, but he had made his intentions known in too blatant a fashion.

The memory of what Neferata had done to Strezyk was fading fast, even among those who’d witnessed it. Few of the Strigoi could accept that a woman, vampire or not, was something other than a servant or a concubine. She had made good use of that blind spot. Ushoran used Abhorash for public executions. But it fell to Neferata to eliminate those of Ushoran’s inner circle who grew too free with their blood-kiss or otherwise machinated against him. Few saw it coming, and those who did rarely ran far enough to escape her growing reach.

‘He never returned from his last beast-hunt,’ the other vampire said. ‘The beasts must have killed him. We’ll find his remains strapped to one of their ugly stone idols somewhere, I’d warrant.’ Her eyes glinted with pleasure.

‘Would you,’ Neferata murmured. ‘Good. What of his concubines?’

‘He only had a few who were in any decent shape. Of those, I pulled aside two or three that might be of some use. The others I sent to the temples. The priestesses will find some use for them,’ Rasha said.

‘Excellent,’ Neferata said. The Strigoi nobility were profligate. They turned women, and sometimes men, without regard, like children hoarding toys. When a situation like Djazk’s arose, those creatures were often left without a master. Those whom she could not find a use for, she had killed quietly, and without unnecessary pain. It was not the victims’ fault that creatures like Gashnag had a taste for women and no self-control. Some, however, were only too happy to be of service. These she sent out and away from Mourkain, to be her eyes and ears among the brute tribes of men in the north and west and east.

She cocked her head back, looking up at Naaima, who had set aside the comb and was now tightly braiding her hair. Even now, centuries after the fact, Naaima refused to let any of the others touch Neferata’s hair. Neferata, for her part, saw no reason to complain. ‘W’soran,’ she said.

Naaima frowned. ‘He’s up to something.’

‘And the moon is made of the skull of a god,’ Stregga snorted. ‘Tell us something we don’t know.’

Naaima glanced sourly at the other woman, but continued. ‘Whatever it is, it’s connected to his trips to the pyramid on certain nights. But we can’t get close enough to follow him. Not with his guard dogs.’ W’soran had taken to travelling with a pack of ghouls at his heels. The loping beasts were excellent watchdogs, if one didn’t mind the smell. Clad in their black robes and hoods, they moved through the streets at night, spread out around the old monster like a flock of crows.

‘Keep trying. He and Ushoran are keeping something from me, and I want to know what,’ Neferata said. There had seemed to be no pattern before to W’soran’s comings and goings in regards to the pyramid, but what she had learned from her spies over the years had put paid to that supposition. There was a pattern and a reason for that pattern. A reason she was one step closer to discovering.

A familiar scent stung her nose and she hissed in disgust. ‘Who is watching the door, Naaima?’

‘Layla,’ Naaima said automatically. Neferata grunted. The girl was human. They had a number of human servants, all picked by Naaima, who had a way with the lower orders. ‘Why?’ Naaima said, a moment before she too caught the scent. Her eyes widened.

The door to the bathhouse opened, and grinning figures strode in, boots crunching on the delicate tiles. Neferata caught a glimpse of others outside, crouched over a too-pale shape. The girl had tried to bar their way and paid the price for her loyalty. Neferata kept her face expressionless as Naaima hissed in rage. The others reacted similarly, surging up out of the waters and surrounding her.

‘Well, here we all are. How lovely,’ the Strigoi purred, gazing at them with undisguised lust. He was tall and broad-shouldered and his name was Zandor. There were other Strigoi behind him. They were, like Zandor, minor nobles. Neferata recognised them all as Ushoran’s lapdogs, sniffing at his table scraps, always trying to curry favour where they could.

‘These are the ladies’ baths, Ajal Zandor,’ Neferata said blithely.

‘Do forgive me, Lady Neferata, but I was pining for your beauty,’ Zandor said, leering. The other Strigoi chuckled appreciatively. ‘We would speak with you,’ Zandor added sneeringly.

Neferata sighed. ‘Very well, Naaima, take the others outside.’ Naaima looked at her in horror. Neferata frowned. ‘Go. I’m sure I will be perfectly safe here, with Ajal Zandor and his… companions.’

‘Oh yes,’ Zandor said. ‘Perfectly safe, I assure you.’

Neferata restrained the urge to roll her eyes as her handmaidens left the bathhouse. Zandor, like the unlamented Djazk, was infamous in Mourkain for his ribald exploits. He thought a woman was only good for one thing and Neferata irked him to no end, though she had rarely spoken to him. Zandor sank to his haunches, eyeing her. ‘I’m given to understand that you convinced our mighty hetman to spare that oaf Vorag, after he made such a mess of young Feyz at the Midsummer banquet.’

‘Vorag was exiled,’ Neferata said.

‘He should have been staked out on the slopes,’ one of the other Strigoi growled. He was a handsome creature, dark-haired and thin-featured. He wore gold, and polished brass discs adorned his furs.

‘Hello, Gashnag,’ Neferata said. ‘I wonder, did Vorag demand the same when you took Ergat’s fangs last month?’

Gashnag blanched. Zandor chuckled. ‘It is not the deed, but how it was done, my lady. Vorag is little better than one of those beasts he so enjoys hunting.’ He leaned forwards, his features assuming a predatory cast. ‘Why do you support such a brute, I wonder? Are there benefits to a grateful monster?’

Neferata frowned. ‘You go too far, Zandor.’

‘I apologise,’ Zandor said. ‘I merely wondered why you backed one like the Bloodytooth when there are other, more influential friends to be had.’