“We’re invited guests, child,” Raphael said. “Invite us in.”

Duncan jerked in surprise, but the slave continued to stare up at the big vampire lord, her eyes blank and unfocused, until she smiled and said, “Come in, gentlemen. I’ll tell the master you’ve arrived.”

“Master indeed,” Raphael muttered, but he smiled at the young slave. “Thank you.”

She blushed, ducking her head with pleasure as they walked past her into the house.

“Where is your . . . master?” Raphael asked smoothly.

“In the library, sirs. Shall I show you?”

“That would be most kind. Duncan?”

They followed the slave down a short hallway to the back of the house. She stopped in front of a pair of doors and was about to knock when Raphael took her hand. “There’s no need to trouble yourself, child. Go back to your chores.”

The young slave’s eyes took on that unfocused look again, and then she turned and walked away, as if they weren’t even there.

Raphael watched her go, then caught Duncan’s gaze. “The banker is alone in there, but there are others in the house.”

Duncan wiped his hands nervously on his filthy pant legs and tried to calm his galloping heart. He wanted to do this right, not just for his own vengeance, but to prove to Raphael that he hadn’t made a mistake in choosing Duncan out of all the dying men on that battlefield. Earning Raphael’s respect had somehow become the most important thing in his life, and he couldn’t help wondering if these new feelings were part of the bond of which Raphael had spoken.

Raphael pulled open the doors and stepped into the library. He radiated strength and confidence, dominating the room not just with his formidable size, but with the power that fairly poured off of him. It was so strong that Duncan thought he would see the glow of it if he concentrated hard enough. But then the banker spoke, and Duncan had eyes for only the man whose son had killed his family.

“Milford?” the banker said, his thick body almost vibrating with its outrage. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Your son killed my family,” he told the banker calmly. “I want to know where he is.”

The banker leaned back in his chair, full of confident disdain. “You want money, is that it?” He stretched forward again and opened a desk drawer, pulling out a metal lockbox. The key was in the lock and he turned it, flipping the lid back to reveal a considerable amount of gold coin. “How much, Milford?”

Duncan stared at him. After months on the battlefield, he thought he’d seen the deepest depths to which a man could sink. But this . . . this cur thought gold could compensate him for the loss of his family?

“Come on, boy. Everyone has a price. What’s yours?”

“I do have a price,” Duncan said, enunciating each word with precision, so there could be no doubt. “And that is an eye for an eye. I want the life of your son.”

The banker flicked his hand at Duncan in dismissal. “Don’t be absurd. Besides, he’s not here. He went off to the army like everyone else. I have no idea—”

Raphael made an impatient gesture and the banker stopped talking mid-sentence, his eyes bulging from his head as he struggled to speak. Fear sent rivulets of sweat dripping down his face, staining the starched collar of his shirt, which he wrenched open in his fruitless efforts to free his voice. His gaze switched frantically from Raphael to Duncan and back again.

Duncan could hear the man’s labored breath sawing in and out of his lungs, the squeak of his fingers on the wooden chair arms. He could smell the rank odor of sweat, the stink of garlic on the banker’s breath as he panted in fear. But more than that . . . he tilted his head curiously.

“I can feel his fear, my lord,” he whispered to Raphael. “It’s almost as if my own heart is racing, my gut churning with terror. But . . . there is no guilt. He feels only a righteous anger, as if he is the one being wronged.”

Next to him, Raphael nodded. “Empathy. You must have experienced it as a human, but your rebirth has expanded it. It is an excellent talent to have, Duncan. It will serve us both quite well in the future.”

Duncan bared his teeth at the banker. His brand new fangs slid into view, and he felt the man’s fear intensify in a most satisfactory manner. Duncan had never been a particularly violent man. Always willing to defend what was his, he’d nonetheless found it easier to persuade rather than fight, and he’d always been able to find the words to work things out.

But right now, seeing this man he’d once thought powerful tremble in fear at the sight of Duncan himself . . . it felt good. It felt right.

“He’s lying,” Raphael said casually, reaching across the desk to help himself to the money box and all its gold. “His son is in the house.” His gaze shifted to the right, staring at the wall as if he could see through the intervening wood and plaster. He smiled slightly. “Right down the hall, as a matter-of-fact.” He snapped his gaze back to the banker. “Sleep.”

The banker fell forward, his head hitting desk and bouncing once as he fell into unconsciousness. Duncan looked up at Raphael. “You learned of his son’s presence from his thoughts, my lord?”

“I did,” Raphael agreed. “The thoughts of sniveling men are easily spied upon. This way, Duncan.”

They hurried back to the hallway, back the way they’d come only a short time ago. They met no one, not even the maid, as Raphael turned down yet another hallway, this one narrower than the first, and went directly to a closed door. There was a sputtering candle in a single hurricane lamp on a shelf opposite the door, but other than that, the hallway was barely lit.

Steeling himself for a confrontation, Duncan pulled his knife and opened the door. He ducked as he entered, expecting a rifle blast to greet him, if indeed this was the killer he sought. But the room was completely dark and nothing but a surprised grunt greeted his arrival.

Duncan felt a wave of Raphael’s power roll past him. Candles flared, and the man he sought was revealed, hiding in the dark. He was in bed, covers drawn up to his chest, propped up on his elbows as he squinted at the intruders.

“Milford,” the man said. “I’d hoped you were dead.” He sighed, then pushed himself up higher against the wall behind the bed, and asked wearily, “What do you want?”

Duncan stared at the killer, his gaze taking in the man’s well-muscled shoulders beneath his nightshirt, then down to his legs still covered by the blankets. He raised his eyes to meet those of the killer who was staring back at him defiantly.

“That’s right, I’m a cripple now, but I’m still ten times the man you’ll ever be.”

“You’re a killer and a rapist, lower than the cockroach that lives in shit.”

The killer shrugged. “Are we finished here then? Because I’m tired.” Raphael stepped into the light, and the killer looked up at him. “Brought someone to do your dirty work for you? It figures.”

Raphael took in the killer’s shriveled legs beneath the blanket and laughed. “I’ve seen this before, Duncan. His cock’s probably as useless as his legs now. There’s a certain justice in that.”

Duncan fingered the blade in his right hand. He nodded. “Justice, my lord,” he agreed, then took two quick steps forward and stabbed the killer in the chest, the narrow blade of the knife slicing easily through flesh and into the man’s heart. Red blood bloomed on the white linen of his nightshirt, and the man howled, staring in shock from Duncan’s hand, still fisted around the blade’s hilt, to his face.

“But it’s not justice I’m looking for,” Duncan growled. “It’s vengeance.”

He waited until life left the killer’s eyes, until his body slumped heavily against his hand, then pulled the knife out and lifted the sheet to clean the blade. Sliding the knife back into its sheath, he realized he’d just killed a man in cold blood, and yet he felt nothing but satisfaction. Surely he should feel some guilt, some conflict at least between his desire for vengeance and this blunt execution? Was this what it meant to be Vampire? Was he truly human no longer?

“We’re still human after a fashion, Duncan,” Raphael said, as if reading his mind. “But we’re more, as well. For a vampire, there is no gray, only black and white. If a man takes something that is mine, if he harms someone I care about, or steals something I value, he dies. It’s a simpler life, but more brutal as well. Some of us revel in it; others choose to live much as humans do. There is no way of knowing before a person’s rebirth how things will turn out, but I am pleased to see that I was right about you. You have power and talent, and you do not flinch in the face of your enemy.

“That’s good, Duncan, because I intend to rule this continent someday. I’ll need someone like you at my side.”

Duncan turned to face his Sire. He heard the sincerity in the vampire lord’s words. More than that, he felt the emotion that went with it and knew Raphael was speaking only the truth. He took a step back and gave a courtly bow from the waist.

“I am honored to serve you, my lord.”

Raphael grinned and slapped Duncan on the shoulder. “Then let’s get out of this place. The sight of a dead enemy is satisfying, but the stink is less welcome.”

They were both laughing as they started down the road, breathing in the fresh, night air. Duncan strode proudly next to his Sire, and for the first time since his family had died, he knew he had something to live for.

* * *

“Did you ever look back and regret it?” Emma asked. They were lying side by side again, and she raised herself up on one elbow to look into Duncan’s face when he answered her.

He shook his head, meeting Emma’s clear violet gaze head-on. And he told her the same thing Raphael had told him as they left that house all those years ago. “There are some things that cannot be forgiven if a man is to live with himself, some actions that define who we are. That man raped my wife, murdered her and my children. I could not let him live and consider myself a man.”