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“Lorelei Morgan.”

“Ah.” He stopped walking, though the faint light from the cells was just ahead. “You are worried for her.”

“No, I just—”

“I do not mind,” he interrupted. “In fact, I understand perfectly. Your ignorant human compassion is something the strigoi morţi do not often deal with.”

“Ignorant,” Caitlyn snorted.

Fane smiled for a fraction of a second. “It is true. You do not understand the inner workings of our clan. Lorelei Morgan is a traitor. By right, we should have killed her on the spot, but we did not. We spared her, gave her mercy she does not deserve.”

Caitlyn cast her gaze to the hard, damp dirt beneath her feet. “Oh.”

“And we come from a different time than you,” he continued softly. “Our culture, our values are far more ancient than you can possibly comprehend. We were born in a time when death, torture and execution were all considered justice, and an accepted way of medieval life. Some of us have adapted; some show compassion. Bethany Makarov would be a prime example. And younger creatures of this modern century share the mindset of the era.”

“What about Joachim? He told me he’s killed no more than twenty-five people, and he’s way older than you,” Caitlyn pointed out.

Fane’s tongue flicked over his long, sharp teeth, and a shiver shot through her.

“The elves, Purity,” he murmured, “are not comparable to the strigoi morţi. They are not so bloodthirsty as us.”

And with those words hanging between them, he turned and strode toward the warm orange firelight at the end of the dark tunnel, leaving her to follow as she pleased.


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