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“For someone blessed with foresight, you should’ve seen that move coming,” Demos said, coming over to us. “Maybe we should have Sam give you lessons.”

“Just for that, first round at Tilda’s is on you,” she groused. “If you’re satisfied, then, I’m going to scrub this dirt off. We’ll go out this evening.”

True to her word, Amalthea disappeared off to her rooms to wash the dirt of the training floor off her back. Demos stayed with me for a little after to walk me through some of my mistakes.

“You did well, all considered,” he said as he finished.

I swallowed. I’d barely won against a human. If a vampire came at me, I’d be dead. I said as much.

“Sam, no one is going to attack you,” he assured me. “I know the Witch Kingdom has prejudices about vampires, but we’re rational creatures. A bit emotional, a touch capricious, and yes, we drink blood. But beyond that, have any of us behaved in a way that truly frightened you?”

Yes. Years ago. But I didn’t want to answer that. “If you think I’m safe walking around Damerel, then why make me spar with Amalthea?”

He grinned, the first real boyish look I’d ever seen on the vampire general. “Because it’s time someone other than me knocked that witch on her ass.”

Considering she was getting her way, I wasn’t entirely sure that’s what had happened, but I nodded along anyway.

If that was what worked for the two of them, so be it.

Damned if it made any sense to me.

Wherever Tilda’s was, we weren’t going there first. Amalthea pulled me, arm in arm, while Demos trailed behind us glaring at passersby. The mountain had three levels, which Raphael had explained. The top part, the castle, was actually home to very few members of vampire society. The second was where almost all commerce took place. Vampire nobility also lived in the center ring of the second level. The third and final level housed the commoners, mainly vampires since most humans worked in noble houses. By most, Amalthea estimated, that was around ninety-five percent of the population.

“How do vampires even have nobility?” I asked. “If vampires can’t procreate, can’t create a bloodline, you can’t inherit titles.”

Amalthea shook her head. “They do have bloodlines. Vampires are tied together through their lineage. If a noble wants to add someone to their house, they petition Raphael to turn the human and take them in. Not all vampires belong to a noble house, but there are also clans among the commoners, distant relatives without power.”

What a strange system. “So that’s how they get around not having children,” I murmured.

Amalthea didn’t say anything to that, which was odd, because she hadn’t stopped talking since she appeared at my door this afternoon with an ornate change of clothes,and shoes that pinched my feet enough that I suspected all was not strictly forgiven from the sparring ring.

“What aren’t you telling me? I thought vampires are infertile.”

“It’s true, vampires can’t conceive naturally,” Demos said, joining the conversation. “But the desire for children is strong enough some have taken to a… workaround. If a child is turned, they’ll grow normally until reaching maturity. They live in a half-state, taking both food and blood as sustenance. They bear the weaknesses of both vampires and humans, so they tend to be guarded jealously by their parents.”

“Their vampire parents,” I clarified. “They’re turning babies?”

Horror roiled inside me.

“No one would turn an infant,” Amalthea assured me. “But that’s more due to the fact it’s forbidden to turn a witch, and they must wait long enough to be certain they’re a void.”

By seven, then. Most witch children showed signs of their powers by their fourth birthday, but some took longer, needing a trigger to reveal their powers. Seven was considered the cutoff, when even the most hopeful parents resigned themselves to their child’s fate as an unremarkable void. Ironic—a vampire would rejoice to have a void, while a mortal parent would mourn.

My seventh birthday hadn’t been a happy one.

“You’ll find it’s not so different from any other city,” Amalthea continued, chasing away the uneasy subject with an airy wave of her hand. “This is Dressmaker’s Way, my favorite street to peruse.”

The road was lined with dozens of shops matching the namesake, glass windows displaying styles I’d seen Amalthea wearing weeks ago. Although we were inside the mountain, it was surprisingly bright. Demos had explained the city had devised a system of sustainable torchlight that allowed streetlights encased in glass to line the roads. Inside them, oil was replenished from a central source. Part of me wanted to ask to see that mechanism, or at least look at one up close, but I was too embarrassed to ask for such an inconvenience. There was an ingenuity to many parts of the city. When you didn’t have magic, you had to be clever in other ways.

The dresses, made without so much as an enchanted bobbin, must take ages. The one to my left had an ornate bird perched on the shoulder and sleeve, tail feathers winding down around the hips.

“You could try it on,” Amalthea said. “Or perhaps have something custom made. They’d certainly welcome you as a walk-in.”

Likely because Amalthea struck me as a frequent and generous patron of the shops.

“Spare me,” Demos grumbled, walking past us. Amalthea kicked out her leg, trying to catch the generalunaware, but he didn’t trip or so much as stumble. “I doubt this is what Samara wanted to see.”

“Whatdoyou want to see?” Amalthea asked.