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And, of course, women were the only ones who could have a child, the unmistakable sign of their supposed moral failing. Unwed mothers were considered “ruined women” and they, along with their bastards, were ostracized. No one would consider them fit for marriage, and with few well-paying jobs available to them, they were often doomed to lives of poverty and humiliation.

And that was assuming that the church courts didn’t hear of it.

The arbiters of moral purity, the courts run by the church worked in tandem with the civil authorities to keep the populace in line. And they were happy to hand down charges of fornication, including to women who had been violently raped. Bridewell Hospital in London, which was less a hospital than a prison, had many women with such stories, who were kept in filthy conditions with food not fit for dogs, while the men who had fathered their babies went free.

There was no equality in sex, any more than there was between the sexes.

But while my anger for the treatment of women was justified, there was more to it than that. I turned away from the herbs used to end dangerous, unwanted pregnancies and blinked back tears. Which was stupid!

I’d known for a while that I couldn’t have children. No dhampir could. And that was a good thing.

What kind of life could someone like me give a child? I could barely take care of myself! What was I supposed to do, drag him or her along with me, sleeping under bridges or inside convenient barns, in between monster hunts?

Even when I had money, which was seldom considering how much the tools of my trade cost me, life wasn’t easy. The people that I sometimes glimpsed in fine houses or in humble peasant dwellings, sitting around a table, talking, laughing, and jesting to each other in terms that would have made no sense to outsiders . . . were more alien to me than the creatures I hunted. And what they had, and seemingly took for granted, was as unobtainable to me as the moon.

Dhampirs were dangerous outlaws doomed to an early death. If one of our berserker rages didn’t kill us, or our prey fell us, or the vampires who tolerated us cease doing so, it wouldn’t matter. We had no families.

No vampire clan would claim us, no human group would trust us. I had never met a dhampir who even knew who his family was. We were usually abandoned immediately, and left to fend for self, as I had been—

The headache that always accompanied attempts to recall my past predictably tore through my skull, like a lightning bolt straight to the brain, causing me to raise the hand with the crushed flowers to my forehead, smearing them across my skin. And then to throw them down, stripping the delicate petals and their juices off my fingers, the familiar tide of anger swamping me. My family had even removed their memories from me, or blocked them off to the extent that my past was fractured, broken, mostly missing—and painful.

Like shards of glass.

I supposed that was one way to make sure that I never came back.

And yet I wanted a child? Me, who had less knowledge of what family meant than anyone? It was laughable.

And why did I really want one? For the sake of the child, or for myself? For someone who was mine, for the family I’d never had and never would, for a sop to the loneliness that was a dhampir’s constant, and usually only, companion?

I thought I knew the answer, and it was not a good reflection on me.

Fortunately, the whole thing was absurd. And my current state was a blessing. I was glad I had been made the way that I was.

I was glad.

Chapter Five

“Dory?”

The command was softly spoken, but it was a small room. I jerked slightly, berating myself for getting lost in thought, and went back to join the vamp. He was by the counter, having politely waited his turn, and was now looking at me strangely.

I gave him back an impassive face and shored up my mental walls. And I guessed it was enough, because he didn’t comment. He turned back to the shop keeper, transforming his face into a winning smile on the way.

She smiled back, and then looked slightly surprised, as if she hadn’t meant to do that. She shouldn’t have been concerned. This was a man who women smiled at.

“God give you good day, mistress,” Mircea said.

“And you, sir.” She dropped a small curtsy, because his attire left no doubt that she was speaking to someone important. But her eyes never left his face, which was rude at best. Then her gaze darted to me, and she didn’t lower it then, either.

But if Mircea noticed, he gave no sign. “Prithee tell Mistress Addington that Master Mircea—”

“She’s not here.” The woman interrupted, making me raise an eyebrow.

“—Basarab is here to see her,” he continued pleasantly, despite the fact that that had been, especially from one of her station to one of his, not just rude. It was the equivalent of a slap in the face and extremely unwise.

Unless she was a witch. In which case it would still be unwise, but many witches didn’t care for vamps. I’d gotten help in a few cases on revenant hunts from local covens who were sick to death of one, although I’d never asked.

Asking favors of witches was a fool’s bet.