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The shock was evident on our faces as my blood trickled into Dimmon’s slack mouth, my wrist held over his face. The sinews of his muscles worked to drink down the Loreblood, the skin from his neck flayed and raw.

It was his neck that started recovering first once my blood entered his system. The slow twisting and threading of pale flesh I’d seen when Skar fed him was faster now, expanding at a pace that would have the skin on Dimmon’s neck rehabilitated within minutes.

“Damnation preserve me,” Skar uttered, leaning forward to watch closer. “The healing properties of your blood is like nothing I’ve ever seen.”

Staring over my shoulder in superstitious disgust, Vallan grunted. “Does this change things, brother? For the cause?”

“It gives us more clarity. We are learning more about Sephania’s blood and power by the day.”

“Using Dimmon as a test subject for our science experiment,” I pointed out, grimacing. “It’s cruel.”

“It’s necessary. Do not find forgiveness in your heart for this vile man. He does not deserve it.”

No, Skartovius was right. Dimmon Plank was the last man on this earth who deserved forgiveness. Yet I was still human at heart and couldn’t deny the weak human emotions plaguing me seeing this wretch bound to the table, croaking and dying and being forced to live through the pain every evening.

“How long have you kept him like this?” I asked.

Skar tapped his sharp chin. “When did Garro bring him here? He has not left this jail cell. And he won’t.”

I gulped, nodding. Skar didn’t sound like he would be persuaded. Honestly, I didn’t want Dimmon roaming free. Perhaps I could end his suffering though.

While I watched Dimmon’s neck healing, the flayed skin of his collar now beginning to recover as well, Skartovius remained studying my face at a profile angle.

“We must do hard things to win our revolution, love. This is not one of them. This is easy.” He scoffed as he pointed his chin at Dimmon’s body.

I stepped back, having seen enough. The stench of Dimmon’s filth, his exposed muscles and veins, made me sick to my stomach. “What do we know so far about my Loreblood?” I asked, facing Skar and Vall, trying to look anywhere but at Dimmon.

“It heals better than vampire blood,” Vallan said.

I lifted a finger to count off the tally with a nod.

Skar said, “According to Garroway, it works to break the bond an enthralled soul has with its master. Quite a stupendous feat in its own right.”

A second finger came up and I looked back at Vallan, waiting for more.

“It awoke some sort of psychic connection for the cub with animals,” Vallan said. He sounded rank with distaste, shaking his head morosely.

Not a proponent of alchemy and magic, as he said. A third finger came up and I swung my gaze back to Skar.

“Shadow control for me,” the nobleblood said.

When my fourth finger went up, he massaged his chin, deep in thought.

“Oddly, the last two aspects do not seem to have a connection with your Loreblood—or any blood, rather—yet seem to be the most intrinsic within us. The correlation is clear: Before ingesting the Loreblood, neither the beast-charming nor the shadow-manipulation existed within us.”

“Perhaps the Relic will tell us what it means,” I said.

Vallan grunted and Skartovius nodded.

“Then we’d better get to work stealing it.” Skar patted both of us on the shoulder with a devilish smile.

A bubbling croak came from Dimmon, blood seeping past his lips. Our eyes swiveled to him as he made a small sound in his dessicated throat.

“He’s trying to say something,” Vall pointed out.

He gave us the cue but was the only one not to lean forward to try and listen to Dimmon’s torn voice. Vallan kept himself as far from witchcraft like this as possible.

“. . . More . . .” Dimmon croaked in my ear. His voice was a haunted note, ghostly.

My brow furrowed. I glanced over his skinned face at Skar. “What was that?”

“More . . . blood . . . Mistress. Please.”

I raised a final finger. That made five aspects. “Truehearts flog me,” I murmured. “Did you hear what he called me?”

“Mistress,” Skar muttered, “though I was the one who turned him.” He stood to his full height and placed a hand over his mouth, gently rubbing his upper lip in thought as his eyes narrowed dangerously.

“Your blood is not only severing my connection with my thrall . . .” He pulled his hand away from his face to frown at me.

“It’s also forging a new bond with you . ”

Like Garroway. When the weight of Skar’s words hit me, I stumbled back a step, hissing. Dimmon Plank, my rapist and . . . my thrall?!

“Damnation,” Vallan cursed. The ramifications of what this meant hit all three of us at the same time. We stared at each other, wide-eyed, as Vallan finished his thought. “Destroying vampiric blood connections and enthralling them to you? This truly changes everything.”

I let out a ragged breath. This confirms Garro’s claim that my blood is working to forge a bond with him. The telltale pumping of my heart lifted my pulse. “We need to get our hands on that fucking Relic. Posthaste.”

Months passed as the vampires’ clandestine plans accelerated with fervor due to my newfound power.

Though I felt no different inside than I always had, I knew I was coming into my own.

I began to relish the strength, potential, and capacity of my blood.

During frustrating planning sessions, I lamented we may not need the Relic at all—we could discover every property of the Loreblood on our own through trial, error, and gruesome experiments on people like Dimmon.

Garroway scoffed at the assumption. “You’re sounding more like us every day, little honey badger.”

Vallan added, “Her corruption is nearly complete.”

I flinched at the comment, because they were right. I’m no vampire, and still these bloodsuckers have twisted my perspective to meet our ends. No cost is too high a cost to succeed.

Part of me hated what I was becoming. My callousness grew to new heights. My empathy waned, nearly vanishing completely.

Another part of me marveled at it. Fed on the lust to know more, to be more, to grow stronger. I suppose I’m not much different than a monster like Skartovius in that regard.

The months were spent running errands and drop-offs to local sects of loyalists and Nuhavian gangs of humans.

Turned out I was quite helpful because I could get a lot done during the day when they slept—business they trusted only me with, especially if it concerned breaking into Nuhav for a job.

The missions also gave me opportunities to converse with the Grimsons again.

As I already knew, the rebellion would be a two-pronged approach.

The Nuhav bands like the Grimsons, Diplomats, and others I was less familiar with, would deter the lawmen of Nuhav with explosives and riots, distracting the ruling class of Olhav—the Five Ministries—with the need for them to quell the uprising.

At the same time, we would break into the Tanmount, steal the Relic, and eventually usurp the overlords and overladies.

Through the months, I spent more time with these three men than I ever had with anyone else.

We kept the fornicating to a minimum, knowing every waking hour at night was important to the cause.

Still, we managed to sneak away from dalliances every once in a while—never all of us together, always under the cover of shadow, and only when I asked for someone to satiate my urges.

Urges? Seems I’m turning into Vallan, too. These heathen bastards were rubbing off on me in all the worst ways.

One evening, I explained it to Garroway, as a jest. “We need a name,” I said. “Every proper rebellion has a name.”

As we ferried from one side of Olhav to another on our cart, liaising with spies in different wards of the city, Garroway smiled at me from the other side of the riding bench. “What name do you have in mind, lass?”

I thought for a moment, pouting and folding my lips together as I stared up at the starry sky. “The Heathen Bastards has a nice ring to it.”

Garroway laughed. When he brought it up to Skartovius later that night, our illustrious leader did not laugh. He simply said, “Names are how rebellions materialize and become discovered. We will do no such thing.”

I shouldered him, bobbing my eyebrows. “It was said in sport, Lord Ashfen. Lighten up.”

He flared his nostrils and spun on his heels, leaving the safehouse to go on one of his own errands, evidently needing a break from me and Garroway’s antics.

“He grows more crotchety by the day,” I mused.

“Can you blame him?” Garro said. “His bond with me is on a knife’s edge. He’s nearly lost the bloodthrall he’s had for decades.”

Guiltily, I said, “Shit.” I glanced at Garro’s twinkling eyes. “You don’t seem to be handling it poorly.”

“I have you. The bond I share with your Loreblood is stronger than any I’ve ever felt. It’s exhilarating. Master is going through a death and a rebirth—losing me but gaining you. He’s likely conflicted.”

I let out a harrumph. I’d never thought of it like that.

Also during our months of busying ourselves, Skartovius filled me in on our enemies and the history of the Five Ministries, making sure I was accustomed to Olhavian society.

Specifically, he named the lead characters in our tragic play—the ones we would eventually be fighting against if all went well.

One such night, during a stroll through the glittering Commerce Ward where we were ostensibly staking out the Tanmount—our heist destination—he had me recite the overlords and overladies.

“Alacine Mortis, Mistress of Webs, Minister of Intelligence. Stationed somewhere in the northeastern gray district, the Intelligence Ward.”

“She’s an easy one, given your history with the Spymistress’ son,” Skar drawled. “Continue.”

“Barnabac Craxon, the Red Butcher, the Blood Baron, Minister of Military. Stationed in the northwestern fortess and garrison of the yellow Military Ward.”