Chapter 17

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Celesta looked at the body lying on the floor with an uncharacteristically soft and relaxed expression on her face. Hustin could have sworn she was smiling in a way that had never happened before in his memory. She looked like a young girl just entering adulthood, the undead never let mercy or pity override sober calculation, she was always focused on the goal at hand. So when she saw something adorable, like a puppy or a small child, Celesta thought first of all whether and how she could use it.

She was not cruel. She just didn't think she had the right to be kind.

The more surprising it is to see the always collected leader displaying some positive emotion. Directed at an absolutely disgusting object. The filthy, smelly, deadly drunken man, drunk to the point of complete insanity, was not, by any standards, a beauty queen. He would not have been allowed, not even into decent society - not any jail would agree to shelter such a subject.

And yet Celesta was smiling.

Slowly, clearly stretching her pleasure, she rolled up the sleeve of her wine-stained shirt, pierced a vein with a long, sharp claw, and sipped her drink with pleasure. Then, reluctantly, she broke away, offered the still snoring man's hand to Medea, and stepped aside.

"Are you surprised at my behavior, Hustin?"

If the boy had remained human, he would have flinched. It wasn't the first time Celesta had guessed his thoughts, striking him with supernatural insight.

"No surprise there." The girl smiled ironically and affectionately at the same time. "You and I see different things. You see the drunk on the floor, and I see the opportunity in front of me. Now we don't have to lurk in alleys, attacking passersby in danger. From now on, we can not only work but live!"

"The money will be there, the agents will show up, and the spiders won't find us," Medea broke away from her meal. "The only thing left to do is to find a decent place to live."

"Remember when you didn't believe me?"

"So you promised completely crazy things!"

Hustin looked from one girl to the other perplexed, not understanding why they were laughing. He happily escaped the overwhelming loneliness, the drying thirst, and the eternal fear of not waking up with the next sunset. On his darkest days, he was surrounded by his family, ready, no matter what, to share with the young man the last and protect him. So the reasons for his friends' good mood he did not understand.

"Come on, let's not stay here," Celesta waved her hand. "We'll have to be careful until we find Varek a helper."

The tavern turned out, in the ghouls' eyes, to be perfect. Varek bought an entire entryway in a former three-story high apartment building and enthusiastically set about remodeling it. Apartments on the first floor have turned into a kitchen and a cheap hall with drinks, the floor above will place a class cafe - work in it has not yet ended, had to decorate the room - under the roof made room for administration and suites. Fakasius had promised to supply waitresses and bed girls for a modest fee so that by local standards the place was in some ways even respectable. True, instead of the original five hundred it cost seven hundred dinars, but the undead spared no expense.

In the basement, Varek set up a "sobering-up room" - simply put, the workers covered the walls and floor with thick boards. This was supposed to be used to put drunk or unconscious brawlers in the basement, to wait until they were sober, and to charge them for the damage they had done. The tavern-keeper was the only one who knew what the room was for. Through a secret passage disguised with wood that led to the sewers, the ghouls would come and feed on the hapless sufferers. There is, of course, a risk that an unauthorized person might inadvertently peek into the cellar, but for this case, there were inconspicuous hinges on the inside of the sturdy door and a peephole in the hatch leading to the underground. Though the undead had excellent hearing, the extra precaution wouldn't hurt.

The euphoria was gone, replaced by the usual suspects. Holiness knows too much about the life of the ghouls - you might say, they depend on him. Now there is parity: the undead supply the bandit with drugs, help him solve small problems, and in return, he provides the tavern cover and tosses money. It seems simple enough. However, in the long run, the situation looks very bleak. Fakasius can give the undead a lot of trouble, all he has to do is rat out the guards and organize an ambush. Even if the soldiers manage to fight off and get away lay low, they will lose almost all their sources of income. Without money, the spy network would collapse. The late Morvanites were good because they worked with pure enthusiasm, while ordinary people need to be paid.

Perhaps we should find some more fanatics. The Dark One is worshipped by many.

We can start by talking to Tarrasch, recalling the old idea about transporting the contents of the caches. Especially since there is a cover-up. The authorities have allowed northerners to choose their own place to build a new home, highly regarded blacksmiths. A great privilege. By all appearances, in the near future people will be in high demand: villages have to be populated. That is why the process of enslavement is now actively going on; the community members are forced to agree to move. And they don't say where they will be moved to. In Talea, it seems, only artisans will remain: the Duke wants to have control over the means of production - vegetable growers, fishermen, and other people will be relocated. But at the same time, there was a relaxation, allowing officials above the third rank and their households to choose their place of residence within the city as they saw fit. Also, trade over-the-counter goods was allowed, the market was legalized, and license tags for certain kinds of activities were introduced. In short, life was slowly getting better, though not for everyone.

So, Tarrasch intends to open his own blacksmith shop. A big one; he already has a small one. He wants to settle down away from the port, closer to the new settlements and the mine, where there's sure be work. He intends to marry off his two daughters to his apprentices and leave the house to his eldest son, while he and most of his family will move to a new one. He's got the papers he needs - all that's left is to find a suitable place.

We should have a talk with the head of the family: we can be useful to each other.

"Hustin, when are you going to see your family?"

"Tomorrow. My third cousin has a Patron's Day, so I want to present him with a gift."

Celesta almost stumbled. The Highlanders continued to amaze her.

"Do you think it's a good idea?"

"Why not?" There was a look of amazement in the guy's eyes.

"You're a sort of dead now," the girl hinted. "Gifts are supposed to come from the living."

"With you southerners, maybe so. But in the North, our ancestors look after the family until forty years after death."

Celesta could not find an answer to this argument. So she went back to the topic she was going to talk about first: "I'll go with you: I must have a word with Tarrasch."

"About moving?

"Not only that. We've got some stuff stashed away in the Pit, and I think it's time to get it back. By the way, there's a lot of literature on magic and the occult: a whole room full of books."

"Wow! So maybe I should go, too? I'll look what to pick up first.'

The ghoul was skeptical of the suggestion. Despite his success in alchemy and, as far as she could tell, a decent education in other fields, Hustin still caused her doubts as an expert magician. So she responded in a streamlined manner: "I don't think so. You got a lot of dope to cook, and it's hard to feed two ghouls in a small group at once. And by the way, would the men be willing to feed me or Medea? Or are they only willing to share blood with their relatives?"

"What the father orders, they will do. But it will be hard to convince the father."

"It's okay, I have my arguments."

She wondered if she should go on her own. Medea knew the territory of Pit better, easier to navigate the labyrinths of the ruined quarters, had established a good relationship with the male part of Hustin's kin. Of those who knew of his posthumous status. A beautiful woman is forgiven many weaknesses, even if she is undead. On the negative side was the panicked fear of Carlon, whose sanctuary would be literally a stone's throw away. Fear was natural. Hell, Celesta herself felt sick at the thought of the mad priest! The dilemma...

Tarrasch greeted his son and his guest with mild wariness. He knew from experience that the little ghoul wouldn't just drop in - she must be up to something again. Ever since Hustin had brought word of the failed - or overly successful, as the case might be - ritual, he had been in a constant state of doubt. Had he made a mistake in trusting Celesta? What a foolish thing to do, to try to play a trick on the gods! And with the Dark One himself! But they had survived, the demon had taken only the living... And then the son, after the sacrifice, looked almost alive, red-faced, happy, moving often and with pleasure. So Morvan accepted the sacrifice?

And they don't keep an eye on the house.

A worm of uncertainty remained, even though the ghouls seemed to be doing well. So the master grunted incredulously at the sight of Celesta: "It's been a long time since you've been here. You must have done something wrong again."

"Look, Tarrasch, do you want money?" The girl inquired instead of an answer.

"It depends on what kind. If it's something bloody, I'll be careful."

"There are still cellars with goods in the Pit, which can be taken out and sold. The food, of course, mostly rotted away, but clothes, tools, construction materials are stored for a long time. Not all warehouses were looted after the plague, some survived and are still closed. They are willing to show you for a percentage."

"It's all gone, I guess."

"I doubt it. The marauders were after a few other categories of things, and there were mutants in a lot of places, and they'd been cleared out recently. Medea and I stashed a lot of things away: if not searched carefully, the soldiers wouldn't find them."

"I have to think about it," Tarrasch scratched his head. "It's not something you can solve right away. What will you ask for in return?"

"Out of respect for you a fifth, plus you'll help move some items to the port. It's mostly literature."

"Books?! No, you carry them yourself! If people find out we keep books, no guards will protect us."

"You don't need to store anything, you just take the cargo to the nearest checkpoints. Your brother is a corporal - let him organize an escort so that they don't search you. You can help us stack the boxes in the warehouse, and then we'll haul it ourselves."

"It's still dangerous," the Elder insisted. "And my brother's busy right now, they won't let him out of the squad."

"Give the centurion some money," Celesta shrugged indifferently. "Is this your first time? There's a risk, of course, but isn't a single ride worth the chance to earn thousands of dinirs? With that kind of money an estate could be built. Think about it, I'm not rushing your answer."

The ghoul rose from the bench, about to say goodbye. The meeting took place in the familiar outhouse, but this time Tarrasch had no "support group" in the form of his male relatives. But there were merry voices coming from the main house, and the smell of freshly baked goods and stew. For what reasons did the northerners get the insanely expensive flour Celesta didn't ask. She knew from talking to Hustin. The boy had sworn not to talk to children, and he didn't see many adults either, but he couldn't miss out on the festivities.

It seems that the habit of not putting all the eggs in one basket was gradually transformed into an instinct. Celesta felt the discomfort of the only source of income and food - or, more accurately, the lack of alternatives to the tavern. Outwardly things were going well: Varek was working, she and Medea were expanding the number of hideouts, gradually finding sheltered corners in the sewers, going deeper and deeper, and Hustin was gradually mastering the alchemical laboratory. However, Celesta realized with dismay that all of their money channels were tied to Fakasius. If he wanted to betray... No, there's Tarrasch and his family, of course, but some vague feeling forced to keep him out of business. Their relationship was odd: both wished to see each other as a strong, steady partner, but studiously avoided too strong a friendship. They fulfilled petty requests, rendered one-time services, and were wary of long-term projects.

Therefore, Celesta did not doubt that Tarrasch would agree to help with the transportation. Just as she was sure that if she offered to build another tavern together on the most favorable terms, the master would refuse. And he would be right not to endanger his kind.

So we have to find other ways. Preferably away from crime: no need to attract the attention of the authorities, though... Holiness was impressed by the kidnapping of Osilti from his own home - he offered crazy money for the elimination of his rivals. So crazy, in fact, that Celesta wouldn't hesitate to agree if someone else were the client. She would be willing to take out one or two, but no more. Working as a hitman regularly is too dangerous, the craft gives unnecessary popularity. What can one do, anyway? Now that the authorities have allowed trade and craft, there will be a choice. Stores of goods would spring up, merchants would gradually move between settlements, private boats would go to sea. With the initial capital, it would have been possible to seize part of the market from the very beginning, if they had not been ghouls. The same problem: the undead must act with the hands of their loyalists...

We will have to urgently restore the destroyed network of informants, to recruit new ones, from the well-proven mortals to make assistants in the business. This is not a day's work, and it should be started immediately - right now. Before active relocation to new places of residence, it is necessary to find out which of the old agents have remained unnoticed by spiders. Remind those who survived, order to send word when their fate is finally decided, tossing some money at the beginning. Then pick out the most intelligent ones, have them recruit people themselves. Celesta estimated the time and money it would take and stifled the urge to swear. She consoled herself with the adage: "The journey of a thousand leagues begins with a single step," and she began her work little by little.

If Tarrasch is tempted by the opportunity to get a lucrative score, Medea will go with him. I'd like to go myself, of course, but there are several reasons for entrusting the case to a friend. And it's not even because Medea knows the Pit with all its dangers very well. First of all, her stunning good looks and excellent acting talents will easily allow her to manipulate the men accompanying her - they will still argue about who will be the first to give her blood. In other words, there will be no problem with feeding. Second, she needs to be assured of Carlon's death. Rumors are good, of course, but it is much better to see for yourself, to stand happily over a pile of ashes, to be sure that vague hopes are fulfilled. Third, the sooner Celesta met the recruits, the better chance she had of catching them in the act. The authorities were too eager to relocate: troops had not yet completely cleared the suburbs, and carts of communes were already streaming up the roads. If they left, where would they be found?

Such considerations led the elder ghoul to her old place of residence a day later, to the cozy house that she had become accustomed to and thanks to her persistent efforts. The dungeon greeted Celesta with the familiar sound of water, stale air, and the squeaks of the rats that had multiplied. The rodents had grown bolder during the time the undead had spent in the safe house, but they fled at the sight of the beast of prey, clever creatures remembering who had butchered their numbers. Before going in, the girl carefully searched the area around the den for signs of an intruder's presence. Some soot stains on the ceiling, boot prints, and scratches on the walls lingered along the floor. Still, after circling the dungeon, Celesta was relieved to see that no one had gone too deep. Their house had gone unnoticed.

The door looked untouched, and nothing had changed inside, either. The loaded crossbow still aimed menacingly at the uninvited visitor's stomach, the few hairs tossed on the floor lay in the same order. A satisfied smile slid across the ghoul's lips. She seemed to be in luck - today she'd be in a familiar hideout, and tomorrow she'd start quietly tracking down the right people.

"What am I supposed to do with you?"

Celesta wasn't in the habit of thinking out loud, but the situation was appropriate. Like a piano, with her fingers, she let go of the prisoner's throat, letting him breathe, and then squeezed hard, not letting him call for help. She had no guarantee that the captured spy was watching alone.

"What do you think?" She loosened the pressure a little. "Any suggestions?"

"Let go," the man wheezed. "I won't tell anyone."

Celesta grumbled irritably. Over the past two days, she had checked in with almost all her former agents, met and talked to some, left signs for some, and failed to contact many. The re-establishment of acquaintances went successfully up to the last informant who brought the "tail" to the meeting. The spy proved skilled and experienced enough to follow the agent to the meeting place and get close to the ghoul, but not enough to go unnoticed. He was understandable: It was pitch black, and a mortal could not have seen from afar who his ward was communicating with. But when he tried to get closer, he was immediately confronted by Celesta.

Who now didn't know what to do.

"What do you mean you wouldn't tell?" The undead woman pretended to be surprised. "Do you really intend to disregard your spy duty and conceal from your superiors the fact of meeting the desired object? No, I can't in good conscience push you to violate your oath."

After thinking for a while, she jumped down into the sewer manhole, walked lightly down the tunnel, and released her prisoner, tossing him into a small nook. She took away his weapon, and fighting her with her bare hands was useless. But she wouldn't let him go, either, and kept her hands on his wrists.

"Who else are you following? Besides that guy who just left here?"

"I was just passing by..."

He didn't have time to finish the sentence, howling in pain. The ghoul held on a bit longer and loosened her grip.

"When a man lies, his scent changes and his pulse quickens. Of course, you're very frightened and excited, and your heart is beating like crazy, but I can tell the truth from a lie. Don't try to deceive me - it's useless."

In reality, things were much more limited than that. Despite their extensive interrogation experience, the rebels were still poorly versed in such subtle areas of physiology. It would be impossible for Celesta to tell whether a captive was lying or just nervous, based on his pulse rate. But she had a clear idea of the situation she found herself in and what to expect from the captive. Besides, she did sense a lie - instinctively. After the ill-fated ritual, her ability to sense people had grown by leaps and bounds.

"Well, I'm waiting."

The man breathed heavily, looking at his tormentor with fear and hatred. He did not attempt to break free.

"You're going to get caught anyway!" he suddenly exploded with a scream.

"Unconstructive." The girl squeezed his wrists lightly, making the prisoner shudder. "Think how to get through the night. Answer the question: who else are you following?"

"I don't know. No, I really don't know! I'm just a performer, how would I know!?"

"Should I break your arm?"

"No!"

"Then tell the truth. At least something, at the level of rumors, but you know. So?"

"There's another man," the spy finally surrendered. "He's keeping an eye on Red Almoke."

"And?"

"I don't know! There aren't many people, it's easier to order the headman to watch a person from his community than to assign a separate observer."

Celesta decided the guy wasn't lying. If she were the spider chief, she wouldn't waste resources by unnecessary surveillance on every agent she identified, either, but would simply try to recruit someone from the inner circle. So she should not trust any of her informants? Every one of them could be "under the radar"?

Unpleasant news. We'll have to start all over again.

"Are we under orders to be caught or killed?"

"Observe," the man answered grimly. "Do not take any action upon encounter, limit yourself to observation and inform your superiors. That's all."

It was obvious that he really wasn't going to say anything else. A rank-and-file performer has only the information he needs to have, and the one he caught was no exception. However, Celeste managed to get something out of him. She listened with great attention to his story about the internal kitchen of the spiders, the names of supervisors, methods of work. However, words settle down captive chose with great care and nothing really valuable said, his story abounded with gaps. At last, the ghoul had made up her mind:

"I'm not going to kill you." Spy shuddered at the sudden change of subject. His heart was beating wildly again as he realized the girl's words. "You tell your superiors we're leaving. Of course, you will not take off the surveillance, but that's your business, - I cut off the old contacts. And now it's time for you to go to bed..."

She stunned the prisoner a little, then, after feeding on him, she staggered away. Well, as they say, a negative result is also a result. At least she found out about the activities of the security guards in time. She wouldn't be able to determine who the spider agents were among her informants' entourage, so she'd find others. She won't tear up old connections. She'll lie low and not come back for at least a year when this story is forgotten. Or not come back at all, depending on the circumstances. Her people would probably not be harmed by the scouts - no one has been arrested so far. Strange, in fact: at least a couple of them should have been arrested and questioned. Why didn't they do that?

Celeste paused, pondering the thought. Could the guards have turned someone over? They could; there were plenty of ways to apply pressure. But then, why bother assigning spies?

In any case, it is necessary to lay low and look for new mortal helpers. Right now she has three channels left: Holiness, Richard, and Tarrasch. None of them inspires absolute confidence. Tarrash will not betray her, but he will not help, and Fakasius, who is always ready to betray, knows about Varek. We must find someone else. Of course, it makes sense to interrupt contacts with the three mentioned, but, firstly, they are all kinds of sources of income, which can not be lost. Secondly, these people occupy a relatively influential position in society, they have no ties to the poor people caught by security. This means that they will not be inspected too thoroughly.

When Medea returned, they would deal with the human resources issue. They formed a good tandem. Where logic and equanimity were required, Celesta communicated, and her friend successfully pressed the feelings and emotions with her beauty. Gradually they would begin to involve Hustin in the case: let him help, not all of him sit in the laboratory. Until the return of Medea, who should now accompany people to Pit. Celesta would gather rumors and select possible candidates for recruitment. The tavern provided excellent opportunities to study the clientele.

The woman shifted her pose slightly, noting with latent pleasure the eager glances cast on her. She was still flattered by men's attention, despite the misery she'd suffered at the hands of men. Medea, however, knew better than most what kind of beast lurked in her companions, and she did not allow herself to relax for a moment.

By mutual agreement, the troop walked at night. The men preferred daylight, but the ghoul could not move in the sunlight; it was too difficult to walk alone and catch up with a small wagon train. A lone woman would attract anyone's attention, lurking was a loss of momentum, and time would have to be wasted on the hunt. The head of the detachment, the same corporal Karva, had stuttered about taking Medea in the daytime in the cart, but the woman rejected the proposal without hesitation. First, she did not trust people enough to entrust them to guard her body, and secondly, to approach a sleeping undead was dangerous: his instincts would make it claw at his prey.

The city, cleaned and occupied by troops, differed from Medea's familiar Pit mainly in its safety. How long had they walked then, during their flight? Seven days, twelve? Now it took two days to the monastery, and there were patrols all along the way all the time. Some came up, looked at the papers the officials had drawn up and asked about the purpose of the journey. They honestly answered that they were going to move, for which they were looking for a suitable place. On such occasions Medea hid her face and sat quietly, trying not to be seen by the soldiers.

She already knew all four of the companions Tarrasch had sent to fulfill the agreement with Celesta. Not just their names: she had learned their habits, their character, their little weaknesses. In short, all the things that allow a weak woman to survive and to turn rough and strong men. On the first night, she talked to each one, figured out what to expect, who was more dangerous, who was less. She smiled, she joked, she twirled seductively in front of a tiny shard of mirror. She had always been predicted a bright acting future, and her natural talents had bailed her out this time. Soon people began to think of her as a poor sufferer, the gods had put her in a difficult situation, began to pity her, and the idea of feeding the ghoul with blood was accepted without rejection. No, they had known they would have to do it before, but now their resentment was gone. They had somehow forgotten that Medea was easily able to kill a man with her bare hands and had been hunting that way for almost three years.

"This is where we hid the path."

Karwa looked doubtfully at the ruins of what had once been a longhouse. The ruins looked like ruins, and they had been set on fire for the last time. Medea grinned:

"There used to be an underground store here that sold clothes. After the Plague, it was looted and burned, but part of the store survived. Then the mutants settled nearby, and thanks to their proximity, looters avoided what had become a dangerous place. Celesta and I found the hole by chance, and just in case, we hid it - covered it with planks and earth. Let's hope no water got in."

"The main thing is that there are no monsters," the man said optimistically, clearly not understanding the ambiguity of his statement. The undead woman standing nearby smiled involuntarily. "It can not all rot away, at least something left. If we find at least two dozen factory-wrapped pants, we'll consider the trip paid off."

"Let's see. There's another hiding place not far away; at worst, we'll drop this one and go dig up a new one. The night is long."

Luckily for Medea, they didn't have to go anywhere. Time and floods had not spared the things stacked in the basement, but even what survived would have turned the finder into a wealthy man by Taleya standards. Clothes of varying quality and style, for men and women, for all seasons - people who came to the place had their eyes scattered as they looked at the riches on the shelves. Grown men rejoiced like boys. Only Karwa, who had kept his head, was wondering how to transport the merchandise he had found back home to the clan's homestead.

The ghoul touched him lightly on the shoulder.

"I have to go away, not far."

"Should I send someone? It's not safe to be alone."

"No need. I hope that place has been cleaned out by the army." She was quiet for a while and then added with a frown. "If not, I can't save an ordinary man. I don't know if I can escape myself."

"So why do you go? Tell me where to look, and I'll talk to the patrolmen in the morning."

Medea shook her head.

"Thank you. It's really more reliable, but... I have to see for myself. Make sure. It's a small risk, and I don't have the strength to take it anymore."

Not listening to objection, the woman slipped into the shadows. She was a little wry when she said she was in a hurry to see the monastery. Medea was afraid. Her resolve to ascertain Carlon's death and the demise of the place that had been somehow home for two years was fading with each passing second. She feared that the next night she might not have the courage to walk under the familiar archway to the small courtyard paved with carved slabs. Nor did she want to suffer the uncertainty.

So today she left humans and went to a monastery.

Alone.

The first step was incredibly difficult: my eyes searched by themselves for the guard on duty. Gunn, Paltin, Tick, Artak... No one, the rock that had served as a seat of sorts was empty. The walls were covered in soot, and there were traces of unkempt surroundings. Cheered up, Medea stepped more confidently into the temple building, noting the marks of the battle that had taken place here. If Carlon were alive, the first thing he would do would be to tidy up the sanctuary.

The soldiers dared not desecrate Morvan's symbol: a black cross with a white dot in the middle stood untouched. The rest of the room looked utterly trashed, and the ghoul's sensitive nose picked up smells of blood soaked into the floor. The skirmish had been fierce. And it ended in victory for the humans.

The woman stared at the scorched silhouette on the floor in front of the altar. It was the usual place for a scorch mark to remain where a ghoul had died when it failed to hide from the sun. Why the mark was there, in total darkness, she did not wonder, having grown accustomed to considering the priest capable of any miracle. Medea sat down, ran her fingertips across the dark marble floor, picking up dust, dirt, ashes, and something else intangible that remains after the death of any kinsman, gently touched the collected with her tongue. Yes, some ghoul had died here. She stood up, nervously wiping her hands on her dress, timidly taking a few steps back. She wanted to run, but she wasn't done yet.

After bowing to the altar and hurriedly muttering a prayer that had been hard-won, the woman ran out into the courtyard. It was here that the smell of burning was strongest. The huge fire that had recently burned out on sacred ground had served as the final resting place for the rest of the ghouls of the little colony. They must have been killed in their sleep. Carlon, a faithful servant of the Dark God, was able to stand up and resist the soldiers who had come in the afternoon, but the others lay weakened before the men, enraged, fearful, and hateful. How strong the ghouls were at night, so defenseless were they by day. To be sure of her hunch, Medea looked into all the cells, one by one. Empty, only the ashes of burnt things lying on the floor. The victors did not take the property of the damned, not wanting such trophies.

After circling the monastery, Medea returned to the temple and sat down wearily on the miraculously preserved pew. She had not expected the turmoil that the sight of the ruined abode would cause in her mind. Relief mingled with pain at the sight of the chipped frescoes, washed with her own hands more than once, joy at the death of her brethren mixed with a longing for the days when they had lived together. Even Carlon, still terrifying, now seemed less cruel and ruthless than he really was. After all, it had once been the priest who had picked up the frightened, newly risen ghoul, brought her to safety, taught her how to hunt...

Sometimes even evil leaves behind a good memory.

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