The Queen of Wolves by Douglas Clegg

reached her seconds later, grabbing her at the waist before she could flee again.
    “This is no time for anger and games. He slaughtered a dozen men on the other ship. I caught a glimpse of him. He looks like a ghoul—a walking corpse. Did you see him in the prisons?”
    As I said this, her eyes betrayed some knowledge, but she remained silent. She withdrew her wings, and I took her down to the quarterdeck of the ship. We sat among ropes and trunks, and she looked out at the mist.
    “There were many prisoners in Nezahual’s city,” she whispered, as if it were dangerous to say.
    “He wears a hooded cape, and I did not detect any feeling from him,” I said. “Just a pure and utter chill.”
    “He didn’t attack you,” she said.
    “He seemed...terrified of me. He did not want me to see him.”
    “Nezahual and his priests imprisoned many—some creatures who crossed from the Veil itself and others from the nameless territories of the deep earth.”
    “Tell me what you know of this vampyre,” I said.
    “Nothing,” she said. “If he did not harm you, perhaps he is merely following us to escape from Nezahual’s reach.”
    “Are there vampyres who look as we do in the silver of mirrors?”
    “I have never looked into a mirror, nor gazed in deep water to see my reflection. It is forbidden. You should not do so, either.” She gave me a look—from eyes that flashed fire beneath the gold mask—that made me want to rage against her, yet I knew this was her bait for me. I grinned, which only made her angry. “If you seek answers, go to the Veil and tear it again.”
    “You will tell me of this vampyre.”
    She would not look at me. “I do not know this creature.”
    I knew by her tone she lied, but at that moment the young sailor found us on deck and told us that Illuyanek had commanded him to show us our quarters for the coming of day.

    5

    The sailor led us along the deck to the captain’s quarters, which had but one small window that could be easily covered with heavy drapes to block the sun. We did not need a deep grave for our sleep, but darkness without sunlight—for it was the sun itself that would burn us.
    I was not used to comfort in sleep—I much preferred a tomb to a palace, a rock-strewn cavern to a bed. But Pythia liked her comforts, and when she entered the room ahead of me, she cried out in delight.
    I glanced about the quarters—vials of perfume littered the room, no doubt gifts for mistresses or wives, collected from outlandish places, tossed about by the men who had murdered their leader—and fine silks and heavy cloths, torn and drawn as if the men on board had gone mad and sought to destroy any finery their captain had gathered for himself. Reds and blues and vibrant yellows in the cloths, and woolen and silk rugs, made by expert craftsmen.
    There was treasure here for me and for Pythia—fine linen and silk clothing, like the perfume, gifts from foreign princes or bought in exotic marketplaces.
    Because I had traveled much, my clothes were caked with the filth of earth and air, and I gladly undressed. I tore off the nasty tunic I wore and the ragged trousers and all manner of clothes that had seemed to become one with my body.
    Naked, I took up the water bowl at the door and washed myself clean, though this was not something my kind seemed to do—nor was it necessary, for each dawn, our flesh renewed, fresh and clean, and only covered with the dirt of our resting place. Bathing was a habit I missed from my mortal years, and so I relished the scrubbing of my arms and legs. Water was considered our enemy, but this was simply because being immersed in it, we would have no strength, no magick. Who cared for power when one could be clean?
    Pythia sat on the bed and watched me. She questioned my need for such cleanliness, mocking my mortal ways. “The day’s sleep will refresh you enough,” she said. “Although I am enjoying seeing you scrub.”
    “Do not laugh,” I said. “You are