Page 64 of Dhampira

“Vander,” Lorcan said.

The prince’s voice cut through the tension. Abruptly I realized that Vander and I had drifted closer. We stood toe to toe, the hem of my skirts brushing his boots. The last time we were this close, I’d kissed him—and then he’d kissed me.

You’re beautiful. And I’m stupid.

He’d kissed me. But a moment ago, he looked ready to kiss Lorcan.

“You’re right,” Vander said finally. “I wasn’t honest with you.” He gestured to a bench on the edge of the grass. “Sit, Princess. This is a long story.”

It was my turn to hesitate. Lorcan remained on the ground, his forearm over his knee and his dark gaze steady.

“Please,” Vander added.

Gathering my skirts, I went to the bench and sat. Vander followed, tucking his scabbard out of the way before seating himself on the other end. Bracing his hands on his knees, he gazed around the arches.

“This place is called the Everless. It has other names, but that’s the one most people use. Not that anyone ever comes here. It’s something of an in-between place.”

“Like the Wendlewood?” I asked.

Vander looked at me, a faint smile in his eyes. “A little bit, yes. I’m something of an in-between creature.”

“I thought you were a turned vampire.”

“I am. But I’m also a changeling.”

Surprise parted my lips. Most Gheddans dismissed changelings as nothing more than a charming folktale. Parents told their children stories of elves who crept into humans’ homes in the middle of the night and stole infants from their cribs. The elves produced even fewer offspring than vampires. Driven by a desire to nurture young they couldn’t have, they raised the occasional human child as their own. The stolen children were called changelings—humans forever altered by Veradorn’s magic, which gave them various gifts. The idea of a changeling had always seemed far-fetched. What would an immortal as powerful as an elf want with a human? But I’d seen plenty of magic since I crossed the Feyline. If Rasimir could have servants with scorpion tails, why not an elven changeling?

I shot a look at Lorcan, who observed us with the same steady expression. “You knew this,” I said, making it a statement.

“Yes,” he said.

I turned to Vander. “Does Rasimir know?”

The smile in Vander’s eyes grew bitter. “All too well. Rasimir turned me.”

Of course. I should have realized it before. Vander was the captain of Rasimir’s personal guard. Aside from Lorcan, he was closer to Rasimir than anyone.

“This happened two hundred years ago?” I asked.

Nodding, Vander rubbed a palm over the reddish scruff on his cheek. “The elves took me when I was two months old. I never knew my human family. Even back then, Rasimir’s wars had pushed most of the elves out of Nocta. I was raised in Veradorn, the elven plane.”

I looked at the towering statue. Long waves of marble hair covered the woman’s ears, but a closer inspection revealed a pointed tip where a human’s would have a soft curve. “Are we in Veradorn now?”

“Yes and no.” Vander followed my gaze. “If Veradorn were a house, the Everless might be its porch. This place is like a doorway. Right now, we’re sitting on the front steps.”

Water splashed into the pool. The steady cascade had stained the front of the statue’s gown, the marble folds darker than her smooth cheeks and molded arms.

“I left Veradorn when I was eighteen,” Vander said. He braced his elbows on his knees, his fingers laced and his gaze on a spot in the grass. “Time runs differently in the elven plane. When I returned to Sausberg, a hundred years had passed. My family was dead, the house I was born in demolished and rebuilt two times over. I had nowhere to go. No money. I’m not proud of it, but I took to stealing for a while. The law caught up with me. When they put me in prison, the constable gave me a choice between the noose and the army.” Vander looked at me. “I chose the army.”

“And you fought for King Hubert,” I said, my heart breaking for the teenager he’d been.

“I was twenty when they sent my regiment to the front lines of the war. That Hubert was the thickest of them all. Rumor had it his grandmother had been part pixie. He was obsessed with magic, and he had notions of reuniting Ghedda and Nocta.” Vander snorted. “That went as well as you might expect. We were slaughtered at the Feyline. I was dying on the battlefield when Rasimir found me. Just before he swung his sword to take my head, something stayed his hand. He sensed my changeling blood, and he turned me. I’ve served him ever since.”

“Why?” I asked, the parade of horrors I’d witnessed making me clench my hands in my skirts. “You can’t enjoy serving Rasimir.” As soon as I said it, I realized my mistake. Because maybe Vander did enjoy it.

“He doesn’t,” Lorcan said, snapping my attention to him. His color was better, and his eyes were sharp. “Vander’s service isn’t a matter of choice. Rasimir sired him. Vander can’t refuse a direct order without enduring intense pain. The longer he resists, the worse the pain becomes. Eventually it leads to death.”

I knew my shock showed on my face as I turned back to Vander. “I’ve never heard this.”