Elizabeth might not be too much of a downgrade.

  Predictably, they all gawk at us in total shock since we poofed out of thin air.

  “Shh,” I whisper. “Please be quiet. We are not here to harm you.”

  The women all stare at me. A quick peek in their minds... and they’re wondering why I’m so pale. Wow, good thing they didn’t see me before the Red Rider situation, back when I was a bloodsucker.

  I continue skimming their thoughts, on guard for potential treachery. The three calm girls mostly wonder how I came out of nowhere and are mildly worried about what we’re going to do to them. Since we are unfamiliar, they don’t know if they should serve us in the bath, but they also don’t want to raise the alarm if we’re not going to harm them. They’re not terribly worried if we’re here to steal or do something bad to the new queen. As expected, they’ve been kept in this room for a while as bath attendants to the former royal family as well as important guests. The second most prominent thought in their heads is in regard to the other two slaves—the former queen, Fahma, and her daughter, Nahari.

  When I peer into their heads, I’m surprised to see they’re more embarrassed at having become slaves and not too concerned about being damn close to naked. Seriously, those loincloths are like having a scrap of toilet paper hanging from their hips and around their breasts.

  “This is unexpected,” I say to the queen.

  “Who are you?” asks Fahma, managing to scrape together some sort of dignity in her voice. “What do you want, dead one?”

  I sigh. “I’m not one of the dead ones.”

  “You are drained of life,” says the queen.

  I smile. “We’re not from around here.”

  The four ‘experienced’ slaves stand and walk over to check us out. Nahari uses her hands to hide the slave collar. Her daughter does too. Disregarding the women walking around and studying me like some alien creature—which I guess I am—I approach the queen and her daughter. “We’re here to stop the woman who declared herself empress.”

  All six of the women gasp.

  “Tis unlikely,” says Princess Nahari. “You will be killed like the others.”

  “Or not. We have a plan.”

  “Then pray it is a good plan.”

  I look at the queen. “How did you and your daughter come to be down here?”

  Fahma glances down, ashamed. “After the witch murdered my husband, she kept the men as slaves for herself. My daughter and I, she put here until she figures out what to do with us. I fear she will soon kill the two of us, perhaps turning us into monsters, too.”

  “Hold on.” Allison raises her hand, reacting to my understanding of their words. “Will you tell them not to use ‘witch’ like that? Elizabeth is not a witch.”

  “Elizabeth isn’t a witch,” I repeat to them. “She’s a vampire.”

  The women shiver. Apparently, this language has a word for vampire. Not sure if I should feel comforted or worried. Checking their thoughts tells me the concept translated accurately enough. A person who’s dead but not dead. Only here, they eat the flesh of their victims rather than merely drink their blood. After they’re done, their appearance changes to replace the person they killed so they can drain the life force of an entire family sharing one house. So they both feast upon the flesh and the psychic energy of their victims.

  Ack.

  I really hope that’s folklore and not fact here.

  “Our vampires are a little different than your understanding.” I explain how we came from an alternate reality, chasing Elizabeth across dimensions. “We’re a little short on time, but how would you ladies like to be set free?”

  A woman to my left bows her head, fear wafting off her. Even if they do manage to escape, she expects to be caught and arrested, which is punished by abandonment in the desert, tied naked to a stone column. Okay, this society has some problems. Barbaric. Then again, humans are shitty to each other in our world, too. Some of those medieval people did horrid things to each other… like scaphism. Ugh. Pro tip: if bored in front of a computer, don’t hit the random button on Wikipedia and read about ancient torture-slash-execution methods.

  “At present, we cannot go anywhere. The pain will be unbearable,” says Nahari, clutching her collar. “If we leave this room, it will feel as though our skin is peeling off.”

  “The collars are attached to this room?” I ask.

  “No. The one who owns us has given us an order not to leave,” says a slip of a woman on my right. “These”—she taps her collar—“know when we disobey.”

  “May I?” I ask, indicating the collar.

  She nods, standing there obediently, allowing me to examine the collar up close. It’s a silvery metal, about a quarter-inch thick. A thin seam at the front looks like it ought to have a keyhole or some other mechanism, but doesn’t. Probably magic keeping it closed. There’s a hinge at the back of her neck. It’s not terribly thick. I could probably snap it open, assuming nothing bad happens.

  “Allie, can you tell if these things will blow up or something if I break them?”

  She walks up and examines the same woman’s collar. “Not really sure. This is an enchanted item. And our reality doesn’t have ‘enchanters.’ At least, if it did, they died out when Camelot went from reality to myth. This world’s rules are different than ours.”

  “Would Max know?”

  “Maybe. But he’s an alchemist. Not a magical practitioner.”

  “Grr.” I look around at the captive women. “Do any of you know if it’s bad to break these collars off you?”

  They mostly shrug or give me clueless looks.

  “It is not possible to break them,” says a curvy woman. “You would need the crystal key.”

  Hmm. Let’s test that theory.

  I grasp the collar of the woman who let me study it, and attempt to pull the thing apart. At first, it doesn’t want to give, but after I burn a little energy to make myself stronger, it snaps as easily as if I’m breaking an ordinary latch. The collar flies open, launching a tiny metal rod across the room—the latch, apparently. Normal enough, except there’s no physical mechanism to operate it. Thus, the need for magic. Or the crystal key thingie.

  Nahari leaps upright and grabs two fistfuls of my shirt, shaking me. “Please, take this thing off me! I cannot bear it!”

  Queen Fahma stands much more gracefully. The other four gawk at me again. So weird. Breaking the collar shocks them more than teleportation. It’s a mix of doing ‘the thing that shall not be done’ as well as my being strong enough to snap the metal.

  “You say you are not one of them.” Queen Fahma raises an eyebrow.

  “It’s a complicated story. I’m a similar sort of being, but neither dead nor evil.” I snap the collar off Nahari’s neck.

  Kingsley snaps a collar or two off as well. Once we have the women free, Allison conjures them some temporary garments.

  I offer my hand to the queen. “Please, take my hand. All of you form a circle and grab on.”

  They do.

  I look at Kingsley and Allison. “Be right back.”

  They nod.

  Hmm. Can’t really take them to our tent. While I don’t necessarily expect the queen or any of these women to betray us to Elizabeth, it’s a chance not worth taking. Also, the former queen and princess would be too recognizable. Gotta keep them hidden for now.

  Aha! Idea.

  The place we stopped for food, where I made the rich guy give me money… I remember a stairway going up to a second floor, probably hotel rooms—or an inn. Whatever they call them here. Can’t have motels without cars, right?

  It’s perfect.

  I picture the dancing flame and concentrate on the dark top of the stairs. The fire moves toward me, even as I move toward it... until we pass through the ‘eye of the needle,’ so to speak. Impressively, none of the six women make a sound as our surroundings abruptly shift.

  The first door on the left closest to us leads to an empty room with a single bed. Good enough for now. I usher them inside.

  “I need to get back to my friends. For now, stay in here and keep out of sight. Oh, I should warn you. The clothing Allison made for you is going to disappear in about an hour.”

  “We know,” says the short woman. “Any object the magisters create from nothing does not last forever.”

  “Here.” I pass a handful of lahz coins to her. “People will recognize the queen and her daughter. You can go and buy real garments for everyone, as well as food. I will return as soon as I can.”

  Queen Fahma nods once. “It may not be worth much given the circumstances, but you have my gratitude.”

  Nahari comes close to crying all over me but holds herself back. She sits quietly on the edge of the bed, rubbing her bare neck as if she can’t believe the collar is gone.

  “If I or one of my friends don’t return in a few hours, it means we’ve failed to get rid of your new ‘empress.’ You’ll probably want to leave the city in that case.”

  “Then I shall ask Biymimat to protect you,” says the queen.

  Her thoughts tell me she’s referring to their goddess of life/motherhood/beauty. Slightly less powerful than their god-king, but more likely to do something because I’m a woman.

  Great. I’ll take all the help I can get.

  I teleport back to the bath chamber—and stop short staring at two more slave women, still in collars and loincloths. “Where did you two come—”

  Never mind. It’s Allison and Kingsley, courtesy of a cloaking spell. Allison’s thoughts gave them away. The short girl raises her arm at me... and my appearance abruptly changes into that of a tall slave girl. It’s completely an illusion as I don’t feel any different.

  “What are you doing?” I whisper.

  “It’s called disguising ourselves.” Allison folds her arms. She’s reveling in how powerful her magic is here.

  Kingsley pokes himself in the chest.

  “Oh, good grief. We’ve lost Kingsley. He’s going to be staring at his boobs for hours.”

  “Very funny,” he mutters... and pokes himself again. I note he still sounds like his old self; that is, a man with a deep voice.

  Footsteps echo from outside the room’s only exit. We hurry over to the dais where the women had been seated before and pretend to be ordinary servant girls.

  A woman in the black-and-red armor of the palace guard walks into the bath chamber. She’s paler than I am. The thin aura of shimmery white energy clinging to her skin identifies her clearly as one of the ascendant dark masters. It’s brutally sunny outside at this hour, but I’m not sure it matters to them. Normal vampires, of which Elizabeth brought a few dozen, would likely still be asleep. Anyway, I’m guessing she heard Kingsley’s deep voice in here and became suspicious.

  The ascendant wanders around the room, examining the gratings in the floor.

  Hmm, bet she’s wondering if a man’s down in the sewer.

  I swallow some pride and pretend to be frightened, keeping my head down. Kingsley does a fairly horrible ‘scared slave girl’ impression. Except his attempt to look harmless is more of a ‘please take two steps closer so I can rip your head off’ glare.

  Somehow, the ascendant doesn’t notice half the bath slaves are missing. She also doesn’t appear to realize the queen and her daughter are gone. Maybe her short-term memory is on par with that of a selfie-obsessed Instagrammer. She walks over to the dais, regarding us with an expression like she’s eyeing high-calorie desserts her trainer told her not to touch. Can’t tell completely if she’s attracted to women or merely hungry for blood, but good chance it’s a bit of both.

  I shift to hide my face.

  The ascendant bends forward and grabs my chin, forcing me to look up at her. She licks her lips while staring at my fake chest under the simple strap. Her eyes narrow. Uh oh. She’s trying to look at my thoughts, I bet. Game’s up.

  I summon as much energy as possible into speed, draw the Devil Killer from its dimensional sheath, and ram it into her heart. She gets her sword halfway out of its scabbard before the cross-guard of mine hits her chestplate. Fiery embers spray out of the wound, front and back, skittering over the stone floor.

  Kingsley jumps on her, clamping a hand over her mouth to muffle the horrible wail of agony she gives off during the six seconds it takes for her body to blacken into a charcoal sculpture. Her tunic catches fire, the leather armor also smoldering in spots. As she begins to break apart into dusty chunks, I pull the blade out of her. Glowing, wispy strands of soul energy siphon into the blade, brightening it from jet black to glowing forge-orange.

  “Ugh.” Kingsley snorts a few times, backing up. “Damn that stinks.”

  “Whoa…” Allison stares at the light streamers going into my sword, her expression appropriate for a little kid meeting Santa Claus in person. “Epic… You destroyed her entirely.”

  “Yeah.” I hold the sword out at arms’ length. “Nice quick thinking there, big guy.”

  He shakes his hand off to the side. “She bit me. Damn, I hate vampire fangs. That’s gonna sting for days.”

  I return the sword to its interdimensional pouch. “I think we should ditch the illusions, Allie.”

  She blinks at me, confused. “But they’ll recognize us right away.”

  “If we look like slaves, they’ll attack us, too,” whispers Kingsley. “These women aren’t supposed to leave this room. They see us walking around the castle in these outfits, they’ll know something’s wrong.”

  “Oh. Duh.” Allison biffs herself in the forehead. She thinks for a brief moment, then weaves another spell.

  Our skimpy clothes change to red-and-black armor over skirted red tunics and tall boots—just like the palace guard. Kingsley appears once again like himself, as does Allison. I assume I do too. I notice Allie has given us all healthy tans to blend in better. Smart choice.

  “Much better.” Kingsley rolls his head, then picks up the ascendant’s discarded sword.

  Chapter Eight

  The Perfect Moment

  Dressed like palace guards, we exit the royal bath and set about exploring the castle interior.

  It feels like more of a fortress than a palace, mostly because it’s a huge freakin’ pyramid of solid stone. Only the outermost rooms have actual windows. The majority of hallways and chambers are windowless, lit by magical orbs roughly the size of basketballs that emit a pale yellowish-white glow.

  Allison thinks it feels like we’ve walked onto the movie set for Dune. When I think ‘haven’t seen it,’ she gawks at me, then proceeds to ramble on and on about how this castle is ‘totally like the palace in the movie.’ It’s the aesthetic of things vaguely familiar and modern but simultaneously alien and archaic—like bronze desk lamps using magical glow balls instead of electric lights.

  Being dressed like a guard offers both an advantage and a disadvantage. On the positive side, Allison’s ‘don’t notice us’ spell is still working in here. Guaranteed if we walked around in ordinary clothes, we’d probably be seen through the spell. The soldier armor illusion makes us appear plausible enough to ‘belong’ here.

  The downside of dressing like a guard is, if we do get noticed, we’re probably going to get caught. Not once have we seen guards moving in a group of three. They’ve all been alone. So, if Allison’s spell fails and someone spots us, they’ll instantly question what we’re doing. Maybe they’ll think we’re on a mission?

  Meanwhile, the ground floor is pretty damn big. Kitchen, dining halls, servants quarters, giant throne room—empty, armory and soldier’s quarters (which we avoid like the plague), and like two dozen male slaves running around cleaning, dusting, or being domestic. They have the demeanor of employees, more like staff at a hotel than slaves. The collars, alas, are a pretty obvious marker of status. None are worried about imminent death like Fahma or Nahari, though I’m sure it’s due mostly to ignorance. To Elizabeth, these guys would be walking juice boxes. She wouldn’t kill them out of cruelty or for amusement as she would with the former royals, but simply because a sudden urge hit her. Or she got hungry. Or they happened to be near her when something pissed her off.

  We eventually locate stairs up to the second floor. As expected for a pyramid, the second floor is smaller than the first. It only takes us about forty minutes to recon the entire level and determine Elizabeth is not here. So, up we go again. The third floor is mostly guest bedrooms. There is, however, a library, another, much smaller, bath chamber—sans slaves—and several atriums on the outside edge with windows. No sign of a royal bedchamber anywhere yet, so it must be up more. Up one more floor.

  May the fourth be with us, thinks Allison.

  I groan mentally.

  As soon as we step out of the switchback stairs—nice, polished obsidian by the way—two things happen simultaneously to put me on edge. Tammy grunts in my mind like she’s lifting something heavy about the same time Elizabeth’s voice floats down the hall. Doesn’t take a genius to figure out my daughter is straining to keep us hidden.

  Cautiously, I head toward the voice.

  Even with Tammy guarding us, if Elizabeth makes eye contact with me, or any of us really, we’re busted. Proceed directly to war, do not collect $200. A short distance from the stairwell, I pause near a set of ornate double doors on my left. They’re partially open. I lean toward the gap between them for a quick peek into the room. Sure enough, Elizabeth is inside, standing by a big table with a bunch of ascendant dark masters. Looks like she’s having a ‘war room’ meeting.

  I lean back before anyone notices me. We go past the war room to the next doorway on the opposite side. Since it’s a small sitting room containing nothing more interesting than a few padded chairs and a tiny table, it seems like a safe, uninteresting, hiding spot. I dart in. Kingsley and Allison follow, and I push the door closed after they’re in.

  We stand in the middle of the room, Kingsley and I trying to listen in on what Elizabeth is talking about. Annoyingly, the footfalls of someone walking out in the hallway drowns her out. I hold my breath, waiting for them to go by. As they draw near, Kingsley tenses. Allison can’t seem to figure out what to do with her hands.