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The waxing rumble that rolled along the canyon-street had a shrill edge—an echo that sounded like screaming.

Wykham paused on the ladder leading from his clinic, and apprehension prickled across his scalp. What is that? he thought. It’s not a flood.

Daylight warmed the gold sandstone of the canyon walls and draped garlands of shadow along the frills of the carved building facades. It gave the street a peaceful look at odds with the threatening crunch of whatever approached. As the sound grew, glass-panes blinked all along all the vertical walls as people pushed their windows open to lean from their warren-homes. Wykham could hear far-off yells and shrieks now spiking the grumble, but the noise’s source remained hidden around the gentle bend of the street.

Finally, right at the canyon’s corner, people began to whip their faces in Wykham’s direction and shout. He leaned away from his ladder and strained to hear. The curve of the flood-bowl below amplified their cries, and Wykham’s eyes widened as he understood. He spun on his ladder rung and bellowed also. “Clear the street! Runaway cart!”

The people walking below jumped to grab ladders. Some raced up the curved sides the canyon’s base, then leapt to hook their fingers onto the edges of gondola niches. In a city scoured by flash floods, that nimbleness was innate; the elderly knew to keep themselves to the walkways above.

Within seconds, only one person remained on the flood-tube’s floor, not far from Wykham’s ladder. A young woman with sandy curls spilling from under her straw hat stood and frowned up the tube, her eyes hollow with misery and fury.

Fear jabbed Wykham’s gut. He spun his head toward the rumbling.

The cart hared into sight around the canyon-street’s kink. It slewed up the curved wall of the flood-tube, its wheels cackling on their axles. The cart began to tip, but then shuddered into balance and roared back down the bell of the street-bottom. Its cut harnesses streamed like ribbons, except for one set that tethered a mini-ox to the cart. The animal’s gory corpse bounced and spun under the wheels, slapping a trail of blood down the street.

The cart’s driver had one arm wrapped around the back of his bench and both legs braced against the footboard. His other arm hauled on the brake handle with muscles standing out like cords under his skin. The man’s bared teeth matched the circle of white around his irises.

Wykham whirled back to the young woman. “Move!”

He saw her decision settle in her eyes. Concentration rearranged the woman’s face, and she stepped into the path of the cart.

Wykham sucked a breath past his teeth. He stepped off his ladder and dropped. The soles of his shoes hissed against the flood-tube’s sandstone as Wykham skidded down its curve. He twisted in mid-slide, then launched himself in a stumbling sprint toward the woman. The silhouette of the cart bloomed in his right eye, and Wykham’s scalp burned cold with fear. He snatched the woman’s arm as he hurtled past her.

He hadn’t expected her to fight him.

The woman staggered two steps, then yanked back so hard that Wykham’s arm snapped straight, his feet left the sandstone, and his body spun in mid-air, rotating around the axis of her arm. Her strength was inhuman.

The world became bright-edged and slow, and Wykham watched the cart smash the woman’s far shoulder while he floated, anchored to the earth only by his grip on her. Pain contorted the woman’s face, and Wykham saw his fingernails tear paths across her skin as the impact ripped her out of his grip.

And abruptly he was splayed on the stone. Pain lanced up from Wykham’s elbow. He pushed himself to hands and knees, lost his balance, and fell again. The canyon-street rang with screams and shouts. As the rumble of the cart receded, he heard feet patter on the flood-tube floor as people jumped off ladders and ran to help. Wykham shoved himself up. One of his hands left a red palm print on the stone.

The injured woman’s teeth ground together with audible clicks. Agony contorted her face. Both the woman’s legs had broken, with one sheared high on the thigh. Blood spurted from the ruptured flesh in a jumping arc.

Wykham staggered over. He scrabbled to unbuckle his belt, then yanked it free.

A ring of people closed in on the woman, as close as they could stomach. Their faces had drained to a dozen sickly human shades of gray-brown, yellow-green, and white.

Someone touched Wykham’s arm. “You don’t have to. She’s bleeding out.”

“We can save her.” Wykham flopped to his knees and wrapped his belt around the woman’s thigh. “That’s my surgery two levels up. Under the winch.” From the edges of his eyes, he saw people’s faces twist upward.

The injured woman’s eyes snapped open when she felt his touch. She gasped, “Don’t.”

Wykham yanked his belt tight, and the arc of blood dipped, then vanished. “Someone go kick my door open and fetch the leather bag under the counter.”

A man in the crowd gagged, but feet began to patter again. The crowd’s babble grew focused.

“You need bandages? I’ll tear my shirt.”

“Someone stick a cloak under her head.”

The injured woman’s voice spiraled up in pitch, despair and panic wobbling in it. “Get away! Don’t touch me!”

Wykham examined the wreck of her other leg. Both will have to be amputated, he thought. “Hush, love. We’re trying to help.”

She punched Wykham’s chest. The blow whirled him over. His back slapped the sandstone, and his head bonked against it. He couldn’t draw his next breath. A thrill of warning jangled Wykham’s nerves; that absurd strength meant something....

Then he realized he’d lost his grip on the belt, and Wykham struggled up to snatch it taut again.

“Don’t touch me!” The woman’s voice chirped off the stone walls overhead. “Blooddrinker! I’m a blooddrinker!”

Wykham froze. His mind sang a high note.

The crowd seemed to stop breathing. A man hanging out of a window whimpered.

Wykham flung himself backward and scrambled away.

The man overhead said, “God’s mercy. Somebody kill it.”

Wykham looked at his hands, painted red to the wrists. The knees of his trousers were soaked through also. He began to tremble.

A gray-haired woman took a half-pace forward. “You.” She looked at Wykham. “You do it. You’ve already got her blood on you.”

Wykham gagged, then closed his eyes. He took a sharp breath. “I won’t.” His voice shook, but with anger. “I’m a doctor. I help people.”

“Somebody kill it! They ate my niece!” The man overhead ducked out of sight and reappeared with a crock. He flung it. The ceramic exploded, and shards sprayed across the injured woman’s face and sang like wind chimes as they tumbled away.

“Stop it!” Wykham shot to his feet. “There’re people down here!”

The blooddrinker sobbed. Her face contorted with an agony not entirely physical. She curled herself sideways. Her injured shoulder folded awkwardly into the curve of the flood-tube. She picked at Wykham’s belt. It came loose, and the patch of blood under her leg, which had begun to wick away into the sandstone, grew wet and shiny again. A trickle prodded a new path toward the bottom of the flood-tube.

The crowd stepped out of its way.

The blooddrinker’s voice weakened to a thread. “Thirsty....”

Eventually, she stopped breathing. The tension in the bodies of the crowd unwound, but Wykham’s vision swam. He looked at his bloodied hands again.

“You poor man,” said the gray-haired woman.

“What do I do?” Wykham’s voice broke. “I’ve got a wife. A little boy.”

The crowd stood silent. No one moved, although everyone now stared at Wykham’s hands also. Empathy pooled in their eyes.

“Should we let him live?” someone whispered.

Anger thinned the gray-haired woman’s mouth. “The infection might not take. He deserves a chance, doesn’t he? He was trying to help.” She turned her face to the windows above. “For pity’s sake; someone bring wash-water! Now!”

Excerpt of THE BLOODDRINKER AND THE WAR ANGEL Ends

The woman glows against a studio backdrop as dark as a black hole. "In your dreams, you're beautiful and potent." Her eyes bore into yours through the camera. "You take anything you desire. You drag lesser spirits into orbit around you. You are perfect."

The woman's skin has no more texture than rose petals, and her dark hair shines like satin. A cobalt-blue dress stretches across her bosom and cascades past one sleek, exposed thigh. "But even if you were perfect, time would steal it. Eventually you'd be ugly and uncool." Her eyes narrow. She turns, and a spotlight breathes light over three people so unworldly they make her look heavy and plain. "Not like these."

The three in the background stay silent, but their beauty sucks at the viewer's attention. The pale young man on the left has rakish eyes set in an angel's face and is lithe as a dancer. The man on the right looks Mayan; his stance breathes elegance and his face is as refined as a sculpture. A black woman stands between the men, taller than both and as slender as spun glass. Her eyes glitter like well-water and her cheekbones look carved.

The spokeswoman glances at the camera. "Sex, money, esteem? It isn't enough. You don't just want it all; you want it forever." Her smile sharpens. "Admit it. You want to be a vampire."

The camera cuts to the three in the background again. The young man smiles, sweet as a schoolboy. "My name is Raven. I'm ninety-seven years old and can have any woman I want."

"I call myself Star," says the woman beside him. "I'm over four hundred. And I can make anyone do absolutely anything." Her smile is as dreamy as a goddess'.

The man on the right's voice is honey-coated sandpaper. He lingers over his words. "I'm Angel. I'm a decade shy of nine hundred, and I'm worth just under a billion US dollars."

All three smile. For a moment, their mouths look normal. Then their teeth grow silvery and sharpen into points. Raven lifts a hand and bites the meat of his own palm. He shows the camera a half-circle of puncture wounds. They heal in seconds, leaving blood trickling down his wrist from no source.

The camera cuts back to the spokeswoman. She grins. Anticipation revs her voice. "And I'm your host, Madison Milhenny. Join me for The Cult of Conspicuous Consumption, Fridays at eleven. See ten contestants live lives of fabulous wealth and excess while they compete for immortality. The winner becomes a vampire. The losers--" Madison's smile turns predatory. "--get eaten. Live." Her eyes glitter. "Ten contestants. Nine will die in front of you. One will become glorious. Watch it."

The camera floats over the upper deck of the ship, and a thread of symphonic music governs the drift of its vantage. The view sweeps past a blue dot of jacuzzi and the paler glitter of the pool. The sea beyond the railing glows cobalt.

Death is the ultimate reality, says Madison Milhenny in voiceover, and this is the ultimate reality show.

The viewpoint sinks, gliding down the stairs to the main deck, where the wood floorboards are stained blue and glow like church windows.

If you win, your prize is a permanent escape from death. But loss means your dying will be violent, and soon. What sort of person makes this gamble? Let's meet them.

A helicopter's chatter overwhelms the fading music. The machine slides in sideways from the sky, parachuting under gossamer blades toward a rubber mat spread on the deck. The helicopter lands with the delicacy of dandelion fluff. Its whine slides in pitch, and a door on the machine's black belly opens.

The first contestant steps out and hunches against the wind. She grabs the edges of the door but darts her head up to look up at the sunshine-splashed ship.

The woman shows no expression; if anything, her jaw is set.

Against the backdrop of an empty room, the same woman spears the camera with her eyes. She wears a gold necklace that catches the light and glows against her chocolate-dark skin. The wind has whirled her hair into frizz.

"My name is Darwin, and I'm supposed to say why I'm here." The skin under her eye twitches once. Anger purrs in her voice. "But there are no rules. Why tip my hand to the enemy? I'll tell you nothing."

She reaches forward and turns off the camera.

Excerpt of THE CULT OF CONSPICUOUS CONSUMPTION Ends

She tossed another pair of stockings into the traveling trunk lying on her bed, then squinted into the dormitory's shadows. A chorus of breathing filled the long, stone room. Pre-dawn had turned her fellow initiates into pale smudges in their cots, but Katirin could see Esfirre dressing. She couldn't think of any reason for the younger woman to be awake now, however.

Out in the hallway, a trio of Taish serving on night-watch walked by, their yellow robes and wimples rippling. The women hummed a psalm in unison.

Katirin decided not to worry about Esfirre. Whatever drove the mute woman's restlessness wasn't Katirin's concern, especially on a morning when she almost felt happy. She turned back to her cupboard and groped until her fingers touched velvet instead of linen. When Katirin pivoted to toss her good cloak onto the bed, however, she jerked in surprise.

Esfirre now stood, with her hands curled into fists and her eyes wide, at the foot of Katirin's cot. Sleep had fluffed the woman's short curls into an imitation of a dandelion.

Katirin forced a smile. "Um. Whatever you want, I'm busy."

Esfirre lifted her hand, and her fingers flickered through sign language. Is it light enough for you to read this?

Irritation tightened Katirin's mouth. She considered lying, then nodded.

Esfirre's gaze darted to the trunk. They let you leave.

"For holidays." Katirin lifted her brows in a polite challenge. "I'm trying to pack?"

Esfirre's eyes grew anxious. You have to take me with you. I don't want to become a Taish.

Katirin stared at the younger woman. Amusement threatened to make her smile. "Um. What do you expect me to do? Smuggle you out under my wimple?"

No. In your coach. The luggage compartment.

She stifled a laugh. "I travel under guard. How would you get past my men? Not to mention the Taish."

The corner of Esfirre's mouth twitched upward but the expression didn't look happy. With your help, obviously.

"Except I'm not giving it."

Esfirre's eyes narrowed. I saw you slip out the window last summer during one of the hot nights. You climbed to the roof using the ivy vines. You want me telling the Taish you have another route outside?

Katirin's stomach went cold. No one was to know about her plans for the rooftop.

The light had strengthened enough to see the sandy-brown color of Esfirre's eyes. Those vines go to the ground too. Get your guards out of my way for a hundred heartbeats, and I'll deal with slipping past the driver and the Taish.

Katirin shook her head. She tossed her cloak onto her cot and propped her hands on her hips. "If it were anyone but you, yes. Even if I got us whipped for the attempt. But it is you."

Esfirre's eyes widened. I'm not crazy.

"Not all the time, maybe."

My violent fits--Katirin, they aren't what people think.

Katirin gentled her voice. "They are. Esfirre, you have a skull-demon."

Anger infected the younger woman's expression. Is my logic impaired? You know me well enough to judge.

She shrugged. "You twitch and you attack people. I won't help someone dangerous to escape from the god's care."

But I'm the one in danger. We all are!

Katirin frowned. "Poor thing. Your affliction's getting worse."

Esfirre's face hardened. No. I'm just running out of time. She darted glances at the sleeping initiates to either side, then glared at Katirin. Listen. Living on Matheln Island is a death sentence; I don't have a skull-demon, I have an ability. I can tell that the Taish have nothing left in them that's human.

Amusement tickled Katirin again, despite her pity for Esfirre. "They aren't supposed to, dear heart."

They are! That's their claim, isn't it? That they join their souls to the god Ismyde's. Esfirre's mouth curled in revulsion. One vast, holy slurry of personality.

Katirin let derision lilt in her voice. "Well, the telepathy backs that claim up, don't you think?"

Esfirre's jaw tightened. The Taish aren't the god's miracle; they're empty husks puppeteered by some demon. I can tell.

Katirin suppressed another urge to laugh. "That's--quite the blasphemy."

I've seen you lie to the Taish. How do you get away with that, if they really share the god's mind? How is it possible to lie to Ismyde, who made you and listens to your prayers?

Katirin narrowed her eyes at Esfirre having caught her in more than one disobedience, but she made her tone mischievous. "How could you know if I was lying?"

Esfirre stared long enough the moment became uncomfortable. Her mouth tightened and then her fingers moved again. Because I'm a Truthsinger.

Cold crept across Katirin's skin. For several heartbeats, she couldn't find words, and when she did, they came out edged in anger. "You are not. There's only five of those in the whole world."

Esfirre bounced her eyebrows, but she didn't smile.

Without permission, Katirin's mind began to slot Esfirre's past behaviors into a new shape. She frowned.

Esfirre nodded. Say anything to me. I'll be able to tell if you're lying.

"The sky is green."

Esfirre jerked as sharply as if she had been burned. Pain contorted her face and her eyes squeezed shut. Lie. Obviously.

Katirin's curiosity fought her disquiet. "The Silithlese are no good at war."

Esfirre twitched and whimpered. You can't tell too many in a row or I'll become dangerous to you.

"Alright. Sky is blue."

The tension in Esfirre's body unwound, but she scowled. I'm not proving a thing to you this way.

Fear wriggled in Katirin's stomach, but she made her voice flippant. "Maybe it amuses me to torture you. My father is the king of Liliende."

Esfirre didn't flinch. After a moment, her eyes snapped wide. Great Ismyde--that's true?

Katirin went cold again. "Hells and imp-shit."

Disbelief scrunched Esfirre's face. You're the king's daughter? What are you doing in a convent?

The dorm remained quiet and gray, but Katirin felt like the morning's peace had just disintegrated. "You couldn't possibly know this."

Esfirre's eyes widened in horror. She clamped a hand over her mouth.

Katirin scowled her irritation. "Don't freeze in awe now. You've known me a year."

I wasn't. Esfirre kept staring. Yes, only five known Truthsingers--all enslaved by some king or warlord. And your father's a king. You were a bigger risk than I realized.

Katirin twitched one shoulder in a shrug. "Our secrets balance. Father ordered me not to tell anyone about my parentage."

Esfirre's eyes drifted up to Katirin's unnaturally black hair. She frowned. So your mother--

Katirin flashed her palm. "Our secrets balance. You don't need to hear any more of mine."

Esfirre stared a moment longer. Alright. So will you believe me about the demon?

Katirin curled her arms around her ribs. "Damned hard to. Tell me more."

People tell little lies as part of conversation. Those trigger my Truthsinger abilities a bit, but when the Taish speak, I feel nothing. Before the pledging ceremony, they're just people; afterward, they're something else. Something not human.

The initiate in the bed beside them rolled over and snorted once before breathing evenly again.

Katirin eyed the woman and lowered her voice before meeting Esfirre's gaze again. "Only the demons of myth got that powerful."

If it's been feeding on souls for centuries, what's to stop it being that powerful?

Katirin's stomach abruptly hurt. "You know how important the Taish are to our nation? To the war effort? We can't do without that telepathic link."

How useful will it be to Liliende once the demon is finished devouring all our souls? Esfirre smiled, a nasty quirk of her lips. And why are you arguing so hard? You don't like them either.

Her temper heated. "Only because I know this isn't the life I was born for."

So help me escape. Hells--come with me. Even if I were crazy, I'm less of a danger to Liliende than this demon is to us.

Katirin dug her fingernails into her palms. "We can't just run away from a threat to the kingdom."

Esfirre scowled. Speak for yourself. I can.

Anger jabbed Katirin, but she could hear the ring of a group of Taish singing the morning song as they came up the stairs. It was a ritual so familiar she could almost predict how many heartbeats remained before the women walked into the dorm. Katirin tucked her outrage under a calm voice. "Go put on your cloak and wimple. You'd better have a plan for getting past the coachman."

Excitement lit Esfirre's face. You're helping me?

"Not you, exactly, no." Katirin jerked her thumb toward the sound of the singing. "Hurry?"

Excerpt of DARK HEIR Ends