had been destroyed when the merciless sun had poured
through the damaged roof of the dwelling. Several other
vampires were left unscathed but the Master had lost a leg
when a giant beam had crashed down diagonally across his
coffin as he rested.
“It is our chance,” DeHaviliard exhorted his underlings,
“to seize, once and for all, the greatest stronghold in all of
Amsterdam. The Master is seriously injured, their greatest
warrior destroyed and the house in chaos. The time to act
is now.”
“But how,” said one of his young vampire newlings,
“though they might be weakened, the fortress is still
intact?”
“True,” said DeHaviliard, with a sly smile, “but like the
Trojans of old, we shall make them a gift.” And so, it came
to pass that a child was harvested from the streets of
Amsterdam.
He had been scooped up from a dank, cobblestone alley
off one of the more dangerous streets in the city. Any
memory of another life, long forgotten after many months
of thieving, begging and whoring. He’d been beaten, raped
and left for dead. That which had been offered for coin
had been taken without compensation, the beating having
ended the discussion. His last memory was the loss of
consciousness at the hands of violence, within that dark
alley. But the cold wet cobblestone beneath his bleeding
cheek had been replaced with warm, smooth, satin sheets
and luxurious bedding. DeHaviliard stood before him, in
evening dress, the rest of the brood gathered behind him,
vague figures in the boy’s blurred vision. He struggled
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