Blood to Blood by Elaine Bergstrom

there, watching in silence, until Colleen wrapped herself in a blanket, lay between the blaze and the fire and went to sleep. Then Joanna rose, thinned to a mist and flowed down the road into Varna.
    The city's life teemed around her, more life than she had experienced in centuries. Had she possessed substance, she might have lost her mind in its presence, but incorporeal, her emotions were as soft as her form. She moved through the most crowded streets, controlling her fear and that ever-present hysteria, searching for the fortitude to replace it with hunger and desire.
    On the edge of town the buildings grew grander and farther apart, separated by expanses of lawns and gardens. She moved closer to one of the largest, certain from the number of people inside that she had discovered an inn.
    She waited in the shadows until the lights inside were extinguished, then moved closer to the building. The night was oppressive, stuffy and hot, and a pair of European women slept on their third-floor balcony, thinking themselves safe from harm because they were so far above the ground.
    Their open door and the public nature of the shelter were invitations enough for Joanna's kind, but she hesitated anyway. Half formed, she ran her hand over the younger woman's chestnut hair, thinking of the one who had killed Karina and her brother. The woman stirred in her sleep, rolled onto her back, the half smile of a pleasant dream playing on her lips.
    Dare she take? If she pressed her lips against that pale neck, if she drank, if she killed, what rumors would circulate among the rabble of Varna? Suddenly fearful, she fought the urge to kill and instead moved quickly into the room, digging among the clothes scattered on the bed, taking only a pair of dresses and some shoes, dropping a coin to pay for them. She left the way she came, drifting over the balcony to the ground, fleeing in the shadows with the dresses fluttering behind her like kites tossed in the wind.

Six
    Colleen woke after midnight. Weeks as a fugitive, first in France, then on the ship, then in this strange land, made her instincts sharp, and so she lay still a moment, listening.
    The horse stomped and snorted. A man whispered something. Beneath her blanket. Colleen's hand moved slowly up her side toward the knife she kept hidden in her belt. Before she could reach it, something came down hard on the side of her head. Dazed, she felt hands moving over her body, taking her knife, then realizing her sex, fumbling with her shirt.
    She tried to roll out from under him but he was too quick for her, his body too heavy.
    He reeked of old sweat, rotten teeth and brandy, and she turned her head sideways in disgust as he tried to kiss her. As least there seemed to be only one. Perhaps if she lay still and just let…
    No! She'd had enough of that before she boarded the ship. She was through being passive. She jerked a knee up between his legs, hitting him hard but not hard enough. He grunted and hit her, not a slap this time but a punch that stole all thought of fight from her.
    She wished he'd hit her harder, she didn't want to be awake for what would follow.
    Half dazed, she felt his fumbles at her clothes and his own until she heard him grunt again, the weight of him jerked off her.
    She forced her eyes to open, tried to focus on the sight of him struggling with nothing, or so it seemed. She did not understand the words he spoke, but heard the terror in his tone and in the final words he called: " Strigoaica! Strigoaica !"
    A cloth fell over her face, whispy soft and scented with sweet perfume. Colleen pushed the fabric away and looked with terror at her enemy.
    He was a huge man, larger even than she'd thought when his weight rested on her, yet something unseen had lifted him off of her, and now held him doubled over at the waist, his feet off the ground, kicking the air. Breathing hard. Colleen slipped backward on hands and feet, away from the firelight and into the comfort of the