The Bringer of Death (City Underdark #2)

The Matron

Barmond still did not think that he was, in any way, attractive. He examined himself in the mirror that Yoven had been provided to shave just to prove it to himself. Of course, he was used to his own face, he wore it after all, but sometimes it just caught his eye and he had to take a little time to examine it.

He passed a hand on his cheek. On the day of his death, when Otto had accepted to turn him, he had taken care to share every last trace of his beard, knowing it would never grow again. Back then, his reasoning had been that it would be more convenient for feeding, that he had seen many bearded vampires get blood all over their face and had thought it to be repulsive. Now, thinking back to Hugo and his beard, he wondered if that had been the right choice. Hugo might be an oaf, but a handsome oaf and his beard only complimented that.

Ack, not that Barmond would ever get one anyway. There was no use lamenting what was not meant to be, even if he still spent a while longer pulling at the little crow's feet at the corner of his eyes.

He opened his mouth and examined his teeth. His fangs, more specifically. He ran his thumb over the tip of the upper ones, then the lower ones. The latter still felt off, out of place. Because a vampire's fangs were so sensitive, it felt extremely unusual for Barmond to gain yet another sensitive spot in his mouth. But not... disagreeable.

He caught Yoven staring in the corner of the mirror. Yoven, that had stopped doing the bed to look at Barmond examining himself, looked back down hurriedly, stroking the sheets.

Barmond looked away as well, fleeing the possibility that their eyes might meet again.

He did not comment, but he did put the mirror away, before standing up. There was something he had to say to Yoven, but he did not know how to say it.

"Did you sleep well?" asked Yoven, for the third time this evening.

"I did," said Barmond.

He had slept like a stone, really. Dreamless, motionless, undisturbed. He had no recollection of the day other than the sensation of the sun somewhere above him, crushing him even through the layers of earth and stone over their room. He knew, better than anyone else, that it was not true sleep, because true sleep was nothing like death.

Or at least from what he remembered about it.

"Do you have any plans for tonight?" asked Yoven.

Barmond turned around to face him - that was a normal, riskless question, he could face his retainer head-on when answering it.

"Yes," he said. "I have yet to give my report to Ranphoros - I must be the last one doing that - and then I will be scouting the streets until morning, probably."

"Why so?"

"I've got to figure out places I could feed," said Barmond. "This is the sort of things that every vampire must do regularly."

Not that this was a lie, rather it was a partial truth. He did have some idea where he could feed since he had used those places in the past when he had still been undercover, but there was the fact that he was uneasy at the idea of being alone in the nest. He simply was not the most social creature there was and, besides... he rather liked the night.

"If you are hungry, I can give you some of my blood," said Yoven. There was a touch of hope in his voice. "That would be more practical."

"Yoven, you are still too weak for that."

"I feel better."

"I would rather you keep your strength to recover faster."

Yoven opened his mouth, then closed it again, before his eyes went off to look at a spot to the side of Barmond. And Barmond did not comment.