I learned some spells, much of which steals the caster's own energy. The theft of another's energy can save one's spirit from fraying, but at what cost to one's morality?

  From the journal of Drago? Buh?scu

  Black on black, but the eyes gave it away. Something sinuous wove through the air just above the bramble. Silent as death it came, burning orange eyes focused on Dragos, who rested upright, back against the massive beech amidst the detritus of fallen leaves.

  He stared it down, his hand questing into the leather pouch by his side. His fingers wrapped around the grip, but there was no time to strap the claw to his wrist. He bared his teeth, angry that he hadn’t set up good enough wards against Nerostit?. No excuses, even for unusual circumstances.

  Dragos slid the still-sleeping child off his chest into the tangle of his dark cloak and to the ground where he’d been. Slowly, he eased to his feet, never taking his gaze from the shadow with eyes.

  “You are not welcome here. Go,” Dragos stated, wiggling his fingers to slip the claws up into place. Cold iron. It was a deterrent to most of the Unspoken. The undead feared iron’s bite, which thieved away their stolen life force with its touch. A household with iron nails or horseshoes displayed made strigoi think twice about invading.

  The figure swirled, turned to mist, and flitted away.

  Dragos quickly fit the strap around his wrist, flexing his fingers around the grip. The claws were short, good for punching or slashing anything close. He slow-pivoted, opening his eyes wide. Awakening his senses.

  “Albstrig?. Give me the child,” whispered a voice in the branches all around. Neither male nor female.

  Dragos ran through the possibilities. What this enemy was, what it could do. What it wanted.

  “Why? You want to eat it?”

  Dragos bought time with conversation. As it did.

  “Power, of course,” the wind murmured.

  It was not Copiii cerului. They were formless spirits, mischievous. Their touch, light as spring zephyrs. A breeze that pulled hair or stole a loose item of clothing. No. This was worse.

  And there, again, was the promise.

  Release from this burden he’d taken up. Just let the monster—he couldn’t allow the thought to reach completion. His muscles tensed as he turned, a mere step from where the child rested. Walking away meant her death.

  He’d seen enough innocence destroyed for a lifetime.

  An urge tugged at him. He looked up. A humanoid figure clung to the tree with its claws anchored in the bark, head dangling just out of Dragos’ reach. Long tendrils of hair hung from its odd features. Not quite draconic, yet not human, the baleful eyes glared down at him.

  Dragos gave it a tight grin and said, “No.”

  Zmeu. He had a name for it since it revealed itself. He knew what it was.

  “She’s a little young for you,” Dragos smirked. “Don’t you kidnap them when they come of age?”

  “This one is useless as a wife. I will eat her, as you suggested,” the zmeu hissed.

  It skittered down squirrel-fast, a blur of talons and sinew, straight for the cerel.

  Dragos stepped in, foot right beside the wad of cloak, and drove a punch at the tree above the target, landing a spine-shattering blow. The Zmeu dissipated, dispersing like smoke. Iron claws scored the trunk, leaving four lines etched in the bark.

  Dragos spun, scanning the woods. The smoke could have coalesced anywhere.

  “I can do this all night,” Dragos commented as he eased to crouch beside the baby, gaze roaming the forest beyond the weak glow of emberlight. “I can go without much sleep. What about you, zmeu? Care to keep fighting over this baby or find easier prey?”

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  He understood that his claws would do little against it. Zmeu were nearly indestructible and possessed a collection of enchantments to use. The only appeasement Dragos had for it was the cerel.

  Or—didn’t he have something else?

  He cast a glance at the worn box he took with him everywhere, full of wares crafted in easier times. Little by little, he had sold some and bartered others. He’d not found another place like ?oloman?? to make crafting possible. Much of what he carried these days was little better than folk remedy.

  But there was one item he could use.

  For ill or gain, Dragos could not alter his path. His damned conscience wouldn’t allow him to give the baby to a monster like the zmeu. Not even to retain a priceless item like the scroll.

  “It looks delicious,” the wind purred, evil intent dark in the tone. In sweeter notes, it murmured, “Give her to me.”

  Dragos didn’t bother responding. Instead, he kicked the box beside the tree. It fell open, and he leaned to snatch at a tightly rolled scroll barely seen by the embers of the campfire. He could have found it in a pitch-black cavern.

  He glared out into the dark beyond the faint glow of the camp, searching for the right direction. The zmeu could throw its voice, but Dragos could see what others couldn’t. Thread-like wisps floated around the radius of the tree, just out of his reach.

  Waiting to strike.

  “You have two choices. Stay and be bound to me, or find yourself elsewhere,” Dragos threatened, crouching low while unfurling the scroll.

  He knew the script by heart, written in his own hand years ago, when the Cohort of Owls was still whole. A naming scroll. His only complete naming scroll, and he was about to waste it naming a zmeu on behalf of a girl-child cerel.

  It laughed, a throaty sound full of hubris. The zmeu thought it was untouchable. They always did. The Solomonari taught a different truth. This creature of the Nerostit? was small enough, simple enough to be contained by a name.

  “I bear thine name, beast of the Umbregrin,” Dragos began, letting the scroll fall open. In his own blood, written by his hand, the sigils writhed on the page. “I speak to thee, dark zmeu…”

  The wisps knotted. Wind shuddered through the hollow, rustling the leaf-bones of winters past. Dragos sensed the twisting of the being, its confusion and discomfort reverberating in the world of the living.

  “What?” The zmeu cried, its being converging upon one spot close to the tree. “What are you doing?”

  “...and by your name granted, our pact aligns. Zgavra be your name, and by that name-gift, you belong to me,” Dragos intoned, thrusting out the scroll towards the gathering smoke.

  The zmeu burst fully into the land of the living, unable to retreat beyond the veil of the Unspoken as it was faced with the pact written in the blood of the Albstrig?, Dragos, whose curse entwined with it. Binding it.

  “Zgavra, you will not eat this child,” he said, rolling up the scroll and tucking it back into his peddler’s box with a small smile.

  Used, it was useless, kept to ensure control over the zmeu. Dragos glanced over his shoulder. It floated three feet above the ground, its snake-like figure revealed, weaving gently as sails ripple with the wind. A shaggy mane fell from its neck, with horns cresting a head that was both canine and lizard, with an elongated snout and external nostrils that were more slits than a spongy pad. Dull scales covered what fur did not. Its limbs were pulled up like a bird in flight. It had no wings, was more serpent than dragon, and had a resentful look in its glowing stare.

  A rare true smile crossed Dragos’ face as he regarded the monster.

  “You should go. There’s nothing for you here,” he said, flipping the latch of his box shut.

  “Oh. Should I?” Zgavra asked, its voice tinged with bitter amusement. “I will eat her.”

  “You can’t. I’ve forbidden you,” Dragos replied, tucking away his claw.

  The zmeu snarled, its body twisting, flowing like silk in the wind toward the sleeping child, hidden in the wrap of the wanderer’s cloak. Its maw yawned wide—and stopped. The monster hovered there, razored teeth gnashing, body thrashing, trying to get just a bit closer. Close enough to bite.

  It could not.

  In a rage, it threw itself at Dragos, body wrenched back into full corporeality. The man braced himself, hands up and ready, but dared to let the monster grab him. Its talons bit, but through the monster strained, its claws did not break through Dragos’ threadbare shirt, much less his skin.

  “What magic is this?” It shouted, teeth snapping, but not quite close enough to bite Dragos’ nose off, like it clearly wanted.

  A chuckle escaped Dragos, who pressed a hand on its snout and shoved it back. The monster’s humanoid form unfurled into smoke once again, but hovered there. Seemingly stunned at the turn of events.

  “Mine, wrought in a classroom years ago, under the tutelage of the wizard who raised me. Blood magic. Something your kind is susceptible to.”

  Ignoring the creature, he bent to sit on the ground, eased the child onto his chest, and settled once more against the tree, fitting his shoulders into the same nook he’d found before. He smirked at the zmeu.

  “Good night, Zgavra. Feel free to leave at any time.”

  Albstrig? (ALV-streeguh)[rolled r]: White witch. Barn owl. A pale ghost or evil spirit.

  Copiii cerului (koh-PEE-ee CHEH-roo-loo-ee) [rolled r]: Children of the sky. Sky spirits.

  Zmeu (zmyeh-oo): a form of dragon. A shapeshifter that travels between the world of the living and other realms. They are known to steal fair maids to be their wives. Suffers great hubris. Very powerful monster given to chaos, born of the Umbregrin. Solomonari wizards ride them when controlling weather patterns.

  Solomonari (so-lo-mo-NAH-ree) [rolled r]: A race of wizard strigoi that rode zmeu. Legend has it they worked blood magic and made pacts with demons and animals. Their school, known as The Dark School, was also known in distant lands as Scholomance.

  ?oloman?? (Shoh-loh-MAHN-tsuh): The Dark School where forbidden magic is taught.

  Cohort of Owls :Dragos' class

  Nerostit? (neh-ross-TEE-teh) [rolled r]: Calruthian word for all things unnatural or strange, synonymous with Unspoken.

  Cerel (TSEH-rel) [rolled r]: Infant/young child. Living human form of Copiii ceruli.

  Do you like it better if I use the tooltip (hover over the word with a mouse) ?