The American Civil War was the bloodiest waste of life Larten had yet to witness. Vampires had known about America long before Europeans discovered it. One of the clan had sailed with Leif Ericson and thirty-four others early in the second millennium, and before Paris Skyle became a Prince he stayed Columbus’s hand when the human had lost hope and was on the verge of turning back. The elderly vampire would have been saddened to see what had become of the country, but not surprised. Why should these tribes be any different from those they had left behind? People might speak of it being a New World, but they were the same old humans.

Larten watched from a distance as thousands of young men clashed and went to an early grave. He, Wester and Seba had made camp on a hill out of the way of the fighting a few nights earlier. Since then they’d kept vigil, leaving only to hunt and stretch their legs.

The pair of Cubs had abandoned the war packs and returned to their master a few years after Tanish’s fall. They had never been able to lose themselves in warfare and other petty pursuits in quite the same way after that dark day. They felt shamed, and the Cubs they cavorted with were a constant reminder of what had happened.

Seba never asked his assistants why they had returned. He was surprised to see them come back to him so early — he hadn’t expected them for another decade — but a master didn’t need to know everything about his students. He let them keep their secrets and focused on their training.