They flew until Littlespark began to tire. Her wing muscles were unused to the activity. Her landing was a bit clumsy, but she made it down just fine. Aidan set down next to her and they ran to the wagons. Littlespark climbed up, saying excitedly, “Did you see that?”

Flame Song hugged her and assured her that yes, she had in fact seen her flight. Then she turned her emerald gaze to her husband. “Are you going now?”

He shrugged and said, “I might as well. I’ll spend a couple of days in Aerievale and then try and catch up. If all goes well, I’ll probably reach you by the time you dock at Snowcap.”

Flame Song jumped down off of the wagon and gave him a hug. He hugged her back, suddenly wondering if he should go. There was a faint uneasiness in the back of his mind. He didn’t want to be away from his family, but it was more than that. He couldn’t pin it down, it was just a vague something. Still, Thomas had been an elderly aerian when Aidan had first known him, and if he didn’t go see his friend soon, he might never have the chance. Reluctantly he stepped back. The wagon had continued on down the road. Flame turned and jogged after it. When she reached it, she climbed in with the children. All four of them waved at him. He waved back. Then he spread his wings and launched himself skyward. Without Littlespark’s extra weight he had no trouble getting off the ground. He circled the wagon once, waving again and then he turned his course southward.

He was still a long way from Aerievale when the sun set that night. His tiredness dragged at him, he still hadn’t recovered fully from his recent adventure, so he made camp for the night. He remembered his last attempt to visit Thomas. He wondered for a moment how Shauna was doing.

He awoke reluctantly some hours after sunrise. His internal clock enabled him to awaken as reliably as if he’d set an alarm. He could have slept longer, but he wanted to reach Aerievale that day. He could see the mountains rising ahead of him to the east. Their tops were dusted with snow, their flanks green with forest. He took to the sky, headed for the towering peaks, the highest in Tara.

As he flew he kept an eye on the land below. He wanted to feed before he reached Aerievale. He didn’t know how his old friend felt about vampires, but arriving hungry and in need of a meal wouldn’t help things. Soon he left the cultivated fields and began to fly over the forest the covered the foothills. The wood that passed below him was thick and untamed. Few roads crossed it, and few indeed were the people who lived in the depths of it. Aidan passed over a wide meadow surrounded by towering trees and saw what he was looking for. A herd of deer grazed peacefully below. Since deer have no natural airborne predators, they never even looked up when his shadow passed over the herd. A moment later he’d dropped out of the sky next to a fat doe. With reflexes faster than human he grabbed her around the neck before she even knew he was there. She struggled silently for only a moment before he bent to her neck and his sharp fangs cut through her skin to reach the blood that flowed beneath.

The heady rush of it filled him with a flush of warmth and energy that was like nothing he’d known during his breathing life. It was a kind of high, but there was no following low, no crash. It was like the endorphin rush of battle, only there was no tension and no fear. It left him feeling revitalized like nothing else could.

When his hunger was sated he released the doe. She staggered a bit in shock. Then she bounded off after the rest of the herd, which had fled when Aidan landed in the middle of them. Sometimes he thought it was ironic. The humanoid races of Aretha and the humans of Earth feared vampires and regarded them as monsters, and yet he left the animals he fed upon alive, while they killed to get their dinners. He didn't scorn them for doing so, he knew that kill to live was the natural order. He hadn’t been a vegetarian before becoming a vampire either, and his own wife was a predator by nature. But he was very glad that he didn’t have to kill. Even the life of a deer was a life, and taking life wasn’t something he did easily.

That thought brought back memories, both good and bad. He was headed now toward the place where he had first killed a man. And he was headed also to see the man who had helped him begin to turn his life around.

A frightened teenager, white wings grimy from living on the street, runs down a dim alley. He is small; one might mistake him for a child of twelve or thirteen, though he is some four years older than that. He is thin too, almost to the point of emaciation. He clutches a small bundle to his chest as he runs. Overhead crisscrossed clotheslines and leaning buildings whose upper stories are larger than their lower levels make taking to the sky impossible. He is panicked, desperate. He has to get out now! Behind him a heavy tread echoes off of the cobblestones. His pursuer is gaining.

The boy’s breath becomes ragged. He has to get out! He has to escape! But as he rounds a corner in the still unfamiliar city he finds he is trapped. He looks above, but escape by air is still impossible. He spins around to face the entrance to the alleyway. Perhaps he still has time to backtrack and escape… but no, a dark shape blots out the dim moonlight at the end of the alley. The pursuing man is also an aerian, but his build is sturdy, and he tops the scrawny teenager by more than a foot. He offers no words, but simply smiles as he advances. The boy cowers back. He is terrified, but now that he has nowhere to run he finds a kind of desperate courage welling up in him. His cowered posture allows him to draw a long dagger and palm it in his left hand, the blade lying hidden along his arm. It’s a simple trick, but one the man might not expect from the terrified boy.

The man doesn't even bother to draw his own knife. He doesn't feel he needs it to administer what he regards as justice. "I'll beat you to a bloody pulp, thief," he says harshly.

The boy swings his fisted left hand. That’s another tiny advantage; few people are accustomed to fighting someone who is left-handed. The man begins to laugh, for it seems that the boy’s punch has not even connected, passing harmlessly just in inch from the man’s abdomen. He suddenly stops laughing, his eyes going wide in horror, for the boy had never intended for his hand to connect, it was the hidden dagger he was swinging, almost invisible in the darkness. He had tilted his hand so that the dagger’s sharp blade cut across the man’s stomach. The man clutches at the wound. He has been gutted, and only his fingers, covered now in his own blood, are keeping his intestines from spilling out.

The boy stares in horrified fascination at what he has done. The man, his eyes still wide in an almost comical expression of surprise, drops to his knees and then falls forward on his face. He lies still in a widening pool of blood that looks black as ink in the moonlight. The boy stares a little longer. His expression gradually hardens. He has done what he must do to survive in this place. Well, so be it. He has already become a thief, now he is a killer too.