Dhampir

Chapter Sixteen

At a loss for what to do, Ellinwood left The Sea Lion and hurried home to The Velvet Rose. He needed to think, and he thought best at home.

Once safely ensconced inside his plush rooms with the door closed, he allowed panic to set in. What was he going to do? His first thought was to sell the lovely furnishings all around him. But then he remembered that he did not own them. It was all property of The Velvet Rose. He owned little besides the expensive clothes on his body, the clothing in his wardrobe, a sword that he'd never actually used, and a few personal items such as silver combs and crystal cologne bottles.

Rashed was gone, and there would be no more profits coming in from the warehouse trade.

The constable's own image stared back at him from the oval, silver-framed mirror, and a portion of the panic faded. He cut a fine figure in his green velvet. Of course, some people thought him too large, but the thin were always intimidated by men of stature. He had dominated Miiska for years. He could weather this current situation.

Walking over to the cherry wood wardrobe, he unlocked the top drawer and looked inside. Rashed had not left him coinless, and he had not spent all of his profits. Indeed, if he rationed money for his opiate and spiced whiskey slightly, he could keep himself in comfort for perhaps half a year.

Then a thought struck him. His arrangement with Rashed was not so unique. After all, as Miiska's constable, he knew many things. He had recently discovered that the wife of Miiska's leading merchant was betraying him with a caravan master who came through town six times a year. How much would she be willing to pay to keep her secret? And Devon, one of the council members, had used a large sum of the town's community funds from taxes to pay off a gambling debt not long ago.

Ellinwood's mind began to race. There was no need for fear. When powerful people had secrets, they would pay handsomely for silence. He knew exactly what to do.

But not yet.

First he would change tactics in this Magiere situation and praise her. He would offer her his full support, now that there was nothing left to do, and win back the trust and loyalty of his guards. At the moment, his position was somewhat tenuous. He would become the ideal constable for several months-before taking any action toward quiet extortion. In the end, very little would have to change in his game besides the names of the players.

Feeling safer and more content, he opened the bottom drawer of his wardrobe and removed the opiate and spiced whiskey. He'd never indulged in the morning before, but today was special. He needed comfort.

Soon his crystal-stemmed goblet was filled, and he sat comfortably in his chair to sip.

The entire day passed quickly.

Teesha stirred first that night and sat up with an odd sense of disorientation. Then visions from the night before flooded her mind, and she remembered Rashed settling her in the belly of the old ship.

He lay asleep on the floor next to her. She touched his shoulder.

"Rashed, wake up."

His transparent eyes opened. Just a brief flicker of confusion passed across his perfect features, so quickly she almost didn't notice, and then he, too, sat up, looking like a competent commander again. She'd done well to choose him as the champion of her small family. But he could be so strong-willed. How ironic that such a trait was his only true weakness. Now she faced the difficult task of manipulating him into flight again. It hadn't been easy the first time.

"How do you feel?" he asked.

"I could use a needle and thread." She smiled at him.

He never smiled back, but she knew pleasantries on her part always put him at ease. And somehow she gained strange comfort from comforting him.

She examined their surroundings, feeling more aware than she had last night. Apparently, Rashed had come across this abandoned ship one night while exploring. The crew must not have been able to free it, because they simply left it behind, and now trees, shrubs, and moss almost hid its existence entirely. The boards of the deck were old but intact, and no light peeked through to burn them. It was as safe a place as she possibly could have expected.

Rashed walked over and shook Ratboy. "Wake up. We have to go."

Of the three of them, Ratboy still seemed the weakest and least healed. Though most of the dog's bites were closed, a mix of fire and garlic water had taken their toll. He would need to feed again soon.

"Where are we going?" Teesha asked Rashed.

"Back to the warehouse."

"What? Why?"

"Because we have nothing, and we don't know if it burned down completely," he said. "What if the dockworkers put the fire out? Not one of us could blend into a crowd safely like this. We need clothes and weapons. Everything was in the warehouse."

She shook her head. "It's too dangerous. There may be guards investigating. We should just leave tonight. I know it's risky, but we can feed while traveling and steal what we need along the way. After passing through a few households, we should be adequately, if not well, set up."

Ratboy struggled to his feet. "I agree."

"Guards are nothing to us," Rashed said.

"If we disappear, the town will think us dead," Teesha insisted. "The hunter will leave us alone."

For the first time in her memory, Rashed snapped at her in anger. "She'll only stop hunting us if she's lying in a grave!"

Even Ratboy seemed stunned by this outburst and shifted uncomfortably. Rashed pushed open the hatch door.

"Come. We've got to see what happened to the warehouse."

Teesha wasn't angry. She could never feel anger toward Rashed, but his manner unsettled her. She wanted him out of this town and away from the hunter. She never wanted that hunter's blade near him again.

The three of them should just quietly leave. That was the logical course of action. But he was in charge, and she had certainly helped to place him in that position.

With little choice, she and Ratboy followed him outside.

While feeling any sort of sympathy for Rashed seemed impossible to Ratboy, as they all stood staring at the burned remains of what had once been home, he dimly realized that he felt only a small portion of anger and loss compared to the tall warrior who looked on without expression.

There was nothing left. The three of them were now hidden from sight by a huge half-charred crate, but the warehouse structure itself had burned from the inside out, allowing heavy support beams to collapse inward. The tunnels below were probably nonexistent now. Had Rashed not planned that secret tunnel to the beach, they would all be lying crushed under a pile of dirt and beams. Or burned to ash as well.

And therein rested Ratboy's dilemma.

Everything inside Ratboy screamed that Teesha was right. They should leave Miiska tonight and take their chances on the road, killing and resupplying along the way. However, as much as he loathed Rashed's arrogant manner, the self-proclaimed leader of their group was always one step ahead when it came to survival.

The question here was one of motivation. Rashed claimed that lasting safety could only be achieved by destroying the hunter. If this were true, then Ratboy would stay and fight. But tonight, Rashed appeared less rational than usual. In fact, he seemed to be functioning from a standpoint of pure revenge. Vengeance was a luxury. Ratboy had no interest in luxuries.

And what exactly was driving Teesha toward flight? Was it a sensible desire for survival or some perverse wish to keep Rashed from further combat with that hunter? He sometimes believed that he understood her a great deal more than Rashed did. Their leader viewed Teesha as a lovely creature to be protected, as the fragile heart of this little family. Ratboy knew she possessed the ability to care, even to love, but she had always been ruled by her own drives and desires, and she knew how to work Rashed like her own personal, life-size toy soldier.

But lately her actions were difficult to gauge. He suspected her feelings for Rashed were beginning to outweigh her own survival instincts.

And for all his resentment of Rashed, Ratboy did acknowledge his uses. And Ratboy certainly knew he didn't want to be alone. But problem solving wasn't one of his strengths. He wanted to follow the course of action that would stop this hunter's vendetta and allow them to continue existing. But which course was that? Flight or fight?

Cool air blew in from the sea, causing piles of dust from the blackened wreckage to rise and drift away.

"Oh, Rashed," Teesha said in genuine regret while examining the remnants of their home, "I'm so sorry."

She walked over and gently touched his shoulder in comfort. He did not move or acknowledge her.

"Well, we aren't going to find anything of value here," Ratboy said sensibly. "Do we feed, run, or start tracking the hunters? I say we should all agree on our next move before doing anything."

Teesha smiled at him gratefully. Her concern for Rashed's state of mind was becoming obvious. Actually, Ratboy was growing worried as well.

"You're both fools if you look to him for decisions," a hollow voice said.

Edwan appeared near Teesha in his usual horrific state. Although Ratboy wasn't exactly unnerved by the ghost's macabre appearance, he'd never learned to regard Edwan as anything but an erratically useful aberration.

This was a night of new expressions. Teesha almost frowned.

"My dear," she said to Edwan. "We are in a rather bad way tonight. I wish you would attempt to be helpful."

"That hunter is not a charlatan," he answered angrily, his long, yellow hair moving as his severed head jerked toward his wife. "She's a dhampir, born to hunt and kill your kind. You will not defeat her. If you stay here, you will all die a true death and join me."

Rashed finally turned away from the burned warehouse. "How do you know this?" he asked of the ghost. "Every time we talk, you have more tragic or critical news to share."

"There is a stranger living at The Velvet Rose. He knows many things. I heard him tell her." Edwan's words faltered slightly, and Ratboy knew communication on a physical level was becoming more difficult for the ghost with each passing season. "He's strong-not like the others. Something about him…"

"So how badly injured is the hunter?" Rashed asked bluntly.

"Not at all," Edwan answered. "The half-elf fed her his blood, and she healed like one of you."

Rashed shook his head almost sadly.

"Long years in this physical realm are affecting you. Dhampirs only exist in stories. Offspring of a mortal and vampire? Our kind cannot procreate. You know that."

Ratboy wasn't so certain. "Corische used to talk to me sometimes when he fell into black moods, and his favorite subject was always our strengths and weaknesses and abilities. He told me once that it takes our bodies a bit of time to completely alter. I don't know why. But he said that in the first days after being turned, it was still possible for an undead to conceive or create a child."

"This is pointless." Rashed waved him away like an annoying insect. "If she is something beyond human, then the need to kill her is increased not reduced."

"Well then, my lord," Ratboy drawled, "perhaps we ought to try a different tactic. The two of us would have killed her last night were it not for the half-elf, the blacksmith, and that damned dog. No one else in this town will help her. If we rob her of any present assistance, she will be alone."

Teesha nodded, her face intense. Ratboy could just glimpse her smooth, white stomach through the rip in her red gown.

"Yes, Rashed," she said. "If we kill her friends first and then destroy her, will you take us away from here? We can rebuild someplace else?"

His voice softened, and he stepped over to stand behind her petite form. "Of course. We can't stay in Miiska."

"One on one is the only way," Ratboy put in. "Less chance of being seen."

"All right then," Teesha said, almost happily. "I will take the blacksmith… no, Edwan, don't be concerned. He lives in solitude. I will sing him to sweet sleep before he even knows what's happening."

"I'll take the half-elf," Ratboy said in resignation. "I can use the dog to lure him off by himself. Although to deal with the dog, I may have to use something vile and mortal like a crossbow." He smiled. "Or maybe an ax."

"You're both certain?" Rashed asked. "I know they're just mortals, but don't try anything unless you can each draw the blacksmith and half-elf off by themselves."

"Don't be so protective," Teesha answered. "I know how to control a mortal."

That much was true, Ratboy mused. She knew how to control immortals as well.

Rashed wanted the hunter's blood tonight, but Ratboy could tell this new plan made sense.

"Decided then," the tall undead said, more to himself than anyone. "Her friends die now, and we'll track her down tomorrow. Then we'll be free to go."

Edwan watched this entire exchange in silence, but his form was exuding a cold that even bothered Ratboy-who never felt the cold.

"And what will you be doing while the two of them are out murdering this hunter's followers?" the ghost asked Rashed.

Rashed stepped back in calm determination. The sea wind blew against his torn tunic. "There's only one hole in the belly of that ship. Otherwise, it's intact. I'm going to try to repair it and push it off the ground."

At first, Magiere found the thought of serving customers at The Sea Lion that night to be absurd. She could not believe Leesil had made a public announcement that they would be open for business.

Caleb quickly put together a simple mutton soup, and Leesil bought bread from Karlin's bakeshop. They tried to lay the convalescing Chap on Leesil's bed and close the bedroom door, but he whined and pawed at the door so much that Magiere relented and brought him back downstairs. All his wounds were nearly healed, but he still moved slowly and carefully. As long as he lay quietly by the fire and pretended to keep watch, he could stay in the common room with everyone else.

Once people began arriving to drink ale and talk, her spirits lifted slightly. Leesil's instincts were correct yet again. The inn was transformed into a place of life, food, and chatter. She'd spent too much time with death lately.

Her clientele was slightly altered. Fewer dockworkers came, but more shopkeepers and market-dwellers walked through the door and shouted greetings. Of course, she could always count on a variety of sailors. Several fishermen's wives made a fuss over Leesil's face, and he in turn soaked up the attention like a dry sea sponge.

Magiere poured tankards of ale and goblets of wine, the new glass goblets purchased as a gift by some of the local folk. Leesil helped Caleb serve soup until the supper crowd was sated, and then he started up a loud faro game. Too loud for her tastes, perhaps, but half the room alternated in and out of players' positions, the other half shouting or cursing at the luck of the cards.

Something in the air felt almost like a harvest celebration. Although Magiere could not take part, an expected-but not entirely unwanted-feeling of satisfaction began pushing away the guilt and horror she'd experienced earlier when Geoffry and Aria tried to pay her. Miiska was her home now. Intentionally or not, she and Leesil had actually done something to protect it.

This thought forced her gaze from the ale cask to the only person in the room not celebrating: Brenden.

He'd stayed all day on the pretense of helping get the tavern set up, but she had a feeling he simply didn't want to go home. Now he sat alone, drinking, occasionally smiling and nodding when someone else spoke to him. But the moment he was left in solitude again, she saw a deep sadness settle back over him. He was clean now, wearing a long-sleeved white shirt and brown breeches. Without his blacksmith's leather, he looked more vulnerable somehow. Magiere wanted to comfort him, but she didn't know how.

She herself was wearing the tight-laced, dark blue dress Aunt Bieja had given her so many years ago. As Leesil had pointed out that morning, her usual clothes were ruined beyond repair. She ordered a new set from Baltzar, a local tailor, but for now, the dress would have to do. Besides, the sight of it made Leesil smile. She owed him that much at least, and tried to return his pleased glances. Still, when she looked at him, the half-memory of his pale skin and bleeding arm would rush back to her.

The door opened again. Karlin the baker, Geoffry, and Aria all swept in with a chorus of "hellos" and laughter. Both young people went to watch the faro table, and Karlin practically danced over to the bar.

"You look lovely," he said, smiling.

"So do you," she joked.

"Pour me an enormous tankard of ale. I rarely drink, but tonight is different."

"And why is that?" she asked, wondering if she wanted to broach the subject at all.

"You know good and well. Our town is safe. The streets are safe. Our children are safe. I think I'll drink till dawn."

Much as Magiere's thoughts still wandered to dark places, the jolly baker's mood was infectious.

"I'm going to need a steady supply of bread if you can manage," she said. "At least for a while."

He nodded, his plump face glowing.

"I have a better idea. Aria's father is the local cobbler. He does a good business, but there are five children in the family, and they can only assist him so much. The girl's a fine cook. I thought you might want to employ her now that… well, now that Beth-rae is gone."

Magiere realized that one of the things she liked about Karlin was his ability to discuss the truth without ever seeming crude or unfeeling.

"Is she interested?"

"Yes, we spoke of such an arrangement on the way over."

Magiere nodded. "I'll speak with her later." She paused and tried to seem lighthearted. "Why don't you go visit with Brenden? I see he's sitting alone."

Karlin picked up his tankard. "I'll just do that."

And so the night went on.

The townsfolk of Miiska stayed late. Magiere had not spoken to Caleb of any matters beyond business. She felt shame that Beth-rae's body had been taken from the kitchen and buried at some point during the past two days, but she didn't know where or when. She would have to ask later, when a proper moment allowed. She would take Leesil, and they would pay their final respects. He needed to do this as much or more than she did. And she would see to it that flowers were placed regularly at the grave.

Little Rose was sitting by Chap near the fire. She appeared wide awake, wearing her usual muslin dress. Her long, blond curls hung in an uncombed mess. Magiere didn't have the heart to send her up to bed.

Sometime, past the heart of the night, when only a few patrons remained, Leesil stood up and announced it was time to close. His actions surprised her slightly, but she agreed and helped him to good-naturedly usher the last celebrators out-all except Brenden.

"What a night," the half-elf exclaimed as he closed the door. "I'm ready to drop."

The huge common room felt empty and too quiet now. Magiere heard the fire crackling, and she turned to see Rose lying asleep on the braid rug beside Chap, the dog with his nose pushed warmly into the back of the child's neck. She almost went to wake her, then thought better of it. Let the child rest there. Leesil could carry her upstairs later.

Brenden got to his feet. "Well, I should be going, too. You all need your sleep."

"I'll walk you home," Leesil said. "Just let me put the cards away. You should see the profits, Magiere. Everyone was in such a good mood that I fleeced them a little."

"I thought you were tired," Brenden said. "You don't need to walk with me."

"The air will do me good. It's a bit stuffy in here."

Magiere knew Leesil too well to believe he wanted some night air. He must have been watching Brenden's mood as well.

"You both go on," she said. "We'll clean up in the morning."

Brenden looked at her helplessly, as if he wanted to say something, but then he turned and stepped out the door.

As Leesil followed the blacksmith, he paused at the door. "I won't be long," he said.

Magiere merely nodded, and closed the door. Then she was alone with Caleb.

She found the old man in the kitchen, quietly washing the stew pot.

"Just leave that," she said. "Should I carry Rose up for you?"

"No, Miss," he responded. His expression was always so calm and composed. "I can bring her. You should get some rest."

"Are you all right?" she asked, with an unusual desire for a real answer.

"I will be," he said. "You know most of the townsfolk are grateful, don't you? No matter what the cost."

"Yes, grateful," she repeated. "The desperate are always grateful."

He looked at her quizzically, but did not speak.

"How many people knew, really knew their town was a home for a band of undeads?" she asked him. "And how did they know? How did you know?"

Again, he seemed further puzzled by her words. "People don't simply disappear without a trace in a town the size of Miiska, especially people like my daughter and Master Dunction. Before you came, a body with holes in the neck or throat would be found now and then. It didn't happen often. Sometimes a season or two would pass between such happenings. But word traveled quickly. I think most of the townsfolk believed something unnatural plagued us. Wasn't that the way with most villages you served in the past?"

The clean lines of his aging, questioning face pulled at her heart. She'd never had a father to speak with, and a desire to tell Caleb everything suddenly gripped her. But she knew doing so would only hurt him further. His wife was dead, and he believed her sacrifice had been made to help the great "hunter of the undead." He needed to believe that Beth-rae's life was worthy of sacrifice for the freedom of Miiska, so that no one else had to endure the disappearance of a daughter or the loss of a spouse. Magiere would not be so selfish as to destroy his illusion in order to ease her own conscience.

"Yes," she said. "But for me, this is over, Caleb. I just want to run the tavern with you and Leesil now."

A mild gust of air hit them both as the kitchen door banged open against the wall.

"Over?" a near-angry voice said from the doorway. "And why exactly do you think that?"

Welstiel stepped in like some lord invading a peasant's home on his lands. Dressed and groomed, as always, his striking countenance was concerned, almost agitated.

"Caleb," Magiere said. "You take Rose and go upstairs."

The old man hesitated, but then he left the kitchen.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded of her new visitor.

Somehow, this seemed an odd place for a conversation with Welstiel, standing among pots, pans, and dried onions hanging on the walls. Though they had spoken in Brenden's yard, in her mind, she now saw him always as part of his eccentric room at The Velvet Rose, surrounded by his books and orbs. Only two small candles and one lamp illuminated the kitchen. The white patches at his temples stood out vividly.

"I'm wondering if you're truly as much of a fool as all the other simpletons in this town," he answered, voice deep and hard. "I expected that you would be planning your next steps, yet you served ale all night, celebrating some illusory victory."

"What are you talking about?" she asked. "I'm tired of your little half-mysteries and concealing observations."

"How could you possibly assume the vampires here have been destroyed? Have you seen bodies? Have you counted those destroyed?"

A cold trickle of fear ran down her spine.

"Leesil burned the warehouse, and it caved in. Nothing could survive that."

"You are a dhampir!" he said angrily. "You received a fatal wound last night, but now you stand here, whole again. Their bodies heal even faster than yours. They are like the black roaches beneath these floorboards." He stepped closer. "Imagine what they can endure."

Magiere leaned over and gripped the aging oak table that Beth-rae had once chopped vegetables on. She felt fatigue weigh her down until she had to sit on the stool. This could not be happening. It should all be over with.

"I may not have seen any bodies, but you haven't seen any undeads roaming the streets either. Have you?"

The flesh of his cheekbones pulled back. "Look to your friends."

He turned and quickly disappeared out the door into the darkness.

"Wait!" Magiere shouted.

She ran after him through the kitchen door, but the backside of the tavern that faced the forest between the building and the sea was empty. In a moment of crystal clarity, only one thought registered.

"Leesil."

Magiere bolted back through the kitchen to the bar and grabbed her falchion.

As Brenden and Leesil walked down the streets of Miiska in silence, Brenden marveled at what a mass of contradictions this half-elf was: one moment a cold-hearted fighter and the next a mother hen. Leesil wore a green scarf tied around his head which covered the slight points of his ears. He now resembled a slender human with slightly slanted, amber-brown eyes. Brenden wondered about the scarf.

"Why do you sometimes wear that?" he asked, motioning toward Leesil's head.

"Wear what?" the half-elf said. Then he touched his forehead. "Oh, that. I used to wear it all the time. When Magiere and I were on the ga… when we were hunting, we didn't like calling attention to ourselves. She thought it best to blend in until we'd decided to take on a job. There aren't too many of my kind in or around Stravina, so I kept my ears covered. It doesn't matter here, but old habits die hard. Besides, it keeps my hair out of my face."

They talked of such simple, small things along the way. Except for a few drunken sailors, and a guard here and there openly patrolling the streets, no one else was about. Soon enough, the two of them approached Brenden's home.

Leesil finally asked, "Are you all right?"

Answering such a question was difficult for Brenden, but he had no wish to hurt his friend.

"After my sister's death, I was so enraged by Ellinwood's conduct that anger consumed me. Then you came. While we were searching, fighting, seeking revenge, I had a sense of purpose. Now that it's all over, I feel like I should bury Eliza… begin to mourn. But she's already in her grave. I don't know what to do."

Leesil nodded. "I know. I think I've known all day." He paused. "Listen to me. Tomorrow, you'll get up and go visit Eliza and say good-bye. Then you'll come here, open the smith's shop and work all day. At night, you'll come to The Sea Lion, have supper, and talk to friends. I swear that after a few such days, the world will begin to make sense again."

Brenden choked once and looked away.

"Thank you," he said, needing to say something, anything. "I'll see you tomorrow night."

The half-elf was already walking away down the street, as if he too felt a loss of appropriate words.

"If you run out of horses to shoe, you can help me fix that damned roof."

Brenden watched his friend's long-legged strides until Leesil turned a corner, and then he went inside his small empty cottage. Only sparse furniture and decor remained, as he had bundled all of Eliza's things and stored them away. Such items were too painful to see every day. A candle she made last summer rested on the table, but he didn't light it, preferring to undress in the dark. As he began untucking his shirt, beautiful strains of a wordless song drifted in the window and filled his ears.

Was someone outside singing?

He walked to the back window and looked out. Standing next to the woodpile was a young woman in a torn, velvet dress. Soft curls the color of deep Portsmith coffee hung to her small waist. She seemed vaguely familiar. Such sweet music floated from her tiny mouth. Something told him to stay, in the house, but an irresistible urgency and longing pulled at him. He stepped out the back door and off the porch into the yard.

Slowly approaching this serene visage, he saw her white hands were those of a child. Yet the tight-laced bodice of her gown and rounded breasts proved her a woman. He could not tell how old she was with her doll-like face.

"Are you lost?" he asked. "Do you need help?"

She stopped singing and smiled. "I am lost and alone. See the sadness in my eyes."

He looked into her dark, oval eyes and forgot where he was. He forgot his name.

"Come sit with me," she pleaded.

He crouched down beside her and leaned against the woodpile. Her delicate bone structure made him afraid to touch her, but she laid her head against his shoulder in contentment.

"So gentle," she whispered. "You would never hurt me, would you?"

"No," he answered. "I would never hurt you."

Her face turned up toward his, and her hand touched the back of his hair.

"Yes, you would."

A grip of solid bone restrained him, and she bit down hard on his throat.

No, she wasn't biting him, but kissing him, and he wanted her to go on. He relaxed in her arms, letting her do as she wished.

Then he closed his eyelids and sank down into her embrace.

Ratboy had not stopped thinking about the slim, tan-armed girl for days. He remembered standing outside her window, watching her sleep, drinking in her scent when Teesha had pulled him away. Now, he found himself standing outside her window again.

Rashed would want him to feed, heal, and grow strong again before attacking the half-elf and the dog. He was certain of it. This time there could be no failure, so he should be at his peak of strength and reeking of fresh blood.

The girl had long, tan hair to match her arms. When she rolled over in her sleep, he caught a whiff of clean muslin mixed with lavender soap, and he could wait no longer.

He rarely exercised any of his mental ability beyond making some of his mortal victims forgetful. Why should he? They were killers, not tricksters, but at times he admired, even quietly envied, Teesha's ease of hunting. And weren't they going to rid themselves of this hunter and begin traveling again? Perhaps he should practice his abilities and improve them. Teesha's concern for Rashed was beginning to outweigh her concern for him. Maybe it always had and he'd simply never realized. Ratboy would never be Rashed. But he had other gifts, other skills. He should develop them and impress her along the road. The thought made him smile.

At the same time, he felt an uncontrollable desire to possess this tan-haired girl, to touch her skin, to feed on her life. And he needed to be at full strength. "Come," he whispered.

She opened her eyes, and he projected a thought into her mind. There was something important outside. She must get up and find it. Perhaps she was dreaming? But in the dream she still needed to see what waited.

Rising, she hurried to the window and looked out. Upon seeing nothing, she leaned the upper half of her body over the edge.

Ratboy grabbed her shoulders protruding through the window and pulled her outside. She did not scream, but blinked at him in mild surprise.

He did not want to frighten her, so he kept projecting the idea that she was lost in a dream. She didn't struggle in his arms, but rather examined him curiously through slightly slanted, brown eyes. An alien sense of excitement passed through him. He took his time, experiencing the scent of lavender soap in the crook of her neck mingling with the barest hint of dried fish on her hands. His fingers brushed the softness of her hair and the smoothness of her arms.

Then he pushed her slowly to the ground and used his teeth to puncture the wellspring in the base of her throat, all the while continuing to calm her with the power of his mind.

Her slender hands instinctively pushed once against his shoulders, but the moment passed, and he felt her gripping his shirt.

Power and unbelievable strength flowed into him. Domination through blind fear was one thing, but this was something else, something he and Parko had never talked about.

He drank until her heart stopped beating.

She was only a shell now, and he left her body where it lay, feeling some regret that the moment was over. Somehow, he knew Hashed didn't care about secrecy anymore.

Thoughts of the half-elf and the dog moved to the front of his awareness. Weapons? Shouldn't he find some weapons? No, his burned flesh was healing rapidly, and he had never felt stronger. No mortal trappings were necessary. He slipped down the near-deserted Miiska streets toward The Sea Lion.

Upon reaching it, he jerked one of the common room's shutters off. The dog lay alone in the large room, resting by the hearth.

"Here, puppy, puppy," he sang. What had that half-elf called him-Chap? "Here, Chap."

Chap's great, wolflike head snapped up in what Ratboy swore was disbelief. Then, as Ratboy anticipated, the dog's lips curled up in a hate-filled snarl, and he launched himself toward the window. Loud high-pitched wails burst from his long mouth.

Ratboy smiled. He bolted for the outskirts of town and the tree line.

Magiere ran down the near-black streets toward Brenden's shop until her lungs threatened to burst. Her long dress kept catching at her legs, but she pulled it up with her free hand and kept running.

What if Welstiel were right?

Truth hurt more than the exerted ache in her chest. How could she simply assume all danger had passed because Leesil and Brenden believed the burning warehouse had caved in the tunnels? She ignored the pain in her legs and ran on, falchion in hand.

As the smith's shop came into sight, she called out, "Leesil!" not caring whom she woke up.

The front door was closed. She pounded on it.

"Leesil! Brenden?"

No one answered, and she tried to open it. The door was unlocked.

Magiere shoved it open and stepped inside, but there was no one at home in the small one-room cottage. Maybe Leesil and Brenden hadn't gone directly to the blacksmith's house. What if Leesil had tried to cheer his friend by hunting up a late game of cards somewhere else?

Yes, she comforted herself. Leesil had taken Brenden somewhere else, and they were probably both sitting in some decrepit little inn playing faro. But her hopes were hysterical attempts to create personal security, and she knew it. Aunt Bieja always said, "We mustn't worry until we have something to be worried about."

No, Leesil had said he wouldn't be long.

When she walked past the back window, a flash of white caught her eye. She turned and saw Brenden's shirt. He was lying near the woodpile, not far from the fading stains of Eliza's blood.

"No!"

She rushed out the back door and into the yard, dropping to the ground at the blacksmith's side. His flesh was alabaster, contrasting with the dark red of his torn throat. She crouched down in front of him. His expression was not horrible, but more peaceful than any she'd ever seen on his face. Bright red hair stood out starkly against wan skin.

There was little blood on the ground, as whatever had ripped his throat open had carefully consumed every drop. She tried to let the sight sink in, to allow it inside where she could properly absorb and deal with it. But she couldn't.

Brenden was the only truly brave member of this town, the only one to help her and Leesil. And what had his bravery purchased? What did standing by them bring him? It had brought him death.

She reached out with her free hand and touched his beard. Her hand moved down to his throat, where her fingertips pressed against the side as if to feel the blood pumping. Nothing. She already knew he was dead, and her actions futile, but now she was one of the desperate, and she was paying a price.

Magiere remembered him standing in front of the tavern door that morning, blocking Ellinwood's entrance, protecting her home.

"I'm sorry," she whispered to him. "I'm so sorry for everything."

Welstiel was right. She should have made sure. She should have searched for the bodies and never stopped until she made sure those vampires were truly dead. She had let Leesil and Brenden just walk out into the night air. This was her fault.

She dropped her falchion and gripped her own knees, rocking back and forth. It was too much.

Too much.

In the distance, an eerie keening wail broke through her inaction.

Magiere grabbed her falchion off the ground and ran out into the street near the front of Brenden's stables and forge.

Chap's cry sounded out again. Chap was hunting.

"Leesil."