Thief of Lives

Chapter 2

Leesil shifted cards about the faro table that evening, stealing brief glances at Magiere, who stood behind the bar pouring drinks and talking sparingly with patrons. Everything should have felt like it had before the events of months past. The Sea Lion was fully restored-better than restored. He should have been happy.

After the fire, only the common room and kitchen hearths remained. A local carpenter who remembered the old bar quite well had created a nearly identical version. It glistened with dark, fresh stain. The building had been lengthened and slightly widened, and the common room hearth now stood near the room's center, its backside open like the front. Patrons circled around it or nestled close to either open side for a little extra warmth.

Hanging above the hearth facing toward the bar was a sword. Regardless of how much Caleb had scrubbed it, the blade remained partially blackened and marred. Leesil considered having it polished and restored but then thought better of it. This was Rashed's sword, the warrior undead that Magiere had tricked into the flames as the old Sea Lion burned. She'd fished the blade from the ashes as a reminder of what she and Leesil had accomplished for Miiska. Displayed not in pride or triumph, it was a tribute of respect for those who died and shouldn't be forgotten-Brenden the smith and his sister, and Beth-rae, Caleb's wife, among others. That blade symbolized what had been finally faced and overcome at a severe cost.

The upstairs bedrooms were larger. Before the fire, he and Magiere each had their own room, but Caleb and his five-year-old granddaughter, Rose, had shared one. Now Rose possessed a bedroom to herself, and Leesil had whitewashed the interior for her. Every child should grow up with a place that was all his or her own.

Leesil took in the room with its new wood walls and secondhand tables and chairs donated, bought, or scavenged from around town. It struck Leesil as bizarre that, had Rashed not burned down the original Sea Lion, their establishment wouldn't have become what it was now. His gaze swung back to the warrior undead's sword above the hearth.

"Perhaps we should thank you," he muttered, but there was more sarcasm than irony in his voice. He turned again to watch Magiere.

The long battle with Rashed and his "family" had altered her. Before, she'd started to become more open to him. Close comradeship seeded the possibility of more, but in the past month, that warmer Magiere seemed to fade. She smiled occasionally, treated him well as partner and favored companion, and yet drifted back out of reach. Once in while during the evening, he caught her standing quietly behind the bar, watching him intently with her dark brown eyes. He was careful not to let her notice his awareness and thereby scare her away even more. There seemed no clue as to how to close this new distance between them, let alone fathom its cause.

Tonight, in celebration of the grand reopening, Magiere's long hair was loose from its braid and hung in gentle waves across the shoulders of her blue dress, bodice laced in tightly but not uncomfortably. It was only the third time Leesil had ever seen in her anything but breeches and boots, and either a shirt and vest or her leather hauberk. To his knowledge, she owned only the one dress. Seeing her in it was painfully pleasant. He was careful not to stare, or, out of irritation and spite, she might store it away, never to be seen again. Usually she was the warrior, falchion at her hip and black hair bound with a leather thong, and that look as well had its appeal. He'd become fond of both her aspects, wanted them both, but seldom had the opportunity to see her as she was tonight.

No patrons were interested in a game, so Leesil stacked up the cards and worked his way through the crowded room to the bar, smiling innocently at Magiere. She was hesitant and then smiled back.

"Like old times?" she asked.

"Not too old," he answered. "We didn't have the place long before someone turned it into a pile of charcoal."

Her answering scowl made him smile again, honestly this time. An irritated Magiere, at least for a moment, was the true Magiere, who always had at least one thing in every day to smolder about.

"I know," she said, pouring an ale and setting it on a tray for Caleb to serve. "But we're finally home again."

Melancholy struck Leesil. If only the world could stop, and, like some mage who'd ferreted out the secrets to cage eternity in the wink of an eye, he could keep her in this one night forever. Oblivious to his wistfulness, Magiere knitted her brows.

"We need to talk… later. We have to raise quick money… more than I'd thought, and I'm not sure how."

Leesil was immediately on edge. It wouldn't be the first time she'd kept something to herself until she had no choice but to spit it out. The last time, she'd confessed to hoarding away money when he wasn't paying attention, just to buy this tavern.

"It's for the back taxes," she added.

"Back what?" Leesil raised one eyebrow.

"I've been a dolt on the business end of things," Magiere said. "Karlin came looking for me today, and you haven't… there hasn't been time to talk to you about it." She folded her arms and took a long, slow breath. "We've back taxes to pay. I don't suppose you have any coin hidden away?"

He blinked, about to laugh, and then realized she wasn't joking. With a grunt, he gave her his wide-eyed look of sincere naivete.

"Are you actually aware of who you're talking to? Me?"

Her jaw tightened as she glared at him. An angry Magiere was sometimes even more real than a smoldering Magiere. The tavern's front door swung open and a handful of sailors entered.

"That's my call," Leesil said. "They'll start gambling soon. Pour me some tea?"

D'areeling red wine had been his preferred evening drink but not in the last two months. He needed to be sharp and clearheaded every moment if he were to be truly useful to Magiere. She took a teapot from under the bar, where it rested in an iron basin filled with hot coals from the hearth, and poured spiced tea into a chipped pottery mug.

"We're not done talking," she insisted, and handed over his tea. "This is serious, and we have to deal with it, or all of this"-she swiped a hand through the air, indicating their new home-"could end up lost."

"Duty calls," Leesil replied. He took the mug from her and headed back across the room before she could say anything more.

Early patrons were usually townsfolk coming for fish chowder, ale, and a bit of company. The later crowd consisted more of sailors and off-duty guards looking to drink and gamble. At the moment, they were between the two crowds, and the place felt a bit full. Young Geoffry, Karlin's son, had volunteered to serve tonight, since they expected an unusually large crowd, and Magiere had employed a girl named Aria on a permanent basis. With old Caleb serving as well, Magiere pouring drinks, and Leesil running the games, they were well staffed in a room that was well stuffed. Everyone enjoyed the new surroundings as if trying on a set of clothes fresh from the tailor.

Everyone except Chap.

The silver-blue hound circled the hearth for the hundredth time, wolfish ears pricked in agitation. Sitting near the old Sea Lion's fireplace, he easily surveyed the whole room, from hearth to bar, front door to kitchen doorway. But the new enlarged common room changed all of that. Now, to check on any unusual ruckus or raised voice, he was obliged to plod around and around the fireplace all night, unable to take in the whole room at once.

With the noise in the room, Leesil wasn't certain, but he imagined a never-quite-ending low rumble issuing from the hound. He steered a wider course toward his faro table rather than pass too close to Chap at the moment.

The tavern door opened again, and Leesil saw Karlin enter-a welcome sight, as Leesil had wondered why the portly baker hadn't been at the door the moment they'd opened. Karlin was a true friend, and his money was no good in the Sea Lion. When someone else entered behind the baker, Leesil's attention fixed on the new arrival.

Karlin's companion was slender and tall, with a gliding step that immediately reminded Leesil of his mother even before he took full notice of the man's features. Silky, wheat-brown hair was pulled back behind his pointed ears. Large, almond-shaped eyes of amber were sharply slanted in a narrow and long triangular face. The man's skin was a darker tan than Leesil's, but with a perfect complexion akin to his mother's. Standing with Karlin was a full-blooded elf.

Magiere had mentioned Loni, so Leesil knew one of his mother's people lived in Miiska, but he'd never felt the need to seek out this person. His own mother never saw fit to teach him anything of her people, even their language. The elves were reclusive, not generally mixing with the other races, which itself made Leesil's own heritage an oddity.

Since Loni ran the Velvet Rose, Miiska's most expensive inn, he had little call to visit a common folk's tavern like the Sea Lion. So why was he here, and with Karlin of all people? Leesil held his place, halfway to his faro table, where sailors nearby eyed the cards. He watched Karlin lean over the bar's end to catch Magiere's attention.

Magiere hurried down the bar's backside with a slight smile. The baker spoke briefly, perhaps discussing the tedious tax issue, and Leesil felt suddenly annoyed. Why did so many people dwell on such things? It would be handled soon enough.

Loni, the elf, tapped Karlin on the shoulder and, with a serious look, tilted his head toward Magiere. Karlin reached into his vest, withdrew a piece of rolled parchment, and handed it to her. She frowned in confusion, then unrolled it and began reading.

Magiere's mild moment of happiness melted from her pale features.

Brows knitted in puzzlement, and then her eyes widened. When she lifted her gaze to Karlin, the clench of her jaw was plain to Leesil from across the room. The elf spoke, and Magiere threw the parchment at his chest as she began shouting. Several patrons at the bar shifted away toward the kitchen side as Leesil quickly pushed his way back across the crowded room.

He couldn't make out what she said, but he did catch "bastard," and some Stravinan term that sounded worse. Chap had somehow wormed through the room and beaten Leesil to the bar. The dog growled at Karlin and Loni-mostly at the elf, for Chap was as fond of the baker as anyone else living at the Sea Lion. Background noise began to fade as more and more people turned their heads toward Magiere's raised voice. Leesil planted one hand on the bar, vaulted to the backside, and caught her arm.

"Quiet, you dragon," he whispered playfully. "You're frightening the peasants."

Her pale skin was flushed, and the glare she returned made him think better of any further jest. She moved back from Karlin and Loni, and closer to him.

"Leesil, get them out of here… or I'll do it my way!"

Leesil abandoned any further thought of disarming the situation through humor, and slipped around Magiere between her and the end of the bar.

"Into the kitchen," he said softly, and then looked over his shoulder. "Karlin, you come now."

Leesil steered Magiere down the bar toward the kitchen's curtained doorway. He was thankful she didn't resist. She did, however, pull away from him and nearly rip the curtains off their rod as she swatted them aside on her way through. Leesil hurried after her.

"What's wrong?" he asked. He pulled a stool to the kitchen table and literally pushed her down to sit on it. When he did, he felt her shoulders shaking with tension. "This can't be about back taxes?"

The curtain pulled aside and Karlin entered, followed by Lord. The baker looked stricken and shamed, a troubling contrast to his cheerful nature. The elf stared at all of them, attentive and watchful but otherwise expressionless.

"You could just say no, Magiere," Loni said. "This drama is unnecessary."

"Get out," she answered with enough hatred that Leesil balked at her tone.

"And then what, send the offer back?" Loni tossed the parchment on the table in front of her. "You know this money could rebuild the old warehouse, this time to be operated as community property. More merchants working the coastal route would once again stop here. Commerce would flourish instead of wither. Dockworkers could earn a decent wage, forcing Master Poyesk and his like to pay well or close up. Outlying farmers and local crafters could collectively wholesale their goods once again."

"What is going on?" Leesil demanded, lost amid the argument.

Karlin stood in helpless silence.

"I can't believe you'd ask this of me," Magiere whispered.

Her gaze locked on Loni. She wrapped one hand on the table's edge, as if bracing for a lunge, her whole body tensed.

Leesil quickly stepped into her way, not the best place to be if Magiere succumbed to a fit of dhampir rage. Almost as tall as him, in such a state she could take down a trained undead warrior one-on-one.

"Show it to him," Loni ordered her, nodding at Leesil. "He burned the warehouse-correct? Perhaps he'll comprehend the potential of what you choose to ignore."

Leesil twitched reflexively at Lord's dispassionate barb, and then he felt Magiere's fingers pulling on his own. The touch drew his attention, and he looked down to find her pushing the parchment into his hand.

"Read it," she said quietly.

The rolled parchment was partially flattened from handling, but enough of the wax seal remained to see its imprint. In the center was the Belaskian royal crest under the tasseled banner of the king's city of Bela. Leesil's melancholy reared again. He unrolled the parchment.

To the council and governing members of the free town of Miiska in his majesty's kingdom of Belaski:

Through Sir Vidor Chasnitz, ship owner and member of our city council, we have learned of your recent economic difficulties related to the loss of your largest warehouse. We send our and his majesty's hope that your situation will improve. It is partially in this interest that we address you with a request which might be fulfilled best by one of your own citizens and in turn serve the recovery of your community.

From other sources, we have learned that in your respectable town resides one known as Magiere, a reported individual of special talents with whom we seek contact. We have heard with great interest of her skills put to the service of your town, and it is such skills and service that we in turn wish to engage from her. Our concern is that our great city of Bela may be plagued in the same manner as Miiska was until recently. The pattern of crimes pertinent has only of late come to the council's attention and by the worst possible means. The daughter of our prominent council chairman was killed upon the front steps of his home. The circumstances leave little doubt as to an unnatural perpetrator which continues to elude our city guard and constabularies.

We ask your council or its agents to bring this to the attention of Mistress Magiere, and that if she is willing, she should travel to the capital with all possible haste. To that end, we include documents to secure her, as well as the companion with which she is reputed to work, immediate free passage without question on any kingdom ship bound for Beta.

In exchange for her services, the council has been authorized to offer the sum of fifty gold sovereigns of the realm, notwithstanding any bounty offered by private parties. We anxiously await your reply and hope that our offer meets with acceptance, compassion, and duty.

With sincerity,

Crias Doviak, Secretary

Acting for the Council of Bela

Leesil set the parchment down and leaned back against the table, blankly staring at the floor. Loni allowed little more than two breaths to pass before breaking the silence.

"You do not seem surprised by this," he said.

"No," Leesil answered.

"But… how?" Karlin started, attention hopping between the others in confusion. "Darien just brought the letter to us this afternoon. And you already knew about it?"

"No," Leesil repeated. "I didn't know about the letter or what was in it. I knew something like this was coming… eventually, though it's sooner than I'd hoped."

"What are you saying?" Magiere's voice was harsh but quiet.

Leesil lifted his head just enough to find her looking up at him. Confusion filled her eyes, but her nearly white cheeks were still flushed.

"What did you expect?" he snapped more bitterly than intended. "If you think you had a reputation in the backwoods of Stravina, think again. We waged open battle with three undeads right before the eyes of an entire town… a port town sitting on the coastal sea lane of the whole nation, with sailors, merchants, and others passing through for two moons-even with the dropoff in trade. Worst of all, we won. This isn't peasant superstitions and rural rumors anymore."

Anger drained from Magiere's face as her large brown eyes filled up with barely suppressed panic.

The letter was only the beginning, and it was never going to be over.

Magiere sank in her chair with eyes closed. Leesil looked back at Karlin.

"They know," he said. "They know Magiere and I are responsible for the warehouse, and they're coming at her through guilt. Otherwise they would have offered the money directly to her. They knew she'd refuse, didn't they?"

After a moment's contemplation, Karlin nodded, his round face too sad for speech.

"You are responsible," Loni said with a hard glance at Leesil before focusing once again upon Magiere. "Would it be so terrible to go destroy their undead, to help others as you have helped the people here? No one denies the good you have done, but the repercussions cannot be ignored. You have a chance to make amends. Do you not owe this to Miiska? Hunting the undead is what you do."

The last statement made Leesil cringe. How could he or Magiere ever tell anyone that until they'd come to Miiska, their entire reputation was built on a charlatan's game for cheating peasants? Magiere put her head in her hands.

"Go home, Loni," she said. "Nothing you say can make me go to Bela… nothing."

The dreamer shifted in his slumber. All around him, below and above, was boundless dark, the dreamer suspended at its center. He hung there in silence, waiting.

Until the dark began to undulate.

It rolled like desert dunes under a starless sky. But when the stars did come out, they blinked not from sky but from the crests of those black dunes all around. The movement sharpened slowly into clarity, and stars became the glitter of an unseen light reflected upon black reptilian scales. Dunes covered in those scales became a mammoth serpent's coils, each larger than the height of man. They circled on all sides of him, and above and below. They writhed with no beginning, no end, no space between, as if ancient and eternal and all-encompassing, perhaps stretching back into the time of the Forgotten, and the lost history of the world.

"Where?" he asked again. "Where is it? It has been so many years… decades. Am I closer?"

The same questions as always, and little by little, small, cryptic images and words floated through.

High… in the cold… and ice. The weight of those whispering words slipped into the dreamer's mind and suffocated his own thoughts. Guarded by old ones… oldest of predecessors.

"How can I find it?"

The dreamer tried to peer beyond the black coils and envision what he sought, but he as yet did not even know what it looked like-only what the coils, his patron of dreams, promised the object could provide. Once acquired, it would forever alter the nature of his existence. Nothing would be needed from the outside, and all would be met from within himself.

The coils began to close in upon him with fear and exhaustion. These dreams with his nameless benefactor filled his mind with knowledge one grain at a time, but drained him quickly. He wanted to remain and ask more but could not.

Welstiel Massing opened his eyes, alone, lying upon a large, canopied bed in his rented room as the black coils faded from his thoughts.

It was like any dream one might have, sharp in its experience and dull in its aftermath. He remembered coils in the dark, but neither their look nor the feel of his patron's voice. And with each dream, the voice provided fewer new answers. In the end, if he acquired the promised object, it would free him. This much he did believe-and remember.

Rising, he settled at his desk with quill in hand and opened the top thin volume of a stack of journals. He'd procured private rooms in one of Bela's more respectable inns, affording him the privacy he required. Without contemplation, he wrote down what little he remembered from the dream. His hand shook slightly and his normal clarity was fogged, but he had a few more pieces to add, even if they did not all fit together well.

The object was hidden at an elevation cold enough for ice and snow to remain all year. And "predecessors," old ones, guarded it. That in itself wasn't new information, but still left Welstiel uneasy, as this detail recurred time and again. How old? As far back as the creation of this object he sought? From the time of the forgotten history perhaps, and so old it might predate the Great War.

He could not fight these predecessors alone; that he'd surmised by the patron's implications over the years, but he'd long been preparing to address this obstacle. Plans laid with patience were now ready for further momentum.

Welstiel made the bed and dressed with meticulous attention to each fold of shirt, breeches, and vest. He combed dark hair back to reveal two small, equally white patches at his temples. He used his right hand, as his left was missing the first digit of its little finger. He donned an expensive black cloak and pulled up the cowl.

Finally he opened a small jade box and removed a thin ring made of brass with minute, fine symbols etched around its inside. He slipped this onto the first finger of his right hand, bracing himself.

As always, everything around looked the same but felt as if the world suddenly separated from him, almost unaware of his presence. It had been many years since he'd made the ring, and he seldom succumbed to a self-appraisal when donning it. He looked into the small mirror on his desk.

His own familiar image was there in the glass, but it felt as if he stared at the reflection of a finely crafted painting. Though outside his appearance remained unchanged, what he held within-thought, feeling, and presence-would be imperceptible.

Before leaving, he took one more look about to be sure nothing was out of place. His journals were of no concern, written in the tongue of his homeland far across sea and land in the northern Numan territories. As to the other books stowed under the bed, their locked straps might intrigue anyone foolish enough to search his room but were far beyond the capability of any thief to open. If they were forced, the result would be most unpleasant.

On the bedside floor rested a frosted glass globe on a plain iron pedestal. Within the glass moved three dancing sparks that glowed enough to dimly illuminate the small room. It was the oldest thing he possessed, having been the first thing he'd ever created in his long studies. He opened the door to leave, speaking sharply without looking back. "Darkness." The sparks in the globe winked out.

After Karlin and Loni's departure, Magiere managed a polite front for her patrons until the last of them left past midnight. She thanked them and invited them to return again. Across the room, Leesil followed this same ritual as the final would-be gamblers gathered winnings and bemoaned losses. Caleb collected dishes and mugs from tables onto trays, and Aria took the trays into the kitchen to begin washing up. Magiere mindlessly continued closing down for the night. When Leesil nearly pushed the last gambler out of the tavern, he went to the curtained kitchen doorway.

"Aria, leave all that," he said. "I'll take care of it in the morning."

"Sir?" her questioning voice floated out. "Come morning, it'll stink like a broken ale keg in here."

"It doesn't matter. Just leave it." He looked back to Caleb, who was straightening up chairs. "Could you walk Aria and Geoffry home?"

Normally, Leesil would have played escort for their young helpers, who'd as well been assisting with preparations before the grand opening. With Caleb on such a duty and little Rose in bed, it was obvious to Magiere her partner was getting everyone out of the way.

"I don't need Caleb to take me home," Geoffry said indignantly. He dumped a load of firewood by the hearth and glared at the half-elf. Under a mop of auburn hair, his plain face expressed righteous indignation. "For the love of mutton, Leesil, I helped you fight wolves and vampires. I can walk Aria home myself."

"Come, come," Caleb said, gathering his cloak from the hooks by the front door. "Your parents may well be waiting up, even to this hour. We should walk in numbers."

"Well, you'll still be walking back here all by yourself," Geoffry answered, not quite ready to give in.

Caleb was over sixty, slightly stooped, with thick silver hair. He seldom spoke but had a presence that made people to stop and listen when he did. He looked at Geoffry in mild displeasure.

Geoffry sighed, walked to the door, and jerked his cloak off the hook. He grabbed Aria's as well as she emerged from the kitchen. Leesil ushered all three out into the night.

Magiere went to sit on the hearth's edge. Her knees up in front of her, she reached out to where Chap lay nearby and stroked between the hound's tall ears. Chap rolled his head to lick her hand. His silver-blue fur was soft, and his clear eyes seemed to express sympathy, as if he understood her suffering. A foolish thought, and Magiere shook it off.

"Are you all right?" Leesil asked, walking toward her. He pulled the tied scarf from his head, shook his long white-blond hair loose, and scratched at his scalp for a moment.

Stupid question. She didn't answer.

"It had to happen eventually," he said. "I've been waiting for it, though you hadn't really thought it through until today. And it won't be the last time. Word is spreading. Maybe some of them are going to want help… and some of them…" He paused, seeming hesitant to finish. "Well, some might offer a great deal of money."

"We don't need their money!" she responded.

It was a lie. She knew it and so did he.

"Yes, right, of course we don't," he said, mockingly agreeable. "But for the moment, I'm not talking about us, and you know it."

Leesil crouched on the floor in front of her, bringing them face-to-face.

Amber eyes just slightly almond shaped, and not as slanted and large as Loni's, stared back at her from under thin white-blond eyebrows. Magiere wanted to look away but wouldn't. It was so hard to look him in the eyes without memories surging into her thoughts-frightening and bloody memories. She wanted to see no more pain on his face and no more scars on his body. Her gaze drifted down to his wrist and then back up.

Even with his thin-lipped mouth always on the verge of a wry smile, he seemed almost sad-or perhaps bitter.

"Loni may be rude," Leesil continued. "But some of what he said is true. I burned that warehouse down and… I'd do it again without a second thought-given the same need."

Magiere remembered nothing of their flight from the warehouse, when Leesil had set the building on fire to cover their escape. But from what she'd later learned, he'd been rather thorough and zealous in executing that chosen task. They'd tried to take the family of undeads in their underground tunnels beneath the building. The heated memory of fighting Rashed flashed unwanted into her head. She'd been in bloodlust, her dhampir nature consuming her with hate and hunger as she fought with the warrior vampire. Then his longsword sliced through the side of her throat, and she collapsed into darkness.

There was no memory of how Leesil had gotten her out of there. The only thing she did remember was awaking to Leesil healing her by feeding her blood from his own wrist-and wanting him to go on and never stop.

The start of a cold sweat broke out across Magiere's skin, and nausea rose in her stomach. She swallowed hard, not wanting Leesil to notice.

"Miiska now suffers for what I did," he continued with a shrug. "There is a chance to make amends. Plus maybe something for ourselves. The payment will be made to you, not the town, regardless of what that letter implies. And a rebuilt warehouse run by the town doesn't mean we can't get a piece of it for having funded the whole thing."

His schemes aside, Magiere couldn't believe what she heard, and then realization struck her.

"You want to go. You want to do this."

He dropped his head until his long hair hung forward around his face and across his ear tips.

"No. It's not about what I want. I don't see how we can refuse."

"Easy, I just did. Or weren't you listening in the kitchen?"

Leesil rubbed his temple with one hand, pushing his hair back and letting it fall again like a curtain.

"You want to stay here and have us run this business forever? Fine. What if things continue the way they're going in Miiska? Where's our business going to come from with no spare coin in anyone's pocket? What happens to Karlin and Geoffry? To Aria and her family? How are we even going to pay Caleb enough to properly care for little Rose?"

Magiere couldn't see Leesil's expression hidden behind his hair, and a numb feeling crept through her. There was more behind his words than Miiska's welfare. He'd never wanted the Sea Lion in the first place. She'd purchased it on her own, and he'd fought her, conceding in the end only when she wouldn't change her mind. Now it seemed his mind was changing. She leaned against the stones of the hearth.

"If you want to do this," she returned, "then be honest about it and stop hiding behind concern for the town."

Leesil's head jerked up, anger plain on his face.

"It's not that way, and you know it!" He dropped onto one knee, bringing him close enough to lean his hands against the hearth's ledge to both sides of her legs. "You're just trying to make it simple enough to ignore, and it's not."

Magiere was forced to look him in the eyes again.

Leesil leaned farther toward her, and Magiere's whole body tensed.

He turned, pushing his side between her knees as he settled to the floor between her feet and leaned slowly backward. It took several breaths as he settled there with his back toward her, coming closer to contact with her, until Magiere realized she wasn't breathing at all. She took a slow breath, forcing her limbs to stop shaking.

His weight against her was no more than a feather quilt at first; then it settled warm and firm as the back of his head came to rest against her breastbone.

"Nothing is that simple for us," he said quietly.

His body felt slender, warm, and solid. She'd spent so much time watching over him every moment after the final battle, tending his needs to be sure he survived. Though she'd stripped, bathed, and bandaged him, and did whatever else was necessary to keep him recovering, they'd not touched like this, both of them fully aware of the other.

She could smell his hair, filled with forest scent, lavender soap from an afternoon bath, and remnants of ale, pipe smoke, and other lingering scents of a night in the tavern. He was still and quiet, pressed against her. Her gaze traced down his flaxen hair running across the front of her dress and his own shoulders. Instinctively, she lifted her hands to rest on his shoulders, and then her gaze fell on his left arm against her thigh.

Shirtsleeve loose, it exposed the wrist sheath holding his remaining slivery stiletto strapped to his forearm. Just below the downward-pointed hilt were the scars on his wrist.

Memory boiled into Magiere's mind, calling back her first waking awareness after flight from the burning warehouse. Blood filled her mouth, running across her tongue, and bringing life into her body as she swallowed.

Leesil's blood.

She remembered her teeth set into the wrist he'd slashed open in order to feed her. He'd straddled her on the bed and pressed that wrist against her mouth until running blood awakened her. In those early days in Miiska, she'd already begun to think more on him each day, and that fixation mingled in her hunger. He was right above her, and her teeth sank deeper into his flesh as she pulled him close.

He was so warm, so near that everything she felt might have been poured from him right into her. And she was killing him. Had Brenden not been there to pull him away…

From that moment, part of her became linked to the world of the undeads she'd destroyed. She was a danger to those she cared for, and deadly to the one closest to her. Leesil never saw this, would never accept it. Magiere didn't know which horrified her more-what she was, or what she could do to him if she ever became a dhampir fully again.

The scars on his wrist from her own teeth would never fade.

Magiere pulled out from behind Leesil and was at the kitchen doorway before he could get to his feet. She gripped the curtain's edge so tightly that her forearm ached, and she calmed herself before looking back at him across the room. Leesil watched her in confusion. Even Chap lifted his head.

Leesil was at least right about Miiska. At some point, if the town continued to wane, it meant the Sea Lion would have few patrons left. Any hope for building a new life here would be hollow. If the town died, so would the life she'd wanted.

If saving their life here were truly Leesil's only reason for accepting the letter's offer, she might have felt some peace in agreeing. But he wanted to be on the move again, always onto something new, and would never settle for what they had here.

"Go to Karlin in the morning and tell him we'll take the offer," she said. "We'll sail for Bela on the next northbound ship and destroy their undead. When we… when the payment is delivered, the town can rebuild the warehouse."

Uncertainty filled Leesil's voice. "Magiere-"

"It's all right," she said. This wasn't his fault, not really. "We should start packing."

She left him and headed through the kitchen to the back stairs. She was thankful he didn't follow.

Magiere paused upon reaching the upper floor. Leesil's door was the first on the left. He'd chosen it, wanting to be the first line of defense should they ever have another assailant enter their home. He swore that if anyone who didn't belong there tried to walk up those stairs or crawl through the hallway window, he would know. When he said it, she believed him. Leesil had very good hearing.

The next room down the hall was hers. Since the downstairs hearth was now near the center of the common room, its chimney rose through the upstairs floor between her room and Leesil's, and its warmth permeated her private space. Caleb's room was at the hall's end, and inside it to the left was a door leading to the fourth and final room, belonging to Rose, his granddaughter.

Inside Magiere's room was a narrow bed with a goose-down comforter-a gift from Aria's mother-and a small table and a chest. Opening the chest, she planned to pull out her old pack, a leftover from the days she and Leesil had spent in the backlands of Stravina. But of course the pack had burned with everything else.

So much lost. The blue dress she wore had been spared only because she'd changed at the Velvet Rose and left it with Loni the night that the tavern burned. Leesil had few things left besides his weapons, but he seemed to need little else. He'd always liked traveling light.

She fingered the amulets hanging around her neck. Tools of the trade. The topaz stone glowed brightly whenever a Noble Dead was near, though it gave off no heat. She had to see it for its property to assist her. The other amulet was more ambiguous: a small piece of bone set against an oval tin backing. She'd used it only once. Well, Leesil had used it.

He'd learned its property from the stranger named Welstiel Massing, who'd advised them concerning the Noble Dead. A dhampir, injured to the point of needing to feed on someone's blood, must place the bone side against his or her bare skin in order for the life force to be properly absorbed. Leesil had pressed it against her flesh before feeding her. There were times since when she'd wanted to smash it but could not. Amulets and falchion were all that had been left to her by her father.

Born in the inland country of Droevinka, she'd never known her father, but throughout childhood learned bits and pieces about him. A transient noble vassal, he belonged to the class that ruled the peasants for the lords and collected rents due on land plots. Staying in one place for months or sometimes years, eventually they always moved onward to wherever the higher lord sent them. Few had seen him except on late-evening collections, after daylight faded and everyone could be found in their hovels and cottages, retired from labor. Her mother was just a young woman from a village near the barony house. The nobleman took her for his mistress, and she remained mostly out of sight for nearly a year.

Her name was Magelia, and she died giving birth to Magiere. Her father was assigned to another fief and left his infant daughter with her mother's sister, Bieja. Magelia had been lovely, with a mass of black hair but no glints of crimson, as shown in Magiere's. She was also said to have been quiet, composed, and gentle. Although Magiere looked like her mother, she'd been born fierce, with a temper. Rumors that her father had been an unnatural beast who feared daylight dominated her childhood. She was hated and shunned by all in her village except her aunt. On her sixteenth birthday, Aunt Bieja gave her an inheritance left by her father: two amulets, leather armor, and a falchion with a strange glyph on the hilt. Magiere took them, and eventually fled from the village to fend for herself in the world until she met Leesil.

She now knew her father had been one of the Noble Dead. For some reason, her father had left her the tools to fight his own kind, but she didn't know why.

So much time had passed since the days with Aunt Bieja. Sitting in her new room, Magiere leaned her head against the edge of the open chest. There was little she needed to pack. Tonight's profits would be left with Caleb to keep the Sea Lion running until she returned. With or without Leesil.

Outside in the hall she thought she heard soft footsteps and the sound of Leesil's door quietly opening and closing.

Toret lounged on a mauve velvet divan in his lavish sitting room, feeling quite satisfied with the state of his domain. He fixed his eyes on his glorious beloved. His beautiful Sapphire paraded before a large oval mirror in her new mustard yellow satin gown. Dark blond ringlets framed her round and sensuous face.

Chane, his servant and bodyguard, stood near the dead hearth, leaning against the solid stonework and looking as bored as always. Although useful, Chane had little imagination, rarely spoke, and spent most waking hours sporting a flat, dour expression. He was quite…

What was the word? Tedious? Yes, he was quite tedious, really.

But Toret didn't care. He'd come so far in the span of two moons. Was it only two since he had abandoned Rashed and Teesha in Miiska? It seemed much longer, and puzzling that he'd lived under Rashed's oppression for so many years, never realizing how capable he was of creating his own perfect world.

Traveling up the coast to Bela, he discovered the joy of a large city. He killed and fed at will, stole money from his prey, and remade himself anew, dressing as Rashed had dressed, like a nobleman-only better. Then one night, while hunting near a brothel, he saw the most perfect woman in the world, with brilliant eyes that made him think of the bright daylight sky he hadn't seen in many decades. He could never destroy her, never simply consume her. She must belong to him. His Sapphire.

She was a goddess.

She stirred his desire to remake himself anew. He changed his name from Ratboy-an insulting label thrust upon him by his own undead maker-back to Toret, his given mortal name left behind long ago.

But Sapphire had needs and desires beyond what he could afford. When Toret found and turned Chane, a spoiled and arrogant young noble, their situation was safeguarded. Chane had come into his inheritance, and the amount was substantial enough to keep them all in comfort. Toret used part of the wealth to purchase their three-story stone house on the edge of an elite district of Bela inside the second ring wall. Why hadn't he struck out on his own sooner? Why had he endured all those years under Rashed's command? Well, now Rashed was dead, or so Toret had heard, and so much the better.

"Isn't it perfect?" Sapphire asked, looking blissfully at the folds of her new gown. It was cinched so tight a mortal woman wouldn't be able to breathe, but the effect raised the tops of her smooth breasts high into view through the plunging lace bodice.

"Yes," he answered. "But you would look perfect in anything… or nothing."

Chane made a strange sound as if choking.

Toret looked over in mild concern as the taller undead appeared to clear his throat. He made that sound so often that Toret wondered if he'd carried some physical defect from life into afterlife. But since the problem didn't interfere with Chane's ability to serve, Toret never bothered to ask.

This room pleased Toret more than any other except for the bedroom he shared with Sapphire. She, of course, had her own room for her jewelry, clothing, and accoutrements, but he insisted she rest with him by day.

Chane had ordered the furnishings for the sitting room, and Toret approved of his choices. When they bought the house, this room already boasted fine craftsmanship in its gray hearth and hardwood overlaid floors. Chane had thick Suman carpets of amber and soft russet delivered, and Droevinkan pastoral paintings graced the stairway walls leading to the upper floors. He contrasted light oak tables with dark mauve velvet furnishings.

If Toret hadn't known better, he would've sworn Chane took a modicum of pride in the finished effect. But there'd been that one tense moment when Toret hung a life-size portrait of Sapphire in an ornate bronze frame on the sitting room's west wall. What could be more beautiful, more the finishing touch to anything, than Sapphire?

The house had belonged to a wealthy but solitary merchant who died of consumption. Ownership reverted to the city, and it had been for sale nearly a year when Toret bought it. One attraction was a hidden passageway in the wall adjacent to the staircase, making him wonder just what the old merchant had been involved in. But one thing Toret had learned from Rashed was the absolute need for alternative escape routes. Each floor possessed a hidden entryway to the passage at the landings of the main stairway, and all three members of the house knew where each entry existed.

Since he and Sapphire both kept rooms on the top floor, the second floor was empty. The main floor consisted of the lavish sitting room and the dining chamber and the kitchens. The main area of the cellar was where they practiced sword-play, and Chane kept his own things squirreled away in a smaller room behind this.

Turning away from the mirror's reflection, Sapphire beamed at Toret.

"Are we going out tonight? I want to show it off."

"We hunted last night. None of us need to feed yet."

Her smile faded. "I didn't say anything about feeding, did I? I said I want to go out in my new gown."

Toret found just "going out" to be quite dull. If he refused, she was going to pout all night-and possibly throw things-but he felt like staying in.

"Chane, could you?"

His servant appeared lost in thought, but the last of the conversation caught suddenly in his awareness. For a second, a flicker of fright crossed his lean features.

Toret stared at him. Chane probably didn't care to take Sapphire out to frolic any more than he did. But Chane seldom displayed any expression besides boredom-except when he was hunting, and then there were moments when his nature surprised even Toret. Chane stood at full height and crossed his tightly muscled arms.

"I was to finish some studies tonight, master." Chane fingered what appeared to be a small brass urn or vial on a chain about his neck.

Sapphire's pout shifted dangerously toward impending temper.

"Yes, yes," Toret acknowledged quickly, "but that can wait. Your lady wishes to be entertained, and you don't want her to be unhappy?"

All he really need do was give an outright order, but Toret had always hated being ordered around, so he tried to avoid doing it whenever possible.

Chane blinked, his gaze shifting between Toret and Sapphire. He was about to speak when a knock sounded from the front door.

Toret frowned. In their charade as landless gentry, there were social contacts they'd made in order to keep up a good front-some even as high up as the city council-but it wasn't likely any would come calling here. This was probably another delivery for Sapphire. He'd tried to stop this, but the more money she got her hands on, the more baubles and garments she ordered.

"Chane, could you get that?" Toret said.

"I was going to my rooms to study," his tall servant answered.

All of Chane's dour nature had returned, and Toret's irritation got the better of him.

"Get the door," he said more slowly.

Chane's muscles jerked once. Toret saw him shake off the compulsive sensation and, once composed, walk instantly into the foyer. When Chane returned, he handed Toret a small folded paper sealed at the center with wax.

"This was delivered for you, master."

A message? Toret was tempted to have Chane read it to him but was worried that might make him look weak. He broke the seal, unfolded the paper, and read one short line.

I will visit you near the mid of night with information regarding your past in Miiska. Be alone.

There was no signature.

"What is it?" Sapphire asked. "An invitation? Is there a party?"

Toret's reading skills were limited, and he read the note twice before fully comprehending every word. Anxiety overran him.

Rumors had spread through bayside taverns and inns that a "hunter" in Miiska had destroyed all of its undead, which wasn't exactly true. Toret had survived. He heard enough variations on the tale that his amusement had waned and he'd tired of it. It was seldom repeated these days. But as he stared at the note, his imagination worked feverishly. No one knew of his time spent in Miiska. What if he hadn't been the only one to escape?

What if Rashed, the desert warrior, had actually survived and come to Bela, tracking his old companion-the one who'd run out on him?

That pompous, arrogant, sand-born, bastard of a… Images of the tall, perfect Suman undead smothered all other thoughts, wiping away Toret's contentment. Rashed with his crystal-blue eyes, so unnatural for his mortal race, and his ridiculous code of honor, and his ability to command. The idea of Sapphire coming under such influence made Toret squirm in agitation.

How long before the apex of the moon?

"Chane," he said quickly, "get your lady's cloak and take her wherever she wants to go."

Sapphire frowned briefly, then brightened. Toret knew she didn't relish Chane's company, but at least she could take her new dress out on the town. Chane hesitated.

"Now!" Toret barked.

Chane twitched again, glowering openly as he headed for the foyer.

"I don't want a cloak," Sapphire whined. "It'll wrinkle my dress."

"You'll look odd without one," Chane said. "Ladies wear cloaks."

"When I want your fashion advice, I'll ask you," she snapped.

"He's right," Toret said. "Put it on."

Sapphire obeyed, taking her cloak from Chane's long, outstretched arm.

"Hurry," Toret said. "The night is half-over. It's not long before the inns close."

Chane glanced suspiciously at him and at the folded paper. Toret stuffed it inside his runic and grasped Sapphire's pale hand to kiss it.

"Bring me back some entertaining stories, my love."

Sapphire returned Toret only a slight smile, apparently uncertain whether to be angry because he was sending her off with Chane or content to have her way.

"I'll have to go someplace expensive to be appreciated. Some extra coin would be helpful."

Anxiety was turning to fear. Toret jerked the purse from his belt and pushed it into her hand. "Here, this should be more than enough."

With a gasp of delight, Sapphire flounced out the door with Chane following.

"Take care of her," Toret called after him. And they were gone, and he was alone.

He had a little time to think. Perhaps he jumped to ridiculous conclusions. Rumors regarding Miiska's undead had usually been consistent. Everything pointed to the fact that Rashed's charred bones were buried in the remains of that accursed hunter's tavern. But if Rashed were dead, who else could have sent the note? No one in this city knew he came from Miiska.

A knock came at the front door. Toret hesitated.

Despite his rationalizations, he half expected to open the door and see Rashed towering over him. Ratboy would run for the back door, but Toret wouldn't be driven from his own territory, and Rashed be twice damned! He walked to the door, gripping the latch firmly, and opened it.

A stranger stood before him. Taller than Toret, the man was not nearly Rashed's height. Middle-aged, with clean features and dark brown hair, he had stark white patches at each of his temples. An expensive black cloak was wrapped around his frame.

"Good evening," he said in a cultured voice. "Thank you for sending your companions away. I have news of your past you may not wish them to hear." He paused and took in Toret's appearance. "You've changed a great deal. May I come in?"

Caught off guard by this stranger's familiar manner, Toret stood uncertainly in the doorway, but curiosity nagged him. How did this man know him? If nothing came of it, Toret could, of course, just kill him and be done with it. He stepped back.

"Of course, come in."

The stranger entered and walked to the parlor to look around.

Toret sniffed the air deeply to sense the man's blood, his presence. He forced in air, letting it fill his head as his irises opened wide to expand his range of vision. He focused on the stranger with all his senses keyed to their fullest extent.

And he felt nothing.

There was no scent, no tingle to the air. There was no thrum of heartbeat or blood rush inside the man's body. That in itself made Toret suspicious, but he sensed nothing else as well, not even tepid temperature. Even Noble Dead generated a presence, but except for his physical appearance, footfalls, and the rustle of his clothing, it was as if this strange visitor weren't here at all.

"Who are you?" Toret asked bluntly.

The man stepped to the hearth, examining the stonework, then turned to take in the life-size portrait of Sapphire with one raised eyebrow.

"A friend," he said. "I followed you from Miiska. I watched what happened there, what the hunter and her halfblood companion did to your home and comrades." He almost smiled. "I came to warn you-the hunter is coming here, and you must prepare."

Toret's throat closed, an old mortal reaction that had stayed with him, though he no longer needed to breathe. The only person in the world he feared more than Rashed was the hunter.

"How… how do you know this?"

"I've made it my business to know."

The man's features were serious, earnest, and yet so distant. He had the same practiced stance as Chane, straight-backed, head high enough that the back of his neck touched his collar. This visitor was noble or had lived among nobles at one time. But Toret was not so easily dominated.

"How do you know… and why are you telling me?"

The man paused, weighing his words.

"Bela's council made an offer she could not refuse. She is coming here to destroy the night creatures the council believes plague the city. You must be ready to fight. Your servant, the petulant one, deals in certain forms of the arcane arts, yes?"

Toret nodded slowly.

"Use him. The dhampir hasn't faced magic, real magic. And this time will be much harder than the last. She will not make the same mistakes twice, and neither will her companion. Do not try to repeat previous tactics, or you will pay for it."

With that, the man swept past Toret toward the front door.

"Wait," Toret nearly cried out, losing any control he might have gained over the exchange. "Why are you telling me this? What's in it for you?"

The man stopped briefly.

"Prepare yourself," was the only answer Toret received as the stranger slipped through the front door and closed it behind him.

Toret rushed after him, flinging the door open and stepping out into the night. Standing upon the front steps, he peered up and down the street, his vision stretched to its full range once again until he could distinguish the varied shades of black in the thickest night shadows.

The street was empty.