Dhampir Part 10

"What does that mean?" she asked. "n.o.ble Dead?"

"The highest order of the dead, or rather, undead," he answered. "The n.o.ble Dead possess the full presence of self they had in life, their unique essence, so to speak. Vampires are but one type, as well as liches, the more powerful wraiths, and the occasional High Revenant. They are aware of themselves, their own desires, intents and thoughts, and can learn and grow through their immortal existence, unlike the lower-ranking undead, such as ghosts, animated corpses, and the like."

"You are no foolish peasant," she said softly. "How can you believe such things? There are no vampires." She turned back to stare at the stained earth and woodpile. "We have enough monsters of our own kind."

"Yes," he said quietly. "Of our own kind."

She heard him step toward her into the yard, but did not look back at him.

"Undeads who drain life do exist," he said. "And they have made this place, this town, their own. Such creatures may be more... exclusive... than most peasants believe, but they exist just the same. You know all this. You are a hunter."

"Not anymore."

"You won't be able to avoid such tasks here."

"Really?" She turned on him, eyes narrow with anger. "Just watch how well I avoid this, old man."

He wasn't quite that old, but he acted like some superst.i.tious village elder. She thought of their first meeting and another question came to her mind, something he'd said tonight.

"What did you call me... dhampir?"

"It is nothing." He turned to leave. "An ancient and little-known word in my homeland for one specially gifted and born to hunt the undead."

She did not stop his departure. She watched him fade between the trees, heading toward the sh.o.r.e.

In spite of his possible intent to rattle her, his wild statements made her feel better, not worse. A few nights ago, she feared he wanted something from her that she was unwilling to give, but now he seemed like just another superst.i.tious fool, albeit a well-dressed one. Yes, there was a murderer loose in town, a sick and twisted one at that, but Ellinwood and his cronies were paid to deal with such things. She was a barkeep now, not a hunter, even if a few townsfolk had heard about her past. In a year, maybe two, that reputation would wash away with the tide until she was only Magiere, owner of The Sea Lion tavern.

She wiped her fingers off in the sandy soil, then brushed off the dirt against the thigh of her breeches, feeling her breathing slow and the tightness in her stomach relax. She walked away from the backyard, the woodpile, and the stains on the ground without looking back.

Only a handful of steps down the street, she spotted Caleb walking toward her.

"What are you doing out here?" she asked in confusion.

"Streets at night aren't always safe. I came to find you."

"I can guard myself well enough."

But his concern touched her a little, especially since he appeared so tired. The last few days of stocking and preparing to open had not been easy for him, not to mention waiting on tables half of tonight. She was about to start for the tavern again, waving him on, but Caleb was staring back toward the stables and the smith's cottage.

"Why was Master Welstiel here?" he asked.

Magiere turned her head stiffly toward Caleb.

"You know him?"

Caleb shrugged. "He is new to Miiska, but he came to the tavern often when Dunction was owner. The two of them enjoyed each other's company, and Master Welstiel was always welcome."

Perhaps this new detail explained Welstiel. If he was very fond of the previous tavern owner, he might be concerned about finding answers, even after such a while. And he might well have heard some idle rumor about her past, if others were talking about her-like that pale n.o.bleman in the tavern earlier in the evening.

He might also just be guessing about what he thought she knew of events in Miiska.

Any one thing by itself was easy enough to dismiss. Even two could be dismissed as the ways of a madman. But all of it was beginning to mount up, one thing upon the other.

"We should get some sleep, Miss," Caleb urged. He reached out to tug at her shoulder, and only then did Magiere turn away from staring back to the stables, the cottage, and the stained woodpile. She headed down the road silently, Caleb by her side.

As Magiere and Caleb started for home, a faint light behind them slipped from the shadows, brightened to nearly the glow of a coal ember as it hovered in the road where the two late night walkers had just been standing. It floated after them for a while, then turned down a side alley and disappeared.

Constable Ellinwood arrived at his rented rooms shortly past the midnight hour, glad to finally be home.

Although he was known to sit drinking ale with his men at any one of Miiska's various taverns late into the night, he found these "duties" more and more difficult as time pa.s.sed. He felt that it appeared normal, even proper, for the town constable to patronize Miiska's drinking establishments with his guards. He would listen to his men tell boring stories about their families, the arrest of some cutpurse, or breaking up an argument between hawkers at the market. He would smile and nod and attempt to show interest.

But ale did little to fill his mind with dreamy comfort, and lately, it had grown more difficult not to leave early from the guardhouse, where he completed much of his work, and flee home to his lavish rooms in Miiska's finest inn, The Velvet Rose. Once alone in his rooms, he could sit and mix yellow Suman opiate powder with his hidden stores of Stravinan spice whiskey. The combination created a powerful tonic for his troubled thoughts and allowed him to sit in bliss for hours and hours, floating in a perfect state of existence.

Although he'd learned of the elixir years ago when a traveling merchant gave him his first taste, he hadn't indulged much in the past, as the cost of both components was exorbitant. Particularly the powder, which came from across the sea on the far continent, south into the Suman Empire and its kingdom of il'Mauy Meyauh. And even there, it was grown in secret and had to be smuggled out of the country. The price was often too much for him-except of course on special occasions when he was able to extort an unusually high fine for a criminal's release. He found it quite unfair that a man in his position, who earned one of the largest stipends in Miiska, should not be able to afford simple comforts after a hard day's work. Of course, he didn't have to live in the Velvet Rose, but his plush rooms also brought him great pleasure, and a man of his stature needed to keep up appearances.

Then nearly a year ago, a miracle occurred and he could afford all the Suman opiate and spice whiskey he desired. And "home" was a lovely place to be at night.

Ellinwood laid his cloak on the silk comforter covering his bed and went to his polished cherry wood wardrobe to unlock the bottom drawer. He took out a large gla.s.s bottle full of amber liquid and a silver urn, smiling in antic.i.p.ation.

A knock sounded on the door.

His smile faded, and he decided not to answer. Anyone calling at this hour had no decent business. If there were some town emergency, his first lieutenant, Darien, could handle it. He himself deserved a rest.

The knock sounded again, and a cold voice said, "Open the door."

Ellinwood flinched. He knew the voice. He placed the bottle and urn back in the drawer and hurried to open the door. In the hallway stood Rashed, the owner of Miiska's largest warehouse. The constable was at a loss for words.

"Um, welcome," he managed to say. "Did we have an appointment?"

"No."

Any contact with Rashed unnerved the constable, but they had such a mutually beneficial relationship that he was determined not to jeopardize it.

"Then, how can I help you?" Ellinwood asked politely.

Rashed entered the room and closed the door. He was so tall that his head nearly touched the low ceiling. He'd never come to the constable's rooms before, and Ellinwood's typical feeling of "nerves" grew to anxiety. An oval mirror in a silver frame reflected the constable's fleshy visage-completely decked out in shades of green velvet. He could not help briefly comparing himself to the perfectly constructed creature now sharing the room with him.

Rashed glanced around briefly. "There's a hunter in town, and if she bothers me or mine, I'll kill her and anyone who tries to a.s.sist her, including your guards. Do you understand?"

Ellinwood stared at him and sputtered, "Who do... the new owner of Dunction's? Oh, you've been listening to town gossip. She did not strike me as impressive on any level."

"She is a hunter, and if she hunts here, there will be bloodshed-hers. And you will look the other way, as always."

The constable tried to draw himself up. Although he and Rashed had a clear agreement that any disappearances or dead bodies found would be shabbily investigated, this was the first time Rashed had spoken so openly about shedding blood. And he'd certainly never felt the need to relay such information before the fact.

"Why are you consulting me?" Ellinwood asked.

"This is different. I don't know when a confrontation will occur, but I prefer not to have any of your guards in the way."

"I'll handle my guards. But you will be discreet? She is new in town and few know her." He paused a moment, trying to find something that might be a suitable explanation for future use. "Perhaps the business, or a sedentary life, didn't suit her as well as she thought it would. There would be little interest if she and her partner simply disappeared one night."

Rashed nodded. "Of course. No bodies."

"Well, then. Do whatever you think is best." Ellinwood's eyes strayed to the bottom drawer of his wardrobe. "Now, if you will excuse me, it has been a long day, and I would like to rest."

Rashed's crystalline eyes followed and rested on the drawer as well. Mild disgust pa.s.sed across his face, and he tossed a bag of coins on the silk comforter.

"For your trouble." He turned and left the room.

The constable slumped in relief, his breath coming quick and short. Perhaps he should have stipulated that if Rashed wished to speak again, he should arrange a meeting at the warehouse, as was their usual custom. He had no wish to be alone with a vampire in the close quarters of his room ever again. But these creatures who owned Miiska's main warehouse certainly served his needs, and even had other uses from time to time.

Ellinwood had first encountered Rashed's kind about a year ago. He had been returning home after an evening of ale with his guards, and as he cut through an alley, he stumbled across the sight of a filthy street urchin with his mouth on the throat of a sailor. When Ellinwood realized the urchin was draining the sailor's blood, he cried out in alarm. The killer actually looked up, hissed at him, dropped the sailor, and moved forward to attack. Three of his guards, who were just leaving the tavern after him, heard their superior call out and came running to investigate. The urchin vanished down the alley.

As he himself had been in mortal danger, Ellinwood set guards to searching the town with vigor. A few of Miiska's citizens had come to him in the past swearing that night creatures had taken a loved one. The constable had not put much stock in such accounts until he'd seen this twisted little thing in the alley drinking human blood. Stories of monsters and demons were common among the sailors and merchants who traveled up and down the coast, pa.s.sing through strange and foreign lands. And didn't most myths come from some grain of truth? The constable was determined to track down this murdering, possibly unnatural, urchin.

The next night, a message arrived at the guardhouse-an invitation. Ellinwood gave in to curiosity and went down to the warehouse. Rashed greeted him and took him to a plush room of low couches, embroidered pillows, and exquisite little rose-shaped candles. But Ellinwood did not take too much time admiring the decor.

Even in the room's soft light, the constable could see something was not quite right about his host. His skin was too pale for someone working a warehouse on the docks of a port town, as if he'd not been in the sun for months. And the man's eyes were almost colorless. His countenance seemed to express no desires, no hunger for pleasures, no emotions at all.

Then a pretty young woman with chocolate-brown curls and a tiny waist entered. She introduced herself as Teesha and smiled at Ellinwood, exposing dainty pointed fangs. When Rashed looked at her, his empty expression changed completely to one of longing and fierce protection, and the constable decided to remain quiet and see where this meeting would lead.

Rashed offered Ellinwood twenty shares of the warehouse-a virtual fortune-to look the other way if one of Miiska's citizens simply disappeared or was found dead in some unnatural state. He related that such occurrences would likely never happen, but then amended his comment to "very infrequently." In order for this exchange to take place, he did not try to hide what he or Teesha were. And while it took the constable a moment to absorb the fact that he was speaking with two undead creatures, he did not flinch. He was no fool and did not snub opportunity. Rather, he viewed himself as quite shrewd. If he did not agree, he'd never leave the room alive. But as long as he kept his position as town constable, he could keep Rashed's secret and merely pretend to investigate disappearances or strange deaths. Not only would he retain his stipend for living expenses, but he would also receive enough money to keep his supply of Suman opiate and Stravinan spiced whiskey constantly filled. It was a perfect arrangement.

Now Ellinwood reminded himself to clarify something with Rashed. Meetings must take place in the warehouse. After all, he must retain some privacy. Yes, he must clarify this at the first opportunity.

Feeling more at ease, the constable opened his wardrobe drawer again. He mixed the opiate from the urn with the whisky in a long-stemmed crystal gla.s.s and began to sip. Not long afterward, he was sitting in a damask-covered chair, infused with pleasure, his mind drifting into bliss.

Chapter Seven

Teesha waited patiently down near the docks for the right drunken sailor to pa.s.s by. The wonder and enormity of the ocean never ceased to please her, especially at high tide. The sh.o.r.e was a wall between worlds that guided the movement of all things between water and land along its lapping edge. She walked in bare feet, occasionally digging delicate toes into the sand, not caring if the hem of her purple gown dragged slightly and became soiled.

Many years ago, before her arrival in Miiska, one of the docks had collapsed due to rotted support poles. On its way, it had pulled down a small two-masted ship that couldn't be untied in time. Workers had dragged some of the remnants from the water, and the remains of ship and dock lay a short way down the sh.o.r.e. Perhaps they'd once thought to salvage materials from the accident, but nothing had ever come of such plans. Now, piled high on the sh.o.r.e out of the tide's reach, dock pillons and ship's struts stood up in the dark like the remains of a beached sea monster left to rot away to the bones. Weatherworn, but still partially solid, they offered a perfect haven. Teesha strolled calmly around the columns, listening to the dark rather than seeing it and periodically sniffing the breeze.

Then came the scent of warm flesh nearby. She tensed in antic.i.p.ation and slipped behind a thick wood strut that could have been an old dock support or maybe a ship's beam. Only appearing to the solitary, she would pull back into the shadows if a pair or group approached. She peeked out carefully into the wind.

A lone sailor made his way along the sh.o.r.e toward the harbor. Canvas breeches with ragged unst.i.tched hems hung to just below his knees, the salt-stained garment held up with a rope belt. On his feet he wore only makeshift sandals strapped at his ankles with leather thongs. His skin was dark from the sun, but his face looked soft, with only the wisps of an adolescent beard.

Teesha did not rush into view but relaxed by the pole, waiting for him to come nearer and see her. When he did, his step slowed only for a moment before he turned his course toward her. No more than five arm's lengths away, he stopped, staring at her pretty face, wild brown hair, and bare toes.

"Are you lost?" she asked him in a soothing tone that hummed behind the sounds of light wind and waves. "You must be lost. Where is your ship?"

For an instant he frowned in puzzlement, thinking she was the one lost or confused. Looking into his young face, Teesha could see her words playing over and over in his mind until he wasn't sure if she or he had asked the question. A haze crossed his eyes as his frown deepened.

"Lost... lost?" he stuttered. Then he asked more urgently, "Yes, where is my ship?"

"Here," she said in the same soothing voice, the same humming tone. "Here is your ship." And her delicate fingers slid lightly down the side of the wood pillar at her side.

The words seemed to push at his mind, not unlike an erratic breeze in the sails after a long calm at sea.

"Come and I'll show you the way," she urged.

Teesha held out her hand to the young sailor, and he took it. She urged him to follow her as she stepped back into the aged wreckage of dock and ship. She never even looked over her shoulder to find her way, but kept her eyes always on him as they moved. And he followed her willingly under the makeshift roof of broken poles and old bleached planks, back into the shadows.

"Here it is." She smiled with perfect teeth.

The sailor was indeed young, maybe seventeen, with a hint of ale on his breath, but not enough to make him drunk. That didn't matter either way. He looked about uncertainly.

"Yes, you're home again," she said, laying her free hand on one of his, the one she held gently to guide him. "This is your ship, your home that goes with you."

His features softened. Teesha heard a sigh of relief escape his lips.

"Come sit with me." And she guided him down to the sand.

She ran her fingers through his uncombed hair and kissed him gently on the mouth. Feeding had never been difficult for her, once she'd learned her own way to hunt.

His hands reached out and grasped her arms so he could kiss her back, and she tried to shift upward to her knees. He was stronger than he looked, but obeyed when she whispered, "Shhhh, not yet," and pulled his head against her shoulder. When his neck was fully exposed, she wasted no time.

Sometimes she fed from their wrists, sometimes from the vein at the inside joint of the elbow. Whatever worked best in the moment. But tonight, she punctured one side of the sailor's throat, gripping his head tightly, both to support his weight and keep him from reflexively jerking away. His body bucked once. Then he was lost in his dream again.

She took what she needed, no more, and drew her fangs away without tearing his flesh. Taking a small dagger from her sleeve, she precisely connected the punctures on his neck but made certain the cut was shallow and slightly ragged. She could have just cut him and drunk from the wound, but that wasn't enough for her. The touch of warm flesh on her lips, slipping around her teeth, was so much more pleasing than the aftertaste metal left in the first drops of blood.

Laying him back in the sand, she untied his purse-not that she needed money, but this was also part of the deception. She placed one hand on his sleeping brow and stroked his eyes closed with the other. Her lips brushed against his ear as she whispered. "You were walking to your ship tonight, home once again, and two thieves came. You fought them, but one had a knife..."

He flinched in reflex. One hand rose sluggishly, trying to reach for his own neck, but she gently pushed it back down.

"They stole your purse, and you crawled back here to hide, in case they returned, and you slept... now."

When she heard his breathing deepen, Teesha rose quickly and left. He would be safe there. But if anything happened to him after their encounter, that fate did not concern her.

In this same manner she had fed for years. And she always tried to pick the ones who'd not be around for long. Miiska was such a perfect place, with sailors and merchants coming and going. Occasionally, she killed one by accident when need and hunger overbalanced her careful control, but that had not happened in a long time. And if need had caused her to choose a local citizen of the town, she always buried the poor unfortunate, and Rashed blamed Ratboy whenever some mortal went missing. She saw no need to alter his perception.

Now she ran lightly along the sh.o.r.e, feeling the warmth and strength of the sailor's blood, glad for her own innate ability to sometimes put the past and future from her mind and to live only in the moment.