He closed his eyes, his mind drifting back to a time years ago when he had first met Stilo, before any enmity developed between them. It was a night such as this …
Alone, Gaderian had spent much of the evening at the Snow Leopard, nursing a mug of ale. From the corner of his eye, he had observed a solitary man several tables away, imbibing one mug of ale after another. Another vampire, he could tell, sensing at the same time something different about this fellow, a nebulous quality that set him apart from the rest of the undead. One thing was certain: The man didn't know when to stop drinking.
After another mug–Gaderian had lost count–the man tried to stand. Ignored by the other patrons, he fell backward, his chair the only thing that saved him. Finished with his own drink, Gaderian shoved his chair back and rushed over.
Gaderian grabbed his arm. "Hey, there, fellow, looks as if you need help."
The blond man gave him a long look, part defiant and part apologetic, and spoke in a slurred voice. "Just 'cause I lost my b-b-balance–"
"Just because you've had too many drinks," Gaderian countered. "Tell me where you live, and I'll take you home."
He waved him away. "Don't need your help."
By this time, everyone else in the tavern had stopped drinking, all eyes on him and the drunk.
Gaderian stood back and gestured toward the door. "Very well, then. My mistake. Have it your way."
The stranger took a step and fell across the table, knocking the mug to the floor. Gaderian raised him up. "That does it. Let's get you home. And tell me your name while we're at it."
He hiccoughed. "Stilo."
Tapping his chest, Gaderian gave his name. He slung his arm around Stilo's waist and they left the tavern together, stepping out to a balmy night, the sky sparkling with stars. Since Gaderian had recently fed, he had the strength of ten men.
"Now where?" Gaderian began.
Stilo pointed ahead, beyond Tavern Avenue. "Granno's Way, a f-f-few blocks ahead. M-my apartment's at the end."
"I know where Granno's Way is." He half-dragged, half-carried Stilo along the cobblestone streets, the man scarcely able to stand, much less walk.
Within a short while, they arrived at a stone apartment building in an affluent section of the city, where statues of gods and goddesses graced the landscape, and magnificent oaks trailed along the wide street. The air was heavy with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and countless other flowers Gaderian couldn't identify.
Up several steps, they entered the apartment building, and Gaderian observed an elevator to his left. He'd seen this contraption in other buildings and knew it was operated by magic. Stilo would have to perform the spell, for Gaderian had never had reason to use it. Talmora's tits! What if he was too drunk to recall the spell?
Slumping against him, Stilo performed the incantation, making vague circles in the air and mouthing strange words. Gaderian glanced at Stilo's hand, seeing talons instead of fingers, afraid he must be hallucinating. The vision disappeared, Stilo's fingers normal again. Soon, the elevator raised from the ground floor and made its slow ascent, stopping at the fifth floor. Once they reached his apartment along a hallway to his left, Stilo stopped, his eyes closed, his head against the door.
At the sound of his snoring, Gaderian nudged him. "You need another spell to enter? Let's get on with it. I don't have all night."
Stilo roused and a simple wave of the hand opened the door. They stepped inside a huge room filled with elegant furnishings and draperies. Gaderian took it all in with just one look, too exasperated to linger. He helped Stilo stagger into the bedroom, where the man flopped down on the bed, asleep immediately.
Before leaving the apartment, Gaderian performed his own incantation, this time to ensure that Stilo forgot this encounter. When Stilo woke up, he might wonder how he came to be in bed fully clothed, but he would be none the wiser.
Then Gaderian left the apartment, this time making himself invisible and transporting himself to his own residence….
Too bad Stilo has forgotten the favor, Gaderian mused, now back in the present. He struggled to rise but fell back, weak and tormented by hunger. He had to feed–now! He glanced around and saw an inebriated vagrant trudging along a path that led away from the meadow. First making sure no one else was about, Gaderian pushed himself to his feet, close to fainting with the effort. He rushed over to the path and grabbed the tramp from behind.
"No!" The man struggled in his grip, but the noise from the fair drowned out his protests. Despite his debility, Gaderian held on and turned him around. He sank his teeth into the man's throat, guzzling the life-giving liquid, each drop granting him a revival of his potency.
Moments later, satiated and renewed, Gaderian released the vagrant after invoking a spell to make the man forget the experience. He slipped him to the ground, where the tramp fell asleep. When he awoke, he, too, would be none the wiser.
With renewed vigor, he rushed on, back to the crowded meadow and the fairgrounds. He dashed from one booth to another, his head turning right and left. The mobs of men, women, and children obstructed him at every step. He could scarcely move! Tempted to scream at the noise, the crowds, the stench of human food, he worked his way through the crush of people. The music from the wooden platform blasted through the air, louder now as he neared the river. Hemmed in by all the laughing, chattering mortals, he craned his neck to see the dancers, but they flew past him in a blur of color. The music slowed, the dancers clapping and talking among themselves, then the band stopped. Before heading in that direction, Gaderian checked every booth and souvenir stand, his hands clenched as he realized the futility of his quest.
There! He saw an auburn-haired lady, her back to him among the mobs, strolling with another man, next to the juggler's booth. He rushed in that direction–and saw it wasn't Fianna. Fierce disappointment twisted inside him.
Desperate to reach the dancing area, Gaderian tried to make his way through the throngs of men, women, and children, impeded by the crowds headed in the opposite direction. If he could just reach the dancing platform–surely he would find Fianna there. With Stilo? Goddess, no! He was still too far from the dancing platform, and rushing against the thousands of people was like trying to restrain a flood.
Gaderian clenched his hands, cursing himself for his negligence. He should never have left Moytura. If Stilo had Fianna in his grasp, he had already headed back to the city, back to his apartment. He gritted his teeth as he turned around and rushed back to the city, to Stilo's apartment. Surely he would find Fianna there.
* * *
His arm around her waist, Stilo led Fianna away from the meadow and east toward the city, swept along with the other fairgoers also leaving the fairgrounds. They eased their way through the mob, the crowds pushing and shoving around them.
"Where are we going?" she asked in dreamy speculation. She wrapped her arm around his waist, unable to think of anything but having him all to herself. At the same time, she felt as if she were floating in the air, looking down at herself. A light breeze caressed her face and cooled her body, lifting wisps of hair away from her forehead.
"We're going to my apartment, where I'll have you all to myself." Stilo squeezed her waist, his fingers thick and blunt against her body, his musk scent stronger than ever, combined with an aroma she couldn't identify, a smell pungent and overpowering.
She leaned into his embrace, feeling lighter than a moonbeam, her brain fuzzy and unfocused.
"Almost there, Angharad," Stilo murmured in her ear. Eventually the crowds thinned, the mobs heading for their homes, until the cobblestone streets became near empty, with only a few stragglers here and there, and the ubiquitous vagrants tottering along. Past the shops and businesses, they approached an area on the outskirts of the city, a street she knew as Granno's Way, where mansions and splendid apartment buildings graced the long avenue.
She turned her head to look up at him. "You know, Angharad is not my real name. You may call me Fianna Murtaugh, and t
hat is my real name. I took a different name since I ran away from home," she said, then told him the story of her departure from Ros Creda and the circumstances that forced her to leave her home and all that she loved.
"So you see," she said minutes later as they passed a statue of Aventina, the river goddess, "no one from Ros Creda must know I'm here in the capital."
"Ah." An expression of contemplation captured his face, prompting her to wonder what was going through his mind. But the question drifted away, obscured by the dizziness that imprisoned her.
Near a grassy park thick with magnificent oaks and bushes, they reached his apartment building, an elegant stone edifice several stories high. Night-blooming jasmine scented the air, and nightingales sang from the trees. Only a few yards distant stood wooden benches set in a garden, where the apartment dwellers gathered to enjoy the evening breeze.
After mounting the front steps, he released his hold on her waist and opened the door to the building, where they stepped into an entranceway lit by numerous oil lamps. A marble hallway stretched the length of the structure, with apartments leading off from either side.
At the entrance stood a small enclosed room, capable of holding ten or twelve people. Its doors stood wide open. Stilo eased her toward the tiny room, and her steps slowed, a sensation of the unknown creeping over her.
"Don't be frightened," he said, his voice low and gentle. "Haven't you seen a moving cage before?"
"I've heard others speak of them, but I didn't know they looked like this." Giddy and muzzy-headed, she entered the strange contraption without a qualm, willing and longing to do anything he asked.
"Well, come on, then."
The small space boasted gold-colored walls with an oil lamp overhead and murals on the wall of gods and goddesses.
With one hand, Stilo shut the doors, then made hand motions and muttered a few strange words. Magic vibrated through the air, her skin tingling.
The cage was moving! She looked from side to side, up and down, while the contraption conveyed them upwards, past the outside walls. Lost in hazy confusion, she felt as if she were floating, floating, floating, up to the sky, never to come down to earth.
Stilo slid his arm around her waist. "See, isn't this a clever apparatus? We will soon arrive at my floor."
As he uttered those words, she felt the cage stop. Taking her by the hand, Stilo led her onto the hallway, this one with branches leading to the right and left. They took the hallway to the left, passing several doors, and stopped at the fifth one down. He waved his hand again, and the door swung open, revealing a magnificent apartment decorated in black and red, with occasional white accents.
Fianna didn't like the colors, but she couldn't deny the room's opulence, the furnishings that spoke of wealth and power. A wide window that stretched the length of the wall greeted night's darkness and revealed a breathtaking view of the river far to the west. Even from here, she could see its waters glittering in the distance.
At the entrance, Stilo came to stand behind her, his hands cupping her breasts, his body pressed against hers, leaving no doubt of his desire. He bent to kiss her neck, and she leaned back into his embrace. And odd sensation rippled through her, as though she were someone else observing herself. She tried to throw off this uneasy feeling, this impression that she lurked somewhere outside her body. Caught in a web of murky enchantment, she felt powerless to fight the lure.
Stilo kicked the door shut behind him. He dropped his hands from her breasts and eased her across the wide expanse of the living room, to another door that led to the bedroom, in which a huge bed with a black silk bedspread dominated the room.
He closed the door and stepped away from her, a sly smile on his face. His gaze covered her, from her head to her feet, his look one of passionate wanting.
He nodded at her. "Now take off your clothes."
Chapter Eight
"I've made a good start on the rings."
"How many?" From his chair in Kelvin Connor's study, Angus Kendall shot the other man a sharp look and reached for his wine glass from a side table. He sipped his wine, his eyes never leaving Connor's face.
"One-hundred for now, more to come, of course. Worked almost night and day, creating these rings. Not the best craftsmanship, had to cut corners here and there." An understatement, shoddy craftsmanship, every one of them. He expected the stone to fall out at the slightest bump, a fact he kept to himself.
"But they will do just fine." Kelvin pulled out the top desk drawer and retrieved one of the rings, then reached across the space separating them and handed him the piece. "Here, see for yourself."
Angus examined the ring from all angles, the sunlight playing on the amber-hued stone. Then he handed the piece back to Kelvin. "Good for now." He sipped his wine, his thin, elongated fingers wrapped around the glass. "But we will need hundreds more . . . and very soon."
"Give me time! There's a limit–"
"I understand." Angus held up his hand. "Believe me, I understand. But we need to get those rings to the bandregas as soon as possible."
"Which I understand, and why I've been working almost night and day to make these pieces." He shifted his position and stretched his legs out from behind his desk. "Who is your contact among the bandregas?"
Angus set his glass down on the side table. "I have several, but Stilo Mongan is one of my main contacts, besides their leader. Stilo Mongan lives in Moytura, although I've never met him. As a matter of fact, when I sent my servant–the one headed north to Moytura-- to track down your stepdaughter, I told him to get in touch with Mongan in the capital at the same time and send him here to me." He reached for his wineglass again and sipped. "I gave my servant Mongan's address, along with a letter signed by me, with my seal. He is one of my most trusted servants who would not dare read the contents of the letter. Enough that Mongan will know. And he'll know where to get the money to pay us–to pay me. Remember, your payment is contingent upon finding Fianna."
Another spurt of irritation heated Kelvin's face, but he kept his silence.
"When Mongan arrives here," Angus continued, "I'll have another trusted servant give him the batch of rings and tell him more rings will be forthcoming. Some problems at the mine have kept me busy lately, too busy to hand out the rings myself. The bandregas will pay handsomely, that I know, once they learn of the ring's magic properties. When the bandregas see the power of the rings, they will beg for more."
"Well, I should hope so. All this work–"
Angus scratched his chin. "Now, about your stepdaughter, Fianna. I instructed all my servants to check in all the villages along their routes–east, west, north, and south--to see if she is anywhere but the capital. Whoever finds her will send me word–my carrier pigeon system again. These spies are very skilled at tracking people. So far, they have found no trace of the girl, which leads me to believe that she is, indeed, in the capital." He crossed his legs and folded his arms across his chest.
"And if she isn't in Moytura or any of the villages?" Kelvin leaned back in his chair, trying to match Angus's impression of utter nonchalance and hoping to conceal the ire that churned inside him. The smug Goddess-damned bastard got on his nerves. "What if she's gone to another country on the continent?"
Angus frowned. "Another country? I hardly think so. She's not fluent in other languages, is she? Or in the ways of these other people? Don't forget, most of the other countries are still in the barbaric stage, lacking the cultural attributes of Avador. Elegia is the only country we have much in common with, and if I'm not mistaken, Fianna doesn't speak their language. So Moytura it is. It stands to reason that she would try to lose herself in the largest city in the kingdom." He nodded with assurance. "We'll find her."
"And when you do–"
"When we do, I will go after her myself. As I told you, I want the pleasure of bringing her back here. Then we shall wed, an event I happily anticipate, even if she doesn't." He winked, as if finding vast amusement in Fianna's dilemma. He uncros
sed his legs and stood. "That's all for now. I expect Stilo Mongan will be visiting me within the next nineday with a goodly amount of money for the rings." Angus headed for the door. "And then let's see the vampires try to defeat the bandregas."
After Kendall left, Evelina slipped into the room, leaving Kelvin to wonder how often she eavesdropped his discussions with Kendall. He'd have to check on her from now on, make sure she wasn't hiding behind the door.
She sat down, her eyes red from weeping. "Will I ever see my daughter again?" she cried, twisting a handkerchief in her lap. "If we haven't found her by now–"
"Oh, we'll find her. These things take time. When we do find her, Angus will bring her back, so they can marry." He crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair, presenting a picture of absolute confidence, an image that eluded him in Kendall's presence.
She looked up, an expression of despair on her face. "But if she doesn't want to marry him–"
"Who cares what she wants? She will marry Kendall, and that's all there is to it."
"No, that's not all there is to it." She spoke with a vehemence that surprised Kelvin. "This is what made her leave home in the first place, her dislike of Angus Kendall and fear of marrying him. If we find her again, please let us welcome her back and let her make her own decision about marriage."
"You mean reward her for her disobedience?" He flicked his fingers. "Not a chance."
She stood and sighed; tears ran down her face. She spoke through her sobs. "It may be a moot point, for I fear we will never see her again."
* * *
Gaderian agonized over the many mishaps that might have befallen Fianna and wondered if he were worrying needlessly. Maybe she was back at the Snow Leopard, sound asleep in her own bed. Maybe, but not likely. His mind dwelled on all the lovely traits that made her so endearing: her long auburn hair and green eyes, her soft voice and sultry smile, all these qualities that meant everything to him. Why deny the fact? He loved her, but thinking of her would gain him nothing. They could have no future together. He would live forever, for such was the way of vampires. She would grow old and die, and even though he would always love her, in time she would come to resent his immortality.
Avador Book 2, Night Shadows Page 7