Night Shadows

by Martin, Shirley

  A hint of hunger teased him, and although he had fed recently, another desire tormented him–he needed to kill, kill, kill! But not here. Far better to go where he would find his victim alone. He strode on, his boot heels clicking on the cobblestones. He passed other taverns until he reached Vernunna's Alley, where the cheaper shops resided, a section of the city where rats ruled the night, and stray cats fought over garbage. Queen Keriam wanted to clean up this part of the city by taxing absentee landlords to pay for improvements. Hah! Fat chance! Anyway, the city's appearance meant nothing to him.

  Relief poured into Stilo as he saw a lone vagrant trudging the stinking alley, the tramp in tattered clothes, a look of apprehension on his face when he spied Stilo. He gloated as the man's steps slowed. I'm going to suck him dry, drain all the life from him.

  Stilo approached the vagrant. "Say, friend, it looks as if I'm lost. New to the city, trying to learn my way around. An acquaintance wanted me to visit him tonight, keeps late hours, don't you know. Lives on Granno's Way. Can you tell me where that is?"

  The tramp reeked of alcohol. "Ah, Granno's Way," he said, pointing off to the south. "That's where all the rich folks–"

  Quick as lightning, Stilo grabbed the man and jerked his head back.

  "Ah!" A look of terror seized the tramp's face. Despite his struggles, Stilo held him tight. He bit into the fellow's throat, sucking, sucking the blood, that rich, restorative liquid that flowed through his veins and increased his strength. Even after he'd drunk more than enough and the man languished in his arms, as helpless as a blade of grass in a windstorm, Stilo continued to suck, heady with desire. His loins tightened, his body desperate for a woman. After he sucked the man dry and ended his foolish mortal life, Stilo dropped him to the ground, like a sack of chicken feed.

  He needed a woman, and he knew just the place where he could find the one he wanted, the girl who knew how to please him. Engorged with blood and lust, he headed for Pleasure Alley. Looking down at his protruding tunic, he forced himself to dampen his passion. Plenty of time for fornication in a short while.

  A few minutes later, he reached his destination where pleasure houses lined the street, some fancy, some plain. Scantily clad women advertised their charms outside the houses, calling to the men who passed by, pulling their dresses lower at their bosoms and higher at their thighs. Ignoring them, Stilo entered the most splendid house on the street, where red velvet curtains graced one wide window, and gold-plated oil lamps hung from the ceiling, casting shadows on the purple walls. Several girls in transparent dresses sat on a red velvet sofa, looking at him expectantly, but he didn't see the one he wanted.

  "Morna," Stilo barked as the madam approached him.

  Clad in a tight black satin gown, her face caked with makeup and bright red lipstick, the madam smiled apologetically. "Ah, Stilo Mongan, one of our best customers. But I must tell you that Morna is no longer here."

  "Not here!" A crush of disappointment sank his spirits. Morna knew every trick to please a man. "Why not? Where did she go?" Anger heated his face.

  The smile never left the madam's face. "Would you believe she married a very wealthy man who did not want to share her charms with another. Wanted her only for himself. But we have many other girls here who know all the tricks to please a man. Take Lavena, for instance, one of our most popular girls," she said, indicating a blonde woman on the sofa.. Still reeling with fury, Stilo followed her gesture. "We've had no complaints about her," she said as the blonde woman sashayed forward and hooked her arm through his. Since Stilo didn't draw his arm away, the madam took that as his acquiescence and smiled obsequiously. "Enjoy yourself."

  Stilo nodded. "Pay you later."

  Clad in a gown that revealed all her charms, the blonde girl–her hair obviously died--led him up the winding stairs, swinging her hips with each step.

  Fueled with desire and frustrated with disappointment, Stilo followed the girl up the stairs, to a room a few doors down a long carpeted hallway.

  The room stank of the heady scent of patchouli. Mirrors covered the walls, pink silk curtains at the window. Lavena closed the door behind her, giggling and swaying her hips provocatively. She drew her gown over her head, revealing wide hips and full breasts, just as he liked them. Without a word, Stilo picked her up and threw her on the bed. Wearing no under-tunic, he lay atop her and plunged himself inside her, finding release within seconds. He waited a few moments for his lust to return. He moved inside her again, slowly this time, then faster, faster. Passion exploded inside him, going on and on, the best orgasm he'd ever had. Moments passed before he withdrew, wondering if he could try for another fornication.

  Throughout the years, Stilo had found a thin line existed between lust and wrath. His fury at Wade's rescue of Fianna returned, coupled with fear that the vampire might succeed again. He burned with anger, a pulsing, living thing, a need for vengeance. He raised himself from the girl and pressed his fingers against her throat, at the same time holding his hand against her mouth. He delighted in seeing her bulging eyeballs, her reddening face. She struggled and pushed him, gasping helplessly against his hand, unable to prevail against him. Moments later, she collapsed against the pillow, her body still, her eyes staring upward. Stilo rose from the bed and adjusted his tunic. He left the room and trod down the stairs, a pleasant smile fixed on his face while he nodded to the madam.

  A satisfying night, he mused as he left the pleasure house, a compensation for past failures. He walked out into the darkness, aware that he would escape punishment. No one at the pleasure house knew where he lived, and he would surely never come back here again.

  * * *

  Sunlight flooded Fianna's room as she awoke the following morning. A hint of disorientation teased her mind, a disquiet she thrust aside, too well aware a remnant of Stilo's enchantment remained within her. With all her resolve, she threw off his enscorcellement as she slipped off her nightgown, and tossed his bewitchment aside on the ash heap of failed endeavors.

  And Gaderian? The question lurked at the edge of her consciousness, like a sore that wouldn't go away. She could never love nor marry a vampire, a man who killed others for sustenance. She wondered if she had the nerve to apprize the authorities of Gaderian's vampirism. Could she do that to him, mindful that he would suffer a stake through the heart and possibly public burning? Revulsion at the prospect of his cruel death grappled with the knowledge that vampires killed mortals by sucking all the blood from their bodies. Let the vampires be captured and die, then. They deserved it.

  She stared at herself in the mirror on the wall, as if seeing herself for the first time. Who was she, and what did she want from life? First thing, she wanted independence, what she had sought since leaving home and had found here in Moytura. Besides that, she wanted stability, to settle down and stay in one place. As always, memories of her mother and brother taunted her, a torment that never ceased. A sob caught in her throat, a desperate wish to leave the capital and return home, to see her mother and visit her brother in Sligo. Would she ever see them again? No, not while Angus Kendall remained a menace, a hateful interference in her life.

  She turned away, aware she had much to do this day and little time in which to accomplish her errands before her workday began. For one thing, she intended to pick up a dress at a shop on Vernunna's Alley. Now that cooler weather had arrived, she'd need warmer clothes, and the seamstress at the dress shop had told her the frock would be ready today. One dress was all she could afford now.

  If she still had time, she thought as she splashed water on her face and hands at her basin, she intended to visit Moytura's Treasury of Knowledge to check out one or two books. She enjoyed reading and indulged in that pleasurable pastime in her few spare moments. She combed her hair with her silver comb and tied the locks back with a green silk ribbon. Finished dressing, she headed for the main dining room.

  As usual at this time of day, most of the tables in the dining room stood empty. Business at the Snow Leopard rare
ly picked up until late afternoon or early evening, when most laborers completed their day's work, the exception being special fair days and festivals, when customers crowded the tavern. Faint sunlight penetrated the stained glass windows, leaving the room in semi-darkness, but Cedric never lit the oil lamps until darkness had fallen, wanting to save on oil. After an exchange of friendly words, the waitress brought her a bowl of brose–boiled milk poured over barley mill, and flavored with honey. Fianna dipped her spoon into the brose but found it too hot. The tempting scent of cinnamon rose from her mug of steaming tea as she took a tentative sip of the spicy brew. Finding the tea too hot, too, she sat and waited a few moments for the tea and brose to cool a little. She attempted her cereal again and found it just right, neither too hot nor too cold. She finished the brose and drained her tea, noting that the room had brightened a little since she'd sat down.

  Done with her breakfast, Fianna pushed her chair back and left the tavern. Outside, the sun shone brightly although remnants of last night's rain puddled on the cobblestones. Stepping over the puddles, she made her way to the shop on Vernunna's Alley, a short walk from the tavern, along the twisted streets and alleys. Centuries ago, when the city had been constructed, foreign invasions were taken into account. Thus the city was built with a pattern of convoluted streets, to discourage invaders.

  Even though the shops were located in one of the seedier sections of the city, she didn't worry about going there at this hour of the morning. At night, well, that was a different story. Word was that Queen Keriam wanted to clean up this part of the city, but the landlords refused to pay the taxes necessary for the rejuvenation.

  She loved this time of year when the heat of summer gave way to the cooler air of autumn, and the leaves changed from green to orange, gold, and red.

  Along the narrow alley, she passed a second-hand bookstore, a candle shop, and a store that sold nothing but men's under-tunics, but there were no trees, no bushes, nothing to add beauty to the street. She noticed that most of the shops were opening now, men raising the awnings, others mopping the cobblestones in front of their shops from buckets of soapy water, as if to compensate for the stores' location in such a derelict area. Two cats snarled over a scrap of garbage, a mangy dog trotting along the avenue.

  Looking ahead, she saw–a pile of rags? No! A man languished on the street a few yards away. A vagrant, no doubt, a man who'd passed out after one drink too many. Afraid her guess might be wrong, and that he was dead, she warily approached the body on the street. She wondered why the shop owners had not checked on the man but assumed they were used to seeing drunks here in this alley. She knelt beside him and sniffed but didn't catch the smell of liquor. The man lay still, so still, no rise and fall of his chest. Her heartbeat quickened, her fear intensifying. Goddess! He couldn't be dead. And look at his skin–so white, as if all the blood had been drained from his body. Gingerly, she shook his shoulders but got no response. And he was cold, so cold. Bile rose in her throat and she swallowed hard. The street tilted around her.

  She waited several moments for her dizziness to pass, then rose on shaky legs. Trudging back the way she had come, she searched for one of the city's sentries to report the dead man.

  After that, she would go to the magistrate's office to report Gaderian.

  * * *

  Leaving the village of Tir Conaill far behind, Gaderian headed back to Moytura, approaching the Nantosuelta River. Oaks, pines, and hemlocks lined both riverbanks, a pleasant, piney aroma filling the air. Clouds hid the moon and stars, and a strong northerly wind sent tree branches thrashing. He reached a bridge that spanned the river, the horse's hooves clattering over the wooden boards, then onto the hard ground again. For too long, he had been away from the capital, away from Fianna. He had yet to discover the bandregas' secret, what gave them their ability to look human, their skill in practicing black magic. He knew from centuries past that a tribe of bandregas had inhabited a village close to Tir Conaill, this at a time when they had remained genuine demons, before they had developed the ability to assume human form. Other such hamlets existed in Avador, when the demons had been banished from mortal centers. Yet he had found these old villages empty of habitation, human or demons. The knowledge that Moreen was searching for the bandregas' secret gave him a glimmer of hope that between the two of them, they were bound to discover a clue. He considered enlisting the help of others among the undead, but decided against it. Too many of them talked loosely, revealing secrets, and quite possibly word would reach the bandregas that the vampires searched to discover their secrets.

  Hunger gnawed at him, a burning, tormenting need. The craving weakened him, but he dared not stop. He must see Fianna again, ensure that she was safe. As a cloud slid away from the moon, he looked up at the sky and guessed the time, mindful that Fianna would soon end her work day. Surely Stilo wouldn't attempt seduction of this dear woman again. Surely he had learned his lesson.

  Tempted to stop by his home on the outskirts of the city, he decided against it. He must see Fianna again. And he must feed.

  The spires of the city's temples came into view as he cantered down a rocky, woodsy hill, the city's streets and edifices laid out before him, as clear as daylight. The Gorm Forest loomed to the north, a vast area of pines and hemlocks.

  A recent rain slicked the city's cobblestones, the streets devoid of people. He slowed his horse to a walk as he approached one of the city's stables. The smell of horses and fresh hay floated up his nostrils as he entered the structure, most of the animals asleep while standing. After giving instructions to the stable boy, Gaderian walked on, headed for the Snow Leopard. He glanced all around him and saw no one, just frame apartment houses and a few cheap shops, their windows closed and shuttered.

  His hunger intensified, his weakness slowing his steps. He had to feed–now! He needed to find someone—

  A man stepped out from the shadows and grabbed him from behind. A bite on his neck, a sizzling pain like acid, sent him falling. The world spun around him.

  With his last bit of strength, he looked up to see his assailant. He gasped as he saw wolf-like features and furry hands.

  A bandrega!

  Chapter Thirteen

  "Gaderian has been asking for you." A woman stood in the doorway of Fianna's scrying room, looking worried. Her voice–so familiar! Ah, yes, the woman she'd heard talking to Gaderian. Fianna kept silent, allowing herself time to think. Why was Gaderian asking for her? And why did it hurt so much to see this other woman, his lover? She wished she could drive him from her mind, this man who haunted her dreams and teased every waking hour.

  "Madam?" She strode into the room, a beautiful woman with silvery hair, a black velvet dress hugging her curvaceous body. No wonder Gaderian loved her.

  Fianna forced herself to speak. "Gaderian? And who are you?"

  The woman sat down across from her. "Forgive me for not introducing myself. My name is Moreen, and I'm a friend of Gaderian's."

  More than a friend, oh, so much more. Fianna shook her head, an indefinable haziness hindering her ability to think clearly, Stilo's allurement she thought she had conquered.. A plethora of emotions fused inside her head, Gaderian's betrayal foremost. He was a vampire, a fact he had never revealed to her. But why should Gaderian's affection for this woman matter to her now? He was one of the undead, out of her life forever. If Gaderian was the enemy, why did her heart beat faster at the mere mention of his name?

  Moreen leaned forward, looking increasingly worried. Her low decolletage revealed full breasts. "Gaderian is very sick. He wants so much to see you." Her nails were beautifully manicured, shining silver in the dim light, to match her hair.

  "Sick?" Fianna didn't know vampires suffered illnesses. Yesterday returned in full force, the dead man on the street, her report to the city sentry. She'd headed for the magistrate's office to inform on Gaderian, but at the last moment, she couldn't go through with it, and why, she didn't know. Did she still love Gaderian, this man who had be
trayed her? You can't just turn love on and off; that much she knew. She folded her hands on the table and forced herself to speak calmly. "What illness does he suffer from? And where is he?"

  "Last question first. He has taken shelter in a cave–"

  "A cave!" The same cavern in which she had first met him?

  "I'll let him tell you why he chose a cave to take refuge in. And he can explain his illness." Moreen stood. "Come, we are wasting time. I've hired two horses at the stable, healthy mares. You must come with me. Believe me, he is quite ill. I'll let him explain everything to you. But please, we must hurry." She hesitated. "You do ride, don't you?"

  "For years, since I was a child." More worried by the minute, she pushed her chair back and stood. "Give me but a few moments to tend to matters here."

  Leaving Moreen, Fianna headed for her room, there to return her mirror and money box to her dresser. She grabbed a woolen shawl from a drawer and tied it across her chest, then left the room, locking the door behind her and pocketing the key. At the tavern counter, she spoke a few words with Noel, the man who took Cedric's place at night, explaining that an emergency had arisen, a very sick friend. Noel gave his reluctant permission but advised he expected her to work a full day on the morrow.