Dhampir

by J. C.

  "Ratboy," Rashed spit the nickname out as if it were a joke told one too many times: "How long have you been skulking in the corner?"

  "I just woke up," Ratboy replied. "But I knew you'd be upset if I went out without saying hello."

  Everything but his skin appeared brown, and even that had a slightly tan cast from months'—possibly a year's— old filth. Plain brown hair stuck to his narrow, pinched head above plain brown eyes. Rashed had heard many terms in his life to describe different shades of brown-chestnut, mahogany, beige—but the dirty figure of Ratboy brought no such words to mind. He played the part of the street urchin so well, the persona had become part of him. Perhaps that was one of his strengths. No one ever remembered him as an individual, just as another grubby, homeless adolescent.

  "You don't need to worry about my anger, unless you give me reason," Rashed said. "You should be concerned for yourself."

  Ratboy ignored the warning and sneered, his upcurled lips exposing stained teeth.

  "Parko was mad," he answered back. "It's one thing to revel in our greater existence and senses, but he lost himself. Someone was bound to kill him sooner or later."

  Hard words froze in Rashed's throat. Although his voice was soft and calm, his expression betrayed him.

  "Needless killing is another subject you should not criticize."

  Ratboy turned away, shrugging slightly. "It's the truth. He may have been your brother once, but he was mad with love for the Feral Path, obsessed and drunk with the hunt. That is why you drove him out." He picked at a fingernail with his teeth. "Besides, I already told you, for the thousandth time…" His voice trailed off like a falsely accused child facing a disbelieving parent. "I didn't kill that tavern owner."

  "Enough," Teesha said, looking at Ratboy like a scolding mother. "None of this is helpful."

  Rashed paced rapidly across the small room again. He owned the entire vast warehouse, but this room had been designated for private use a long time ago. Several trapdoors in the walls and floors led outside or to lower levels. Teesha had decorated it herself with a mix of couches, tables, lamps, and elaborately molded candles in the shapes of dark red roses.

  With the exception of their unusually pale skin, both he and Teesha passed easily for human. Rashed had worked hard to set up their life in Miiska. It was important that he find out what happened to Parko, not only for revenge, but for the safety of all of them.

  "I'm sick of waiting every night," Ratboy said petulantly. "If Edwan doesn't come soon, I'm going out."

  Teesha's mouth opened to answer him when a soft, shimmering light appeared from nowhere and began gaining strength in the center of the room. She simply smiled up at Rashed.

  The light grew dense and swirled into the shape of a ghastly form floating just above the ground. A transparent man stared at Teesha.

  He wore green breeches and a loose white shirt, the colors of his clothes vivid in the candlelight. His partially severed head rested on one shoulder, connected by a remaining strip of what had once been flesh. Long, dark-yellow hair hung down his blood-spattered shoulder and arm with the illusion of heaviness. His appearance was exactly the same as at the moment he'd died.

  "My dear Edwan," Teesha said. "It has been lonely without you."

  The ghost floated toward her as if the small distance between them was too much.

  "Where have you been?" Rashed demanded instantly. "Did you find Parko's murderer?"

  Edwan's movement stopped. His body half turned until his sloping head faced Rashed, and he stayed there in a long silence.

  It was unusual for the ghost to appear visibly like this. His own appearance embarrassed him, and he did not like to see horror, revulsion, or even simple distaste in the eyes of others. Normally, he only appeared to Teesha, who never showed any sign of discomfort. But lately he'd taken to materializing in the most grisly detail whenever Rashed was present.

  Rashed kept his expression emotionless on purpose. "What have you learned?"

  "It was a woman called Magiere." Edwan's hollow voice echoed. He turned to face his wife as if Teesha had actually posed the question. "She hires herself out to peasant villages seeking to rid themselves of vampires and their like."

  "I think I've actually heard that name," Ratboy chimed in, perking up now that his attention was stimulated. "It was a traveling peddler. He mentioned something about a 'hunter of the dead' working the villages of Stravina. But it has to be nonsense. There aren't that many of our kind. Not enough to make a living off of, if anyone was good enough to try. She's a fake, a charlatan. She could not have killed Parko."

  "Yes, she did," Edwan answered, his words like whispers from the past traveling down an endless hall. "Parko rests in the Vudrask River, his head… his head…"—he stuttered briefly before continuing—"his head severed from his body. She cut his head off. She knew what to do."

  Ratboy scoffed under his breath from the corner. Teesha simply sat listening and thinking. Rashed began pacing again.

  He'd himself heard much about the occasional "hunter" traveling the lands, calling themselves by fanciful titles such as "exorcist," "witchbane," and "hunters of the dead." Ratboy was correct on one count. They were always cheats and mountebanks merely seeking profit by preying on peasant superstitions—regardless of whether those peasant fears were based on a hidden truth. But Rashed knew something more had happened this time, and Parko had died because of it. It was difficult, almost impossible, for a mortal to kill a vampire, even one who'd abandoned his intellect to run wild through the nights, lost to the Feral Path.

  "And more," Edwan whispered.

  Rashed stopped. "What?"

  "She's coming here." The ghost now turned completely to face Rashed. "She's purchased the old tavern on the docks."

  At first no one moved, then Ratboy rushed forward, Rashed stepped close, and even Teesha was on her feet. Their questions barraged the spirit, one upon the other.

  "Where did you hear… ?"

  "How can that be… ?"

  "Where did she find out… ?"

  Edwan's eyes closed as if the voices hurt him.

  "Quiet," Teesha snapped. Both Rashed and Ratboy fell silent as she turned back to the ghost, speaking calmly and quietly. "Edwan, tell us anything you know about this."

  "Everyone in Miiska knows the owner disappeared months ago." Edwan paused, and Rashed turned a suspicious glare in Ratboy's direction. "I listened to her talk with her partner. The missing owner owed money on the property to someone in Bela, so the tavern was sold off low just to pay the debt. This false hunter now holds the title to the tavern, free and clear. She will arrive late tomorrow and intends to settle here to run the tavern."

  Rashed lowered his head, murmuring to himself. "Perhaps she is not such a charlatan. I didn't kill our master and leave our home just so we could end up as some hunter's bounty."

  The others remained silent, lost in their thoughts.

  Finally, Teesha asked, "What should we do?"

  Rashed looked back at her, examining the lines of her delicate face. He wasn't about to let a hunter anywhere near Teesha. But other thoughts also troubled him. "If the hunter makes it into Miiska, we'll have to fight her here, and we can't afford that if we're to maintain the secrecy we've established. Another death in town"—he glanced at Ratboy—"could ruin everything we have here. She must not reach Miiska."

  "I'll do it," Ratboy said, almost before Rashed had even finished.

  "No, she managed to destroy Parko," Teesha said, her expression changing to concern. "You might get hurt. Rashed is the strongest, so he should go."

  "I'm the fastest, and I blend into anything," Ratboy argued, eagerness in his eyes. "Let me go, Rashed. No one on the road will ever remember I passed by. People always remember you. You look like a nobleman." A hint of sarcasm slipped in for only a blink. "That hunter will never even see me coming, and this will all be over."

  Rashed weighed the possibilities. "All right, I suppose your bad habits might serve us this
time. But don't toy with her. Just do it and dispose of the body."

  "There's a dog." Edwan began speaking, then his words lost coherency. "Something old, something I can't remember."

  Ratboy's pinched face wrinkled into a frown. He let out a grunt of boredom. "A dog is nothing."

  "Listen to him," Rashed warned. "He knows more than you."

  Ratboy shrugged and started for the door. "I'll be back soon."

  Teesha nodded, her eyes a bit sad. "Yes, kill her quickly and then come home."

  * * * *

  Ratboy stopped only long enough to roll up a canvas tarp that he could tie to his back and to put some of the dirt from his coffin into a large pouch. He brought no weapons. No one saw him exit the warehouse out into the cool night air.

  Thoughts of the hunt consumed him. Rashed's obsession with secrecy meant that little or no killing was ever allowed in Miiska. The three of them commonly erased the blurred memories of their victims while feeding. While this nourished the body, it did not feed Ratboy's soul nor the hunger in his mind.

  He loved to feel a heart stop beating right beneath him, to smell fear and the last tremble of life as it faded from his prey and was absorbed into his own body. Sometimes he killed outsiders, strangers, and travelers in secret and hid the bodies where no one would find them. But those were too few and too far between. Occasionally, he had gone too far and caused the death of someone who lived in Miiska and then tried his best to hide the body. Of course, the one time someone truly noticeable had disappeared, the old tavern owner, it hadn't been his doing, but Rashed still didn't believe him.

  Tonight, Rashed had actually given him permission, and he would make the most of it, enjoying every slow moment. He felt the hunger rise up again, begging and demanding as he realized that he still had not fed this evening.

  A quarter of the night passed as he worked his way along parallel to the road. Now and then, he stopped to fully test the night with his senses. Sniffing the night air, he picked up nothing at first. Then a thin whiff of warmth reached his nostrils. He crawled through the trees and brush to the edge of the coastal road from Bela, and heard the faint creak and scrape of a wagon, its axle in need of grease.

  Ratboy waited patiently beneath a wild blueberry bush. Peering through the leaves, he could see the wagon rolling closer. The horse looked old and tired. A lone driver sat with his head nodding now and again as he drifted in and out of sleep. This was certainly not the one he'd been sent to find, but it seemed a waste to let the opportunity pass. And catching the hunter while he was fully fed and powered would be best.

  "Help me," Ratboy called out weakly.

  The driver's head raised up, awake. In his well-worn, purple cloak, he looked to be a half-successful merchant, probably one who traveled a great deal and wouldn't be missed for a full moon. Ratboy fought the urge to lunge.

  "Here, please. I think my leg is broken," he called in mournful agony. "Help me."

  His face awash with nauseating concern, the merchant began climbing down instantly. Ratboy did so enjoy this.

  "Where are you?" the merchant asked. "I can't see you."

  "Here, over here." Ratboy kept his voice soft, plaintive, as he stretched himself out on the ground.

  Heavy footsteps brought the smell of warm life running to Ratboy's side. The merchant knelt down.

  "Did you fall?" he said. "Don't worry. Miiska is not far, and there we can get you some help."

  Ratboy snatched the man's cloak collar and jerked downward while rolling, until the two had switched places. Staring down into the surprised face, Ratboy could not help mouthing the word, "Fool." Hands like bone manacles pinned the merchant to the ground. In panic, the man pitched wildly, trying to throw off his attacker. It did no good.

  Pain stopped humans from exerting their bodies too far. Ratboy felt no pain, not as mortals did, and had no such limitations. The struggles of his victim amused him. A flash of pleasure coursed through him as he saw surprise turn to fear in the merchant's eyes.

  "I'll let you go if you can answer a riddle," Ratboy whispered. "What am I?"

  "My wife died last summer," the man said, panting, fighting harder to free himself. "I have two young sons. I must get home."

  "If you're not going to play, then neither am I," Ratboy scolded, pinning the merchant harder against the ground. "Just make one guess. What am I?"

  His victim stopped struggling and simply stared up at him in what appeared to be a mix of disbelief and confusion.

  "Sorry… too late."

  Ratboy bit down quickly in the soft hollow below the merchant's jawline.

  The blood in his mouth was nothing compared to the life warmth filling his body as he fed. Sometimes he liked to rip and tear while his prey was still alive. Tonight the hunger was too strong for such playfulness. The heartbeat slowed in his ears, the taste of adrenaline and fear rose in the merchant's flesh, then both faded.

  Whenever it was over, there always followed a moment of melancholy for Ratboy, like a child's last moment at a carnival, when lamps were snuffed out, the acrobats retired, and tents closed for the last time—until next year. He lifted his gaze to the road north. The hunter was out there, traveling toward him. It was just a matter of time.

  Chapter Four

  Just within sight of the coastline road, Ratboy traveled swiftly, slipping through the trees and constantly smelling the air for any hint of his prey, even though he knew she was still hours away. Just what did a charlatan vampire hunter smell like? Taste like? In an endless existence, anything new, any new experience was a rare and savory thing.

  As night slipped away and the first streaks of dawn appeared over the ocean, he grew concerned, but not about where he'd sleep that day. Sea caves were easy enough to find, and in desperation he could always burrow under the forest mulch beneath the canvas tarp roped to his back. But what if she passed him while he slept? Indeed, she would pass him. He'd hoped to come across her camp while she slept, but the scent of few travelers drifted to him and none with the fragrance of a woman. What should he do?

  He realized he may have underestimated normal human speed. So how far away was she? And when she awoke, how far could she travel in a day? He frowned, knowing the need for cover was becoming imminent. The road next to the tree line lay empty in both directions.

  Ratboy crossed through the trees to the shoreline and looked around for a deep-looking cave or pocket in the cliff wall. Dropping over the side of the cliff, he scaled downward like a spider and disappeared into an ancient hole, crawling back and away from the light with no fear of darkness or whatever might already be living inside. He laid the pouch of coffin earth on the cave floor and curled around it on his side in the scant space. Then he pulled the loosened canvas over himself against any stray lance of sunlight that might somehow find him.

  Logic told him that although he'd only traveled for half the night, she would not be able to cover the distance to Miiska left to her in one day. He'd sleep and then back track. One way or another, he'd intercept her and then bring her head back to Rashed as a taunting gift. Every time anyone in Miiska disappeared, Rashed blamed him. In truth, sometimes he was to blame, but not always, and certainly not for the tavern owner. Some grizzly old drunk offered little temptation to a killer like himself.

  His eyelids grew heavy, and he lost his train of thought.

  * * * *

  By late afternoon that day, Leesil's narrow feet hurt, and his partial excitement about seeing their tavern began to wane. Even the beauty of the coastline and the sea running out to the horizon no longer filled him with awe. Such frantic hurrying seemed unnecessary. The tavern would certainly still be there no matter when they arrived. Magiere never pushed them like this when they were on the game. No, the three of them had simply traveled at a comfortable pace until reaching their intended target. He was getting sick of her constant nagging: "Leesil, hurry. Leesil, not far now. If we keep going, we'll make it tonight."

  Even Chap looked tired of his cart ri
de and whined softly, eyes tragic with boredom, but Magiere wouldn't allow the dog to walk yet. The old donkey looked near death. What was Magiere thinking? This sudden desire to be an honest businesswoman had changed her in unpleasant ways. Close to exhaustion—or at the moment what he decided would count enough for exhaustion—Leesil noticed the sun's bottom edge meet the ocean horizon.

  "Enough's enough," he announced loudly.

  When Magiere, walking ahead of the donkey and cart, showed no sign of hearing him, Leesil stumbled theatrically to the roadside and dropped on the grass.

  "Come here, Chap," he called. "Time for a break."

  The elegant, gray-blue head of his dog jerked upward in hope, ears poised, eyes intently fastened on his master.

  "You heard me. Come on," Leesil repeated loudly.

  Magiere heard Leesil's shout this time and turned her head just in time to see Chap bounding out of the cart and back down the road to where Leesil sat. Her normally stoic jaw dropped slightly as she stopped in the road. The donkey and cart moved on without pausing.

  "What in… not again," she stammered, then caught sight of the escaping cart. She grabbed the escaping beast's halter and pulled it to a stop. "You elven half-wit," she called back to Leesil, dragging donkey and cart back to where he sat. "What are you doing?"

  "Resting?" he said, as if asking for confirmation. He looked down at his legs stretched out comfortably on the ground, then nodded his head firmly. "Yes, most assuredly. Resting."

  Instead of lying down, Chap sniffed around the rough sea grass, stretching his limbs, then bounded off into the brush nearby. Leesil took his wineskin and slipped its carrying strap off his shoulder. He popped its stopper, then tilted it up and over his open mouth for a long, satisfying drink. The dark D'areeling wine always tasted slightly of winter chestnuts. It comforted him in ways he couldn't describe, and that was likely all the comfort he'd get, unless Magiere stopped driving all of them with her stubbornness. But two could play that game.