Dhampir

by J. C.

  "A fine place," he said. "Nothing like the taverns in Bela, but very comfortable for Miiska. I have some friends I'd like to bring sometime."

  "Any good patron is always welcome," she answered politely with a courteous nod.

  He nodded in return without smiling, and then his expression grew even colder. "You're the one, aren't you?" he said. "The one who hunts Noble Dead?"

  The buzz of laughter and chatter all around her grew faint as a dull throb pounded in her ears. She couldn't help letting her gaze slip quickly around the room to see if anyone had heard. Noble Dead—she'd never heard that expression, but his meaning seemed clear.

  "I don't do that anymore."

  "You are a killer," he said quietly. "I have seen one or two true killers before. They never stop. They can't."

  "There's faro in the corner, if you care to play cards, or find a table and order some food. I have customers to attend."

  Magiere turned back to the wine casks, wanting to dismiss him and yet suddenly nervous about exposing her back. She heard Chap's growl again, but when she looked back this time, the nobleman was gone. Chap was no longer by the hearth but sniffing at the closed tavern door, his lip still curling just short of a snarl. She let out a slow exhale.

  "Come away from there," she called, to the dog.

  Chap didn't move, watching the door until little Rose came between the tables to drag him back to the fire as if he were a giant wooden pull-toy. The dog reluctantly followed her.

  Magiere enjoyed no more of the pleasant sounds around her that night and continued drawing ale with numb hands until the last guest left. She had suspected this might happen eventually. It was always a possibility that someone who knew of her previous life would stumble across her. She simply hadn't expected it to be so soon—and twice within the first week, so perhaps the gossip was already spreading. And both occurrences seemed less a query or recognition than a challenge for denial.

  "What a night," Leesil said, still looking down at the cloth-covered faro table with the thirteen ranks of spades laid out. Copper coins, and one silver, were piled highest on queens, tens, and threes for some reason.

  Magiere pulled out of her own thoughts. "How'd we do?"

  "Fine," he answered. "A little less than a fourth above the starting pot, but I was gentle with them. We'll make enough on food and drink, so best not to scare them off by emptying their pockets too quickly."

  Surprise at his clarity of thought almost cut away her black mood, but not quite.

  What had that nobleman wanted? She had never seen him before, and yet he'd seemed to recognize her on sight. He'd done no searching of the room when he entered but came directly to her. Then again, perhaps others in town were talking about her. She tended to stand out some, and there certainly weren't any other armed women strolling through town on their first day with a half-elf and oversized dog in tow. But what was going on? And an unexplained death the night before her arrival didn't help matters. It was too close to the pattern of the game she and Leesil had played for years.

  "So… Magiere?" Leesil said, sounding a little annoyed for being ignored. "What's your problem? Been sampling the casks too much tonight?"

  The large empty room suddenly felt more enclosed than when filled with people. She thought of the dead girl Ellinwood mentioned and Karlin's reaction. Had there been other murders in this small coastal town?

  "Caleb," she asked, "who is Brenden?"

  The old man was wiping out tankards and hesitated as though wondering about her question.

  "The blacksmith," he answered simply. "His shop's near the market at the north end of town, on the shore side."

  "I need some air," Magiere said, grabbing her falchion from under the bar and strapping it on, not caring what anyone thought, including Leesil. "Can you clean up by yourselves?"

  Her partner blinked. "Do you want company?"

  "No."

  She practically fled the tavern, sucking in cool gulps of salt air after closing the front door behind herself. All around, Miiska lay sleeping, but in a few hours some of the fishermen would rise well before dawn to prepare their nets and lines. Not allowing herself to think, Magiere walked down rows of cottages, houses, and shops without really seeing anything. She took no notice of the very few street torches and lanterns still burning or the stragglers stumbling from another tavern or inn as it finally closed well past midnight. She just wanted to clear her head of all the plaguing thoughts running through her mind.

  Scents began to register in her smothered thoughts— horse dung, charcoal, and soot. The blacksmith's shop and stables. Magiere stopped in the middle of the street, uncertain and wavering between directions.

  Ellinwood had said the murdered girl, Eliza, was the sister of someone named Brenden. Brenden the blacksmith.

  It seemed no one in this town said anything straight out, but there had been more than one mention of citizens disappearing. Karlin the baker had been more than startled by the announced death; he'd tried to keep himself from blurting out something about others. And now at least two people knew exactly what her past profession had been, or thought they knew.

  Magiere hadn't even realized she was walking again until she reached the end of the street and heard horses stirring in the stables. Around the bend was the smith's work area and behind that a long, chest-high stack of cut wood against a fence. Just beyond she could see a small cottage out back. A thin trail of smoke curled up from its pot chimney in the moonlight.

  She slipped quietly around the far end of the fence, careful to check that the front door was closed, and she saw no sign of anyone awake inside. There was only one curtained window to duck under on the cottage side facing the trees. She stepped around back.

  There was something of a back porch and a failing flower garden to one side. Another garden patch, likely for vegetables, was farther back behind the stables. A second woodpile lined the cottage side of the fence. It wouldn't look good to be caught prowling on her first week in her new hometown, so she kept a watch on the back door as she looked about. Of course, the body was long gone, but there might be other telltale signs left behind.

  A dark patch on the woodpile caught her attention. At first she thought it was just a space between the cut and split logs, but as she moved closer she could see it was not a hollow. Some of the ends of the stacked firewood were stained darker than the others. In two places, it appeared the dark fluid had dripped and run down. She knelt near the base of the stack.

  Earth near a shore was usually damp, but looking carefully now she realized that the coastal earth she had seen while traveling was light colored, close to the gravely sand of the shore itself. On the ground here she found more dark spots, like the stains on the wood. One large one was surrounded by others, smaller and smeared. The ground was a mess of footsteps, likely from Ellinwood and his so-called guards. Beyond that, she could find no other signs of chase or struggle.

  She ran her fingertips through one dark patch. Though mostly dried to the semi-damp state of the shore earth, some did stick to her fingertips. She lifted it to her nose, then tasted it lightly with her tongue.

  Blood.

  Magiere closed her eyes and then opened them quickly as the backs of her lids conjured up images of what the killer may have done to his or her victim to spill so much blood.

  Yet it was all in one place, as if the girl had not been able to ran, struggle, or fight for her life.

  "I thought you no longer concerned yourself with such, dhampir?" a voice said from behind her.

  She whirled around to her feet in one motion, gripping her sword. At first she could see nothing, and then she spotted a waver of shadow beneath a tree on the yard's seaward side.

  Welstiel stood there, dressed exactly as before in his long, wool cape. He stepped out from the trees to the edge of the yard, and moonlight glinted off the white patches near his temples. She found herself glancing at his hands, and although she couldn't quite make them out, she remembered the missing end o
f his finger and wondered how he had lost it.

  "Are you following me?" she asked angrily.

  "Yes," he answered.

  That silenced her for a moment. When confronted with that question, most people denied it.

  "Why?" she finally asked.

  "Because this town is plagued by Noble Dead," he said, "who survive by feeding upon the living. This girl is not the first, and you know that. And no one in Miiska can stop them but you."

  "And how would you have any idea what I know?"

  Her words were more a retort than a question she expected to be answered. And no answer came. Magiere's stomach knotted sharply with pain from anger and anxiety.

  "What does that mean?" she asked. "Noble Dead?"

  "The highest order of the dead, or rather, undead," he answered. "The Noble 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 superstitious 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 shore.

  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 superstitious 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 nobleman 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 passed. 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 glass bottle full of amber liquid and a silver urn, smiling in anticipation.

  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 assist 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."