Dhampir

by J. C.

  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 passed 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, passing 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 glass 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 pass by. The wonder and enormity of the ocean never ceased to please her, especially at high tide. The shore 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 shore. Perhaps they'd once thought to salvage materials from the accident, but nothing had ever come of such plans. Now, piled high on the shore 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 anticipation 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 shore toward the harbor. Canvas breeches with ragged unstitched 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, you
r 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 shore, 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.

  "Teesha?"

  She stopped in surprise, looking at the water and the wind in the trees above the shore.

  "My love?"

  Edwan's empty voice echoed from behind her, and she turned. He floated just above the sand, his green breeches and white shirt glowing like white flame through a fog. His severed head rested on one shoulder, and long, yellow hair hung down his side all the way to his waist.

  "My dear," she said. "How long have you been there?"

  "A while. Are you going home… already?"

  "I wanted to check on the warehouse and see if Rashed needs anything."

  "Yes," he said. "Rashed."

  Edwan's visage changed subtly, as if the corpse image were no longer freshly dead, but had been lying in decay for a week or two. The glow of his skin was now sallow, whitened, with the hint of bruises from stagnant blood beneath his tissue.

  Teesha lost the moment's joy of strength and heat. She stepped lethargically up the shore and wilted to the ground against a leaning tree.

  "Don't brood. We need Rashed."

  "So you tell me." Edwan was by her side, though she hadn't actually seen him move. "So you told me."

  Together, they listened to shallow waves lapping at the beach. Teesha did not know how to respond. She loved Edwan, but he lived in the past, as did most spirits among the living, barely able to grasp the present. And she knew what he wanted. It was always what he wanted. He was the hungry one now, and with no true life to live, memories were all he had.

  But it drained her so much, depressed her to do this for him. Every time he needed, and she relented, for the next five or six nights, it destroyed her ability to live only in the delicious present.

  "No, Edwan," she said tiredly.

  "Please, Teesha. Just once more," he promised—again.

  "There isn't enough time before sunrise."

  "We have hours."

  The desperation in his voice hurt her. Teesha dropped her chin to her knees and stared out to where the water disappeared into the dark.

  Poor Edwan. He deserved so much better, but this had to stop. Perhaps if she showed him the sharpest of memories, played out to the end, he might be able to accept their current existence—her new existence.

  She closed her eyes, hoping he'd someday forgive her for this, and reached out to him with her mind, reached back…

  * * * *

  High in the north above Stravina, snow fell from the sky more days of the year than not, and it seemed the clouds continuously covered the sun. Day or night made little difference, but Teesha hardly cared. In her tightly tied apron and favorite red dress, she served up mugs of ale to thirsty patrons and travelers at the inn. The place was always warm with a burning hearth, and she had a smile for whoever came through the door. But that special smile, as welcome as a break in the clouds when she could see the sun, was only for her young husband, working somberly behind the bar, making sure all was right and not one guest had to wait for an ordered drink.

  Edwan seldom smiled back at her, but she knew he loved her fiercely. His father was a twisted, violent man, and his mother had died of fever when he was just a child. He had lived in poverty and servitude. That was all Edwan could remember of childhood, until he left home at seventeen, traveled through two cities, found a job tending bar, and then met Teesha, his first taste of kindness and affection.

  At sixteen, Teesha had already received several marriage proposals, but she'd always declined. There was just something not quite right with the suitor—too old, too young, too frivolous, too dour… too something. She felt the need to wait for someone else. When Edwan walked through the tavern door, with his dark yellow hair, wide cheekbones, and haunted eyes, she knew he was her other half. After five years of marriage, he still rarely spoke to anyone but her.

  To him, the world was a hostile place, and safety only rested in Teesha's arms.

  To her, the world was songs and spiced turnips and serving ale to guests—who had long ago become close friends— and spending warm nights under a feather quilt with Edwan.

  It was a good time in life, but a short one.

  The first time Lord Corische opened the inn's door, he remained standing outside and would not enter. The cold breeze blowing openly into the common room was enough to set everyone to cursing, and Teesha ran to shut the door.

  "May I come in?" he asked, but his voice was demanding, as if he knew the answer and was merely impatient to hear it.

  "Of course, please," she answered, mildly surprised, as the tavern was open to all.

  When he and a companion entered, and Teesha could finally shut the door, everyone settled down again. A few people turned to look in curiosity, then a few more, as the first curious ones did not turn back to their food again.

  Nothing about Lord Corische himself stood out as unusual. Not his chainmail vest and pieces of plate over padded armor, for soldiers and mercenaries were seen often enough. He was neither handsome or ugly, large or small. His only true distinguishing features were a smooth, completely bald head and a small white scar over his left eye. But he was not alone, and it was not Lord Corische the tavern guests stared at in any case. It was his companion
.

  Beside the smooth-headed soldier walked the tallest, most striking man Teesha had ever seen. He wore a deep blue, padded tunic covered in a diamond pattern stitched in shimmering white thread. His short hair was true black against a pale face with eyes so light she wasn't certain of the color, like the smoothest ice over a deep lake.

  The two men walked to a table, but the bald soldier still hadn't taken his gaze off Teesha.

  "Can I bring you ale?" she asked.

  "You'll bring me whatever I find pleasing," the soldier answered in a loud voice, enjoying the moment. "I am Lord Corische, new master of Gäestev Keep. Everything here already belongs to me."

  When the villagers around them heard Corische's announcement, hushed murmurs began, but all words were kept low enough not to be heard.

  Teesha held her breath and dropped her eyes. Over a year had passed since the previous vassal lord had died of a hunting wound. No word of a new lord arriving had reached them in all that time.

  "Forgive my familiar manner," she said. "I did not know."

  "Your familiar manner is welcome," Corische said quietly.

  He did not look remotely noble to Teesha, but then she had rarely seen a noble in her life. Corische did have a look about him that fit these mountain lands, cold and possibly cruel to the unwary. But if either one of these two strangers were a lord, Teesha would have thought it his companion.

  Corische's striking companion did not speak. He even appeared detached, not listening to their conversation. After a slow gaze at the crowd, as if gauging for possible dangers, he settled back and ignored his surroundings.

  "This is my man, Rashed," Lord Corische said, without motioning to his companion. "He's from a desert land far across the sea and despises our cold weather, don't you, Rashed?"

  "No, my lord," Rashed answered flatly, as if this were a ritual simply to be completed.