Dhampir

by J. C.

  "Well, let's clean up then and go to bed," she said.

  "You go on up, Miss," Caleb said in his perpetually calm voice. "You've been working harder than anyone. We'll get things closed down."

  She glanced at Leesil, who nodded and stood up.

  "Yes, go on, and I'll lend them a hand," he said. "I've been sitting long enough."

  The pink tinge of his eyes and almost indiscernible slur in his voice suggested he'd already had more than a cup or two, but she felt too tired to argue and headed for the stairs. Chap awoke and stretched as Leesil went to break up the fire. Caleb and Beth-rae went into the kitchen. All in all, it was a typical late night at the tavern, at least for as long as Magiere had been there.

  * * * *

  Inside the darker night of the alley across from The Sea Lion, Ratboy crouched beside Rashed and watched the last glimmers of light in the windows fade out. Rashed stared down hard at him.

  "No feeding at all, and no bodies if possible," Rashed said for the third time. "Do you understand? Just watch the common room and be ready to assist me if needed. I will enter through an upstairs window and break her neck while she's sleeping. If you have to kill, then so be it—but no noise, no disturbance. We take her body out to sea, and she simply becomes another 'disappearance.' "

  Ratboy's resentment was difficult to hide, as was his discomfort at possibly having to fight the hunter or the dog yet again. At the moment, he couldn't fathom why he hadn't just refused. Even skulking in the night shadows, Rashed looked as resplendent as usual in his dark blue tunic, polished sword gripped in his hand just under the fold of his hooded cloak. His translucent irises seemed to glow softly.

  Ratboy liked to pretend that his own shabby, filthy appearance was a conscious choice for hunting. In reality, he knew that no amount of bathing, grooming, or fine clothes would ever bring him close to Rashed's noble appearance. Indeed, if he ever tried, the contrast would be embarrassingly comical, so he hid beneath layers of dirt in an effort to create his own identity. He was never more aware of their unfortunate differences than when the two of them stood so close and alone.

  "What about the dog," he demanded, "and the half-elf, for that matter? We don't know where anyone is. I could walk into all three of them having late night tea in the kitchen while you're nosing around upstairs. Then what do I do?"

  "Don't allow yourself to be seen for one," Rashed hissed back. "That's your skill, isn't it—blending into shadows?"

  Yes, but Ratboy feared the hunter. He remembered the pain of her blade and the panic as he felt his strength dripping away through gaping wounds until he'd gorged himself. But Rashed didn't care about his feelings. All that mattered to him was that Ratboy do as he was told.

  "What if the hunter kills you?" Ratboy whispered. "You have all the answers. Then what do I do?"

  "Don't play the idiot with me." His companion glared down at him icily. "No mortal hunter is going to kill me. Now get inside. We have little time, and I won't be caught at sea when the sun rises."

  Ratboy swallowed down the urge to hiss back as he inched to the alley's edge. This was the best time to attack. If all went well, they would catch the household asleep, complete their task, sink the hunter's body in the bay, go back home, and the cursed sun would be halfway to noon before anyone knew something was amiss. Rashed's intelligence was not in question, only his manner. He treated everyone like a servant—except Teesha.

  Without another word, the urchin slipped across the street to the corner nearest a front window. Rashed had already tricked Magiere into saying that all the nobleman's friends, as patrons, were welcome. Although her meaning could be ambiguous, the invitation was legitimate. Peering through the shutters, he saw no hint of a light in the dark common room. The fire in the hearth was scattered but still smoldering, embers glowing softly.

  Ratboy drew out a shining, thin-bladed dagger and slipped the point between the shutters' edges. He quickly jimmied the inside window latch and silently swung it open. Too easy. He thought a hunter would have had better locks. Ratboy clenched the blade between his teeth as he slid up onto the sill. He didn't plan to lose a second fight if the dog attacked him. He'd cut the beast's throat immediately. Rashed had said "no noise," but as for "no blood," well, let Rashed try to fight that damn hound. The pompous long-shanks would quickly change his mind.

  Testing the air for any scent of the living, Ratboy found the common room was still too rank with the odor of sweat-stained sailors, ale, and burnt meat. No one was at the tables, no one was by the fire. Rashed had probably crossed the roof and slipped inside by now. Perhaps all would go according to Rashed's plan.

  Ratboy dropped quietly down on the wooden floor, crouching low and peering over the tabletops across the room. A light shimmer caught in the corner of his vision, and he turned his head, craning his neck.

  The silverish hair was light enough to spot in the dark. At the near end of the bar sat the half-elf facing toward the stairs and drinking from a tarnished tin cup. He was about to sip again, then seemed to think better of it and lowered the cup. His hand dropped off the bar.

  His head turned, and he looked directly to where Ratboy crouched in the dark.

  Ratboy felt his insides roll over. Of course, a half-elf's night vision would nearly match his own. He wondered if he could throw his dagger fast enough to kill the half-blood before any alarm was raised. Then he heard a flutter in the air racing toward him and he ducked back against the wall.

  A stiletto struck the tabletop where his head had been, point stuck deep as the blade quivered briefly on impact. An eerie, high-pitched snarl filled the room, emanating from amidst the furniture at the far side of the hearth. The silver hound sprang upon a tabletop, its eyes focused directly on Ratboy.

  * * * *

  Rashed sheathed his sword and scaled the inn's wall effortlessly, hardened fingernails clawing into planking cracks and crevasses.

  This entire affair was far too rushed, without care, grace, or planning. Given time, he would have visited the inn three or four nights in a row, noting the routines of its inhabitants, who slept in what room and what hour they retired, who locked up at night, who couldn't sleep, and where the hunter kept her sword. He would have learned many things. Now he was forced to enter blindly and seek out his target.

  He crept along the roof's edge, looking for a suitable window through which to enter, preferably not the hunter's bedroom window, for fear of waking her and giving her a chance to bolt for the door. Hanging over the edge, he peered through a window where the curtains had not been drawn. The room inside was large enough for a double bed, various chests, and a chair. The empty bed meant someone was still up and about, and he felt an urgency settle upon him. Ratboy had his orders—to be silent and bloodless—but it wouldn't be the first time if he blundered, stumbling upon someone downstairs and awakening the whole household. Then Rashed saw a little blond-haired girl sleeping upon a floor mat at the foot of the bed. By the rhythm of her breathing she was deep in slumber and would not wake at his entrance. She had nothing to fear from him anyway. He'd never yet found a need to prey upon a child.

  The window had no lock, and in seconds, he dropped quietly into the room. He stepped past the child and cracked the bedroom door to peer out. The hall lay empty. There were only two other doors and the staircase downward, so his search would be quick. He stepped out, closing the door behind him.

  An unnatural, wailing snarl rose up the stairs from below and crawled over his skin. It was followed by manic snarls and the snap and shatter of wood.

  The door at the end of the hall swung open. Rashed froze.

  Her hair hung loose around her shoulders, but she was still dressed in breeches and a leather vest. Howls and snarls and the echoes of a wild fight below in the common room were now loud and clear. The hunter's eyes widened.

  "You—" she said in surprise.

  Before she could finish, Rashed crossed the distance between them and slammed his weight against the door as she trie
d to shut it. They both tumbled into the room.

  * * * *

  Leesil drew his other stiletto out of his sleeve, feeling a rush of shame at being caught so unaware. Half-crouched, he scuttled between the tables and moved roundabout toward the open window. The skulker had gotten all the way into the room before he'd even noticed. Perhaps he was just caught off guard. It couldn't have been the drink.

  Chap was in midair, lunging, and the intruder tried to kick the table in front of him out of his way. The dog lost his targeted landing spot and hit the teetering table with his front paws. The angled table legs snapped under the sudden weight, and Chap smashed down upon the intruder in a tumble of shattering wood. The crash and enraged snarls from Chap hammered in Leesil's ears, followed by a pain-filled yelp.

  "Chap, back! Get off!" Leesil yelled, pulling aside chairs to reach the skirmish.

  The dog did break off, but only because his opponent kicked him, sending the animal spinning across the floor on his back until he toppled two chairs and became entangled in them.

  "Stay back!" Leesil ordered the dog, and then he inched toward the window and tried to peer over the slanted top of the table's remains.

  The intruder rose up in an unnatural gliding motion. Enough moonlight spilled in between open window shutters to show dark lines running down the side of his face— Chap's claw marks. Leesil stopped when he saw the intruder's features.

  It was Ratboy, the dusty beggar from the road outside Miiska. Leesil settled back one step, the stiletto poised and ready.

  "Didn't get enough of us the last time?" Leesil asked.

  Ratboy put a hand to his cheek, running his fingers along the wounds as if unsure of them. Then he stared at the blood in his hand.

  "My… face," Ratboy whispered. The expression of shock and pain washed over him.

  His eyes turned as lifeless as a corpse's, and Leesil remembered how the last time this beggar boy had seemed an uncanny creature rather than human—and all the more unsettling for his human appearance. Amidst the clatter of toppled chairs, Chap scrambled to his feet, moving forward for another assault.

  "No, Chap," Leesil snapped, trying to keep Ratboy in sight and still turn his head slightly to see if the dog obeyed.

  Ratboy lunged at Leesil with a bloody dagger pointed outward.

  Leesil dodged the blade and retreated, baiting his opponent into wild swings. Ratboy was obviously no match for him in a knife fight, but he still remembered their last meeting. The little man-thing had pulled a crossbow quarrel from his own stomach as if it were an annoying sliver. He wasn't going to risk Ratboy getting close enough to grab him. He dodged another wild swing and felt his back rub against the bar's front edge. With a quick hop, he rolled backward over the bar and dropped behind it.

  A crossbow hadn't worked the first time, but seeing he had little choice, he grabbed the loaded weapon Magiere kept hidden behind the bar. By the time he lifted it, the creature was in midair—not vaulting but leaping over the bar without touching it. Clutching both stiletto and crossbow, Leesil fired.

  The quarrel cracked into Ratboy's forehead above his right eye, and his body flipped backward to smash down on the bar top. The dagger bounced out of his hand on impact, falling to Leesil's side of the bar, but Ratboy tumbled back the other way, flopping to the floor on the far side, out of Leesil's sight.

  Leesil leaned forward to peer over the bar, but he couldn't see clearly in the dark. Chap began inching forward from the middle of the room, but Leesil held up a hand to stop him. He was sidling along the bar to move around its end when Chap began to snarl again.

  A dirty hand slapped over the bar top from the far side. The bar's wooden edging creaked in that hard grip. Leesil reflexively leaned back against the wine casks lining the back wall.

  Ratboy pulled himself up and jerked the quarrel out of his head. Blood ran down across his right eye.

  Planning and thinking wasn't usually one of Leesil's strong points, so he did the only thing he could think of.

  "Why don't you die already!" he yelled, and swung the crossbow like a club.

  The crossbow's center stock smashed into Ratboy's head, and he stumbled a few steps down the bar toward the stairs. Snatching the bar's edge again, the urchin kept himself from falling. He glared at Leesil and moved slowly back toward the half-elf.

  "You're going to bleed for me," he spit out hoarsely.

  Just then the curtain in the kitchen doorway was flung aside.

  Beth-rae stepped into the room at the bar's far end, behind Ratboy's back, carrying a bucket that slopped full of something. Leesil yelled at her to run, but there was no time. As Ratboy spun about for this new target, Chap charged in to sink his teeth into Ratboy's calf, holding him back. Beth-rae threw the bucket's contents over the struggling intruder in front of her. Before Leesil had time to curse such a futile act, he was halted by Ratboy's scream piercing his ears.

  The creature began to thrash, body banging against the bar and nearby chairs as he slapped and tore at his own clothes and skin. His entire body smoked with hissing tendrils of gray mist that rose from his blackening flesh.

  Leesil barely caught the distant ring of steel against steel mixed in with Ratboy's screeching. It took him a moment to realize it came from the second floor. He looked to the stairs, and that moment's distraction was too much.

  Ratboy took one jerking hop toward Beth-rae, like a hideous smoldering puppet, and struck out at her with one hand. Hooked fingers caught her throat as she tried to back away. Her body spun around, and slammed against the wall behind her. Before she'd even slid to the floor, the howling creature tore through the curtained doorway and into the kitchen. Chap bolted into the kitchen after him.

  Leesil hurried to Beth-rae's side as he heard the kitchen's back door smashing open. He crouched down. On the floor, a red-black pool was growing, fed by the gash in her throat. Beth-rae lay motionless, eyes wide. From the tilt of her head, Leesil could see her neck had snapped under the blow. There was nothing he could do for her now.

  He dropped the crossbow, readied his remaining stiletto, and headed for the stairs.

  "Magiere!" Leesil shouted as he started running.

  * * * *

  Magiere scrambled across the bedroom floor and snatched the falchion lying on her small desk.

  "Get out!" she shouted from instinct, not expecting the nobleman to obey.

  He didn't answer, but lunged and swung hard with his own sword. She dodged, and his blow landed on the desk. Wood shattered into pieces and the blade's tip embedded in the floor. He jerked it out effortlessly.

  No one was that strong. The room felt small with no space for Magiere to maneuver, but then her opponent was also limited. She spun on one knee around the bed's end and onto her feet, her opponent sliding sideways across the floor to match her. In the low lamplight, his eyes were transparent, gazing calmly into hers. Anger overcame fear. Who was this bastard to think he could invade her home—her room?

  "Coward," she snapped at him. Rage grew inside her until it threatened to overcome reason. Her falchion snapped up until it reached the ceiling, and she aimed for his neck, swinging with all the anger she felt. He blocked, but the blow's force made him step back and lose his balance. With both blades still locked, she slammed her free fist into his jaw.

  More shocked than hurt, he used his free hand to shove her backward. Magiere toppled onto the bed like a moth he'd swiped aside.

  "Hunter," he said simply and struck down with his long blade again.

  She rolled off the bed's far side as the long sword struck her quilt with a flat-sounding swat. There was no room in here to use maneuvers against him. He would kill her by sheer force. That thought would have been enough to terrify anyone, but her rage multiplied so quickly she didn't even try to understand it.

  Hatred became strength flowing through her body, making her movements quicker than ever before. Instinctively shifting for small openings, she tried to find some way to get behind him or take him off balanc
e. He kept turning to face her. They shifted back and forth around or across the small room, making flailing slashes at each other. But there was never an opening, never an instant where she could rush the door or duck under his swing to come up on his flank or rear.

  Once more shifting to the far side of the bed, she threw herself to roll across it. The nobleman made another dash to follow her across the room. When he did, she stopped short, crouched upon the bed, and struck out with the falchion so fast he didn't have time to block. Boots skidding on the floor, he tried to pull back, his torso leaning away from her swing. The blow missed his collarbone, but sliced a shallow gash down his chest.

  "What—"

  The rest of his words were lost in a gasping inhale. His wide-eyed gaze shifted to Magiere's sword. As his brow creased in pain, his teeth snapped together hard and clenched. Shock got the better of him, and his grip on his own sword faltered as its point dragged through the debris of the desk.

  Magiere couldn't answer him, couldn't remember how to speak. She didn't want to cut him with the blade anymore. She wanted to rip his throat out. The front of her jaws began to ache and would not close completely, as if her teeth had shifted, or grown. Confusion lost her the advantage she'd gained.

  When she finally lunged, he had regained his balance, but not his faltering grip on his sword. He released the weapon from his right hand and snatched her sword arm's wrist with his left. Using her weight and momentum, he spun around to slam her against the wall between the door and wardrobe. His now empty right hand clamped around her throat.

  She instinctively grabbed his wrist with her free hand. He smashed her sword arm against the side of the wardrobe twice, but Magiere's grip on the weapon wouldn't release.

  "I don't need a weapon to kill you," he whispered at her, real emotion leaking into his voice for the first time. "You need to breathe."