Dhampir

by J. C.

When she didn't respond, he grabbed the sailor's wrist and tore it open with his teeth. Cradling Teesha's head, he pushed the ragged wound into her mouth and let liquid drip across her tongue.

  "Drink," he whispered.

  At first she didn't stir, but then strength from the blood must have reached her. The corners of her mouth begin to move, clamping on, drawing down. Forgetting himself, he stroked her hair without thinking, murmuring, "Good, good," over and over.

  He sat there for a long while, letting her feed, and then his gaze rose to meet with Ratboy's icy stare. Shame touched him. He had two companions and yet only thought of Teesha.

  "Wait," he said to Ratboy. "I'm coming."

  Gently, he disengaged Teesha's mouth. Her eyes opened in protest, but he could see her wound had already stopped bleeding.

  "Ratboy needs to feed as well," he said, wiping red away from her mouth and laying her head down slowly.

  Realization dawned on her face, and she nodded. "Yes, of course. I'll be all right now."

  He dragged the still-breathing sailor over to Ratboy, whose expression had resumed its usual caustic, angry set.

  "Your kindness is touching," he whispered hoarsely. "But take care, or the gods of mercy might get jealous."

  "Feed yourself," Rashed answered, "so you can help us plan."

  Mild surprise flickered across Ratboy's features. Then he attacked the sailor's throat ravenously.

  Rashed turned back to Teesha, who now sat up and surveyed her own state. Her color had returned to its usual shade of pale cream.

  "This dress is ruined," she said. "It's my favorite."

  He walked over and dropped to the sand beside her.

  "Why did you try to jump that hunter from behind? Of all the foolish attacks."

  "I thought to break her neck," she answered. "How was I to know she was covered in garlic water?"

  Anger began welling up inside him again. "They burned our home."

  "I wanted to finish her here," she answered softly, "but now I think we should all leave this place."

  He couldn't believe her words. "No, that hunter dies. She began this battle. We won't crawl away in the night."

  "Teesha's right," Ratboy said. The sailor lay dead at his side. "We can't stay here. The town probably believes us dead anyway. Let us remain dead. Or perhaps you'd rather add resurrection from the ashes to your accomplishments."

  Rashed jumped to his feet. These two did not fully grasp the situation.

  "We have nowhere to sleep tonight. The earth from our homelands was in our coffins."

  A glowing light appeared before him, and its colors solidified into the tragic form of Edwan.

  "Undead superstitions!" he said in open contempt.

  Rashed always sensed dislike, even distrust, from Edwan, but something was different now. There was something harder in the ghost's hollow voice.

  "What do you mean, my love?" Teesha asked.

  Rashed heard discomfort and coolness in her tone. What had happened between the two of them?

  Edwan turned. "I mean, my dear, that you do not need to sleep in the earth from your homeland. That is a peasants' tale spun so many times even your kind believes in it. I am not the only disembodied in this world. I talk to the dead. With the little I can grasp I know this, trust me."

  Ratboy crawled to his feet. His burns weren't completely healed, but he seemed a good deal improved.

  "You're certain?" he asked earnestly.

  "Yes," Edwan answered without looking at him.

  Rashed leaned over and pulled Teesha to her feet. The thought of sleeping anywhere besides his own coffin unnerved him, but he hid his feelings for the others' sake.

  "I know a safe place then, somewhere I go to think." He looked at Edwan. "I cut that hunter's throat deeply. She may be dead, but we have no way of knowing. Can you find out?"

  Edwan hovered, glowering at him. "Whatever you ask, my lord."

  He vanished.

  "We have to rest and feed again—and heal," Rashed said to his companions. "If the hunter lives, next time she'll be the one caught sleeping."

  * * * *

  Welstiel remained standing in the doorway of Brenden's home, and Leesil decided not to ask him to come closer. Whatever he had to say, he could say it from a distance.

  As he took in the man's calm, cold stare, Leesil began to hate his own ignorance even more. Magiere's breathing was broken, shallow, and irregular, and her flesh was whiter than sun-bleached parchment. He didn't know how to save her and yet loathed the prospect of letting Welstiel even this near Magiere. The strange man's striking countenance and elegant clothes did not fool Leesil. Welstiel was not to be trusted.

  "What do I do?" Leesil asked finally. "Feed her your blood," Welstiel answered simply. Of all the instructions Leesil expected, this was not one of them, and he found himself stunned speechless.

  "What are you talking about?" the blacksmith asked, and his face reddened with anger.

  "She is a dhampir, the child of a vampire, born to hunt and destroy the undead. She shares some of their weaknesses and their strengths. Though she is mortal, and from such a wound she will die without the blood of another mortal." Welstiel gazed at Leesil. "And who cares for her but you?"

  "You're mad!" the half-elf spit out angrily. "Mad as the warlord of my homeland."

  "Then you have nothing to lose by feeding her your blood and, if not, you can sit and watch her perish. I believe you said you would do anything."

  Leesil looked down at Magiere. The bandages were soaked through and the pillow was already damp with her blood. If only she would open her eyes and laugh at him, curse him, berate him as a fool for wanting to believe Welstiel. But her eyes remained closed, and he could no longer hear her breathing.

  "I hate you for making me do this," Leesil said to Welstiel in a low, clear voice. "She'll hate you even more." And he jerked a stiletto from his sleeve.

  "Leesil, don't!" Brenden cried out. "Don't listen to him. This cannot help her."

  "Get back!" Leesil warned the blacksmith.

  "You must do one more thing," Welstiel said, as if Brenden were not there. "Pull out the bone and tin amulet and place the bone side against her skin. The bone must have contact with her skin."

  "Why?" Leesil asked.

  "You don't have time. Do as I instruct."

  The half-elf lifted his leg across Magiere's stomach and straddled her body. The straw mattress shifted slightly and sagged as he moved, but he was careful not to put any of his weight on her. He pulled the amulet out from inside her shut and turned it over, placing the bone side against the hollow of her throat. He noticed the topaz stone was still glowing. Then he leaned near her face.

  In one motion, he sliced across the inside of his wrist, dropped the blade, and used his good hand to cradle her head. Even tainted by smoke and dirt, her hair felt oddly soft.

  Blood spilled down the side of her face as he used the hand with the slit wrist to pull her mouth open. He forgot about Welstiel and Brenden's presence and pressed his slashed wrist between her teeth.

  "Try," he whispered. "Just try."

  At first his blood just trickled into her limp mouth, some of it spilling to the side and down her jaw and then down her neck. It soaked into the linen bandage to mix with her own.

  She stirred once, and then without warning, one of her hands latched on to his arm, forcing his wrist deeper into her mouth. He hadn't anticipated the prospect of pain, and her sudden flash of great strength caught him off guard.

  A too-hot sensation, like being burned from the inside out, caused him to instinctively want to jerk his arm away, but he held fast and let her continue feeding on him. It was disturbing, but enthralling—the wet softness of her mouth around the sharpness of her teeth connecting with his flesh. Her body shuddered and tightened beneath him. He experienced fear, anger, pain, and sorrow all at once, but couldn't be sure the feelings were all his own. She was so close, right beneath him, so near that everything he felt could have risen
from her right into him.

  Her breathing became stronger and deeper, and he felt suddenly tired and warm at the same time.

  The pain began to fade, and all he sensed now was how close she was, the feel of her mouth on his arm and his hand in her hair, her breath warm on his face. His head dropped until their brows touched.

  Magiere's dark eyes opened wide, the irises fully black without color, and she did not appear to recognize him. Her other hand grasped his shoulder and drew him down until his body pressed against hers. He wanted her to keep feeding, until he knew for certain she would live.

  To keep feeding.

  Her face grew dim in front of him—shadows darker— fading.

  Then she was holding him up, with both hands gripping his shoulders. His bleeding wrist dropped limp across her chest. In her open mouth he could see blood-smeared fangs, but her eyes—still all-black irises—were wide with sudden fear and confusion. The amulet fell from the hollow of her throat and dangled against the pillow on its chain.

  "No… keep feeding," Leesil whispered. He felt so tired that it was hard to speak. "You need my blood."

  From somewhere distant he heard shouting, someone shouting at him, but it didn't matter.

  "Stop it! Enough."

  Leesil felt himself pulled from Magiere's embrace, saw her face seem to fall away from him. There was rage in her eyes, as she pulled at his shirt, trying to bring him back to her. He raised one hand and tried to reach for her.

  Then she was gone from his sight.

  Brenden was in front of him now, shaking him. "That's enough! Do you hear me?"

  Even in Leesil's current state, he could see Brenden's red face turning pale. The fear in his expression was followed by disgust, then by horror, and then sorrow. Why should he be sorry?

  Leesil slowly became aware that he was standing up against the wall beyond the foot of the bed, Brenden pinning him in place. One of his own hands was pushing feebly against the large man's chest, trying to drive him off. The other, its wrist smeared with his own blood and Magiere's saliva, was outstretched toward the bed. Magiere, now crouched on the bed, snarled once at the blacksmith, but her eyes were on Leesil. As he looked at her, he felt a sudden wave of anguish for abandoning her there. Everything around him was blurred and faint but her.

  She looked at him with hunger, then her mouth slowly closed. Black irises shrank, and Leesil noticed their color for the first time that he could remember. They were a deep brown, as rich as the soil of his homeland. Her gaze shifted to his outstretched hand and its bleeding wrist.

  "Leesil?" Magiere pulled back, shrinking away from him across the bed into the corner against the wall. She huddled there, trembling, and could not take her gaze off his wrist until he finally lowered his arm.

  "Good," another voice said. "Good lad."

  Leesil rolled his head toward the sound of that voice, and found Welstiel still standing in the cottage doorway. The man pulled a small jar from the pocket of his cloak and tossed it to Brenden. The blacksmith released one grip on Leesil's shoulders and caught the jar with his large hand.

  "Put this salve on his face and wrist, and on the majay-hi's wounds," Welstiel told Brenden. "They will both heal faster. Have them eat as much meat, cheese, and fruit as you can get over the next few days, and make sure the half-elf has no wine or ale. It will only thin his blood, and the dhampir may need him."

  Leesil suddenly felt tired and ill. What had he just done? The sensation of Magiere's mouth on his arm still lingered and he tried to speak.

  "What's a majay-hi?" he managed to whisper.

  Welstiel watched Magiere for a long moment, and then looked at Leesil.

  "The dog. It's the elven name for your dog."

  Leesil realized he was now sitting on the floor, Brenden having lowered him. He turned his head toward the bed again.

  Magiere sat up in confusion now. Her hands came up to her throat, and when she felt the bandages there, she began pulling them off. Her fingers moved slowly over the exposed skin. Though there was blood still caked around her neck, Leesil could see no sign of the wound except a thin red line across her skin.

  She looked at Leesil, then down at his wrist where Brenden was smearing the salve from the jar. Her fingers touched the side of her mouth, feeling a wet smear. Again, her expression changed to fear.

  "What did you do?" she asked. "Leesil, what have you done?"

  Leesil turned to Brenden. "Food. Go. Get us some food. I'll see to Chap."

  As if unable to endure any more of the scene, Brenden let go of Leesil, and stormed out the door. Welstiel was already gone. No one had noticed him leave.

  Using his hands to push himself up, Leesil stood and tottered once but remained on his feet. With the exception of Chap, he and Magiere were alone.

  "What did you do?" she repeated.

  "You were dying. I did what he told me to."

  She took in the sight of his face and wrist with greater comprehension. "You're hurt."

  "It's nothing. I can bandage myself."

  Memories seemed to be returning, and she touched her throat again. "I was fighting. He cut me and then… what happened?"

  The full weight and length of the tale was more than Leesil could manage. It overwhelmed him. Standing became even more of an effort.

  "Such a long story," he whispered. "Too long for tonight."

  She turned away from him. She appeared weak and pale, but otherwise all right. Slowly, she climbed off the bed, but did not approach him. How much did she remember of his feeding her? He wanted her to remember all of it.

  She began pacing. Glancing at his wrist again, her expression turned to… embarrassment. Is that what she felt?

  "I can't… I can't be here," she said. "If you are all right… and Chap?"

  He felt too empty to argue. "I'll take care of him."

  No coaxing was needed. Magiere picked her falchion off the floor where Brenden had dropped it, but she neither touched nor took any of the other weapons or supplies lying about. Her long legs strode for the door, and she fled Brenden's home as a prisoner flees a cage.

  Leesil managed to walk over and retrieve the jar of salve. He knelt beside his dog, applying thick ointment to Chap's wounds. But Chap continued to sleep deeply.

  For the first time in years, Leesil felt alone.

  * * * *

  Some months ago, while walking through the forest, Rashed had come across a small ship run aground in a narrow inlet. Brush and trees now covered part of the outer hull, and he found no sign that anyone had been inside the ship for years.

  "We should be safe here," he said.

  He went through the motions of settling Teesha and Ratboy inside, and then went back out to check for any places where a patch of daylight might shine through and burn them when the sun rose. These actions were his duty, his role in their family. But visions of fire and tunnels collapsing filled him with silent rage. There wasn't even a blanket for Teesha to rest on. The thought troubled him. He should have a blanket for her.

  All of her scrolls and books and dresses and embroidery were gone. He knew she'd never complain. She'd never say a word, but he felt almost overwhelmed by a sense of loss.

  "Come and lie down," she said from the hatch doorway.

  "I told you to stay inside," he answered, but he quickly went to the hatch and followed her down below deck.

  Ratboy was already asleep on the floor. There were no bunks. Teesha lay down in the ship's wooden belly as well and reached out her hand toward Rashed, inviting him to join her. He stretched out beside her, but did not touch her. He rarely touched her unless it was necessary. It wasn't that he considered her too precious or too fragile. But even in life, he believed a warrior should not practice affection. It seemed like a weakness. As if once that floodgate opened, it would be impossible to stop, and then he would lose all strength. He needed his strength.

  He didn't mind when she touched him though. Not at all.

  Chocolate brown curls fell acro
ss her tiny face as she rolled onto her back.

  "Sleep," he said.

  Her rose candles were gone, too.

  Rashed's mind moved back to the first time she saw Miiska and the delight on her face. They had been traveling for weeks on end, searching for someplace she might call home. He never told her how difficult their journey was for him. Guilt over Corische's death haunted him. Guilt over his abandonment of Parko haunted him. He hated being out in the open so much, always moving down strange roads. But he also remembered what Teesha had done to the keep, what a comfortable and beautiful place she had created from an empty stone dwelling. He wanted that again. She reminded him of life, of being part of the living.

  Perhaps he was caught between two worlds, but so was she, and on some level, so was Ratboy, or the young urchin would have followed Parko.

  Once they reached the coast, he thought the journey would soon be over, but none of the towns they passed through felt right to her. They were either too big or too small or too loud or too strange compared to what she had known in her life. When they reached Miiska one night, she climbed out of the wagon and ran down the shore a little way, then back to him, and smiled.

  "This is the place," she said. "This is our home."

  Relief filled him, and the next night, he began to work. Money was no issue. Corische's wealth was in the wagon. Building Teesha a home, creating a place in the world for his small family eased the guilt. He convinced himself that he had done the right thing, was doing the right thing. He laid down laws and expected Ratboy to follow his orders. Here, the keep lord and his rule of the land did not protect them.

  They had no legal protection beyond that of ordinary citizens, and if they wanted to remain in this home, secrecy was essential.

  "No bodies," he stated flatly.

  For the most part, Ratboy obeyed, but like Parko, he too felt the pull of the Feral Path, and there had been mistakes. Rather than drive Ratboy out, Rashed simply made a deal— an expensive deal—with the town constable. Distasteful but necessary.

  Teesha had once again made their home comfortable and beautiful. And now it was gone.

  He was lying on the deck of an abandoned ship without even a blanket to cover her.