Dhampir

by Barb Hendee

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Epilogue

  “Dhampir kept me turning pages . . . with its complex heroes, refreshingly multifaceted villains, and carefully choreographed fight scenes, this novel opened a broad new world. Well done.”—Mindy L. Klasky, author of The Glasswrights’ Journeyman

  IN THE HEAT OF BATTLE

  Once more shifting to the far side of the bed, Magiere 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 shifted, or grew. . . .

  “Dhampir is a fabulous entertainment wrought with mystery, adventure, and sharp-toothed wit. Barb and J. C. Hendee conjure a misty world populated with lively undead villains and an appealing pair of rogues-turned-heroes you’ll find yourself rooting for from page one. Fast-paced action and mounting suspense will keep you turning the pages long after the sun’s gone down. (Just be sure to hang the garlic by the window.)”—Mark Anthony, author of Beyond the Pale

  ROC

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand,

  London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Books Australia Ltd, 250 Camberwell Road,

  Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

  Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue,

  Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2

  Penguin Books (N.Z.) Ltd, 182-190 Wairau Road,

  Auckland 10, New Zealand

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:

  Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England

  First published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.

  First Printing, January 2003

  Copyright © Barb Hendee and J. C. Hendee, 2003 All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  eISBN : 978-1-101-09926-1

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  BOOKS ARE AVAILABLE AT QUANTITY DISCOUNTS WHEN USED TO PROMOTE PRODUCTS OR SERVICES. FOR INFORMATION PLEASE WRITE TO PREMIUM MARKETING DIVISION, PENGUIN PUTNAM INC., 375 HUDSON STREET, NEW YORK, NEW YORK 10014.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For Jaclyn, our little starving artist

  raised by two starving artists

  Prologue

  The village appeared deserted but for thin trails of smoke escaping clay chimneys to drift up and dissolve in the darkness. All doors were barred, all window shutters latched tight until only the barest wisps of light from candles or lamps seeped between their cracks. There was no one in the village’s muddy center path to see the night-shadowed object flitter toward a cottage near the tree line.

  The shadow stopped, hesitating next to the cottage. Slowly, its form shifted and expanded as it ceased to consciously hide itself. Nothingness became booted feet and reaching arms, a tall and slim torso, and a head with two pinprick glimmers for eyes. It scaled a tree rapidly and jumped onto its goal.

  Settling upon the thatched roof, it slid on its belly to crawl headfirst down one wall. Then it stopped, poised at the top of a shuttered window. One finger extended to slip a clawlike fingernail between the shutters. Prying and pulling, it worked at the shutter until the latch finally gave with a sharp snap. The figure paused, waiting, listening for any answering sound from within the room. When none came, it pulled the shutters open.

  On a bed inside lay a small, old woman. Long silver hair, tied in a braid, rested next to her head across a yellowed linen pillow. A faded patchwork quilt of carmine and teal squares covered her.

  The creature hung its head down through the window. Its voice sounded like an echo across a vast plain as it whispered, “May I come in?”

  The old woman moved slightly in her sleep.

  Again the voice asked with a touch of yearning, “Please, old mother, may I come in?”

  She moaned and rolled, her face turning to the window. On her wrinkled brow was a small, white scar half smothered by the creases of aged skin. Her eyes remained closed in sleep as she murmured in reply. “Yes . . . yes, come in.”

  The visitor reached one arm through the opening and upward to set its fingernails in the wall. It crawled over the upper edge of the window, letting its feet swing inward, then dropped soundlessly to the bedroom floor. Crossing to the bed, it quickly reached out with one hand and clamped it down over the old woman’s mouth.

  She woke, eyes wide and frightened, but only for a brief moment. Then she stared with an empty gaze into the eyes above her. The night visitor relaxed its grip, lowering its head to her throat. All in the room became still and quiet and timeless.

  Then its head swung up to stare at the open window. A dark stain covered the side of the old woman’s throat. The visitor began to lower its head again to the old woman, but paused. With an owl-tilt of its head, its gaze returned to the window as it listened.

  Outside, someone was walking the village path. The visitor moved to the window.

  Strolling along the village path was a young woman wearing studded leather armor and high, soft boots pulled over earth-colored breeches. In one hand she held a short pole, and in the other a long knife with which she worked at sharpening the pole’s end into a crude point. At her side hung a short falchion in its worn leather scabbard. The night was too dark for most eyes, but as the woman passed between moon-shadows of cottages and nearby trees, the visitor saw her dark hair with hidden shimmers of red that offset smooth, young skin little more than two decades of age. No true fear or wariness showed in the woman’s posture as she moved through the village, fashioning the wooden short-spear.

 
; “Hunter,” it whispered to itself with amusement.

  The pathetic humor of what it saw was too much to hold in, and it laughed under its breath as it leaped out the window to spider-walk up the cottage wall onto the roof. The dark form shrank and vanished into the night forest.

  Chapter One

  Long past sundown, Magiere walked into another shabby Stravinan village without really seeing it. Peasants lived the same way everywhere. All their bleak, shapeless huts began to blur together after six years, and Magiere only noted their number as a gauge of population. No more than a hundred people lived here, and perhaps as few as fifty. None showed themselves this late in the night, though she heard the creak of a door or window shutter as she passed by, someone peeking out when she wasn’t looking. The only other sound was the scrape of her hunting knife on hard wood as she sharpened the end of the short wooden pole no longer than her arm.

  Darkness didn’t frighten her. It suggested to her none of the fear-conjured threats that made these peasants shudder behind their barred doors. She checked her falchion in its sheath, making sure she could draw it out easily if needed, and continued her stroll toward the far end of the village. A drizzle of rain began, which soon matted down her black hair, smothering any crimson tint it might have shown in the light. With her pale skin, she must look as baneful to the villagers as their visions of the creature they’d hired her to eliminate.

  Not far outside the village she stopped at the communal graveyard to survey the fresh mounds of earth, each surrounded by tin lanterns put there to keep evil spirits from seizing the bodies of the dead. There were no headstones or markers as yet on these new graves—they had been buried in haste before such could be prepared. She turned back through the village again, studying the buildings more closely this time as she looked for the one most likely to be the common house.

  Most of the peasants would be gathered in some communal building, seeking safety in numbers. She glanced around for anything large enough, but all the huts looked the same—drab, weatherworn timbers with thatch roofs and clay pot-chimneys. They were dismal and silent, like everything else in this hope-abandoned land. Garlands of dried garlic bulbs hung across the few windows. The only signs of life were the few streams of smoke rising into the night sky. Slight tinges of iron and char scented the wet air. An unattended forge must be smoldering somewhere nearby. People dropped everything at dusk in times like these.

  Movement caught Magiere’s eye. Two shivering figures ran across the muddy road. Their tattered rags exposed filthy skin. Magiere absently slipped her knife into its sheath, then gathered her own warm cloak a bit tighter. The figures scurried toward the graveyard, trying to keep the gusting breeze and rain from snuffing out their lanterns.

  “Hello,” Magiere called out softly. They both jumped and whirled toward the sound.

  Thin, wretched faces twisted in alarm. One of them backed away, and the other jerked up the wooden pitchfork he was carrying. Magiere remained still and let them see what she was, but she gripped the wooden pole a little tighter. Understanding the mentality of these people was a large part of her job. Very slowly, beneath her cloak, her free hand settled on the falchion’s hilt, ready to draw. It paid to take care around panic-stricken peasants.

  The man holding the pitchfork peered uncertainly through the rain at her studded leather armor and pole. The fear on his face changed into a vague semblance of hope.

  “You are the hunter?” he asked.

  She gave a slight nod. “Have you more dead?”

  Both men let out a slow breath of relief and stumbled forward.

  “No . . . no more dead, but the zupan’s son is close.” The second man gasped, then beckoned with his hand. “Come quickly.” The peasants turned and fled back up the muddy center path.

  She followed, stopping when they did at a door with a small sign above that had been worn unreadable long ago. This rough building had to be their common house, since the village was far too remote to have an inn catering to travelers. “Zupan” was their name for a village chief. He, along with some of the villagers, would be waiting inside for her.

  An expectant sigh slipped through her lips as she wondered what this zupan would be like—a cold, hard sell she hoped. The ones who fawned over her, in hope that she wouldn’t suck the village dry, were the most repulsive. It was easier when they resisted, until she made them realize there was no other reasonable prospect than to pay her price or wait to die. The quietly agreeable ones were the most dangerous. Once the job was finished, she would have to watch for unexpected company in the shadows on her way out of town, ready to reclaim their payment with a harvest blade or shearing knife through her back.

  “Open up!” one of her escorts shouted. “We have the hunter with us.”

  The door creaked inward. The orange-red glow of firelight spilled out, along with an overwhelming stench of garlic and sweat. Magiere glanced down into the eyes of an age-stunted woman clutching a stained shawl, face drawn and sallow as though she hadn’t slept in days. At the sight of Magiere, the woman’s expression altered to one of desperate hope. Magiere had seen it too many times.

  “Thank the guardian spirits!” the woman whispered. “We heard you would come, but I didn’t . . .” She trailed off. “Please come in. I’ll get you a hot drink.”

  Magiere stepped into the thick heat of the small common house. One thing she hated most about her vocation was all of the traveling in the cold. Eight men and three women were crowded into the tiny room. On a table to one side lay an unconscious boy. At least two people at any given moment hovered close to the boy in case he died.

  A superstitious lot, these peasants believed that evil spirits sought out the bodies of the newly dead, using the corpses to prey upon and feed off the blood of the living. The first thirty-six hours were the most critical for a malevolent spirit to enter a corpse. Magiere had heard all the other legends and folk stories; this was just one of the more popular. Some thought vampirism spread like a disease, or that such creatures were simply evil people cursed by fate to an undead existence. The details varied; the results were the same—long nights spent shivering from fear more than the cold as they waited for a champion to save them.

  A huge, dark-haired man, like an ancient grizzly with a gray-stubble beard, stood at the table’s head, watching the boy’s closed eyes. It was a long moment before he lifted his gaze to Magiere and acknowledged her presence. His clothing looked similar to everyone else’s, perhaps with one or two less layers of grime, but his bearing marked him as the zupan. He pushed through the overcrowded room to face her.

  “I’m Petre Evanko,” he said in a surprisingly soft voice. He motioned to the woman who had greeted Magiere. “My wife, Anna.”

  Magiere politely nodded, but didn’t introduce herself. Mystery was part of the game.

  Zupan Petre stood for a moment, taking in her appearance, one that Magiere had carefully tailored long ago for her work.

  Studded-leather armor marked her as warrior too much on the move for anything heavier or bulkier. The volume of her cloak made it uncertain what might be hiding beneath. Her thick black hair with its red accents was bound in a long, plain braid, sensible and efficient. Around her neck hung two strange amulets no one would be able to identify, and which she only left in view when working a village. She carried a short, pointed pole made of wood, with a leather-covered handle.

  Magiere swung the pack off her shoulder, its top flap swinging open as it settled at her feet. Zupan Petre looked down at the mixed contents of unlabeled jars, urns, and pouches, some of which were filled with strange herbs and powders. These were all the accoutrements expected for someone who battled the undead.

  “I’m honored, Zupan Petre,” Magiere said. “Your message reached me two weeks ago. I regret my delay, but there are so few hunters and so great a demand.”

  His expression changed to gratitude. “Don’t apologize. Come and see my son. He’s dying.”

  “I’m not a healer,” Magie
re quickly interjected. “I can remove your undead, but I can’t cure the damage already done.”

  Anna reached out to touch her cloak. “Please just look at him. You may see something we cannot.”

  Magiere glanced at the boy, and then moved closer. The other villagers shuffled out of her way. She was always careful to explain her limitations and give no one open cause to accuse her of making false promises. The boy was pale and barely breathing, but Magiere grew puzzled. There were no sores or fever, no sign of injury or illness.

  “How long has he been like this?”

  “Two days now,” Anna whispered. “Just like the others.”

  “Were they all young boys?”

  “No, one older man and two young women.”

  No pattern. Magiere stared intently at the sleeping boy and then turned to Anna. “Take off his shirt.”

  She waited quietly for Anna to finish before examining the boy’s arms and chest. Then she inspected the joints of his limbs. His flesh was intact but so pale it seemed almost blue, even in the amber firelight from the hearth. She lifted his head. Her eyes narrowed slightly at the sight of two oozing holes under his left ear, but she kept her expression guarded.

  Her gaze shifted quickly to Zupan Petre’s face. “Have you seen these?”

  The zupan’s bristly brows wrinkled in a frown. “Of course. Is that not the way of a vampire, to bleed its victim through the throat?”

  Magiere looked back at the holes. “Yes, but . . .”

  The holes were large, but perhaps it had been a large snake or some kind of serpent. Powerful venom could account for the pallored skin and shallow breathing.