Dhampir

by Barb Hendee

  “I’m not coinless,” Magiere reminded him.

  “Well, I am!” Her serene attitude infuriated him. “I’ve only a share from one village, and you didn’t give me any warning. If I’d known we were backing out, I would have made some plans.”

  “No, you wouldn’t have,” she said, not looking at him, her voice still calm. “D’areeling red wine is expensive, or if it wasn’t wine, you would have found a card game somewhere or a pretty tavern girl with a sad story. Telling you earlier wouldn’t have changed anything.”

  Sighing, Leesil searched his mind for a way to convince her. He knew she was thinking a great deal more than she said. They’d been working together a long time, but she always kept an invisible wall up between herself and everyone else. Most of the time he was comfortable with that, even appreciated it. He had his own secrets to keep.

  “Why not one more?” he asked finally. “There’s bound to be other villages along—”

  “No, I can’t do it anymore.” She closed her eyes as if to shut out the world. “Pushing that mad villager’s body into the river . . . I’m too tired.”

  “All right. Fine.” He turned away. “Tell me about the tavern then.”

  The enthusiasm in her voice picked up.

  “Well, Miiska is a small fishing community that’s doing good business on the coastal sea route. There will be plenty of workers and a few sailors looking to drink and gamble after a hard day. The tavern has two floors, with the living quarters upstairs. I haven’t thought of a name yet. You’re better at things like that. You could even paint a sign for the door.”

  “And you want me running the games, even though you know I lose half the time?” he asked.

  “I said running the games, not playing them. That’s why the house wins, and you always end up with an empty purse. Just run an honest faro table, and we’ll go on being partners just like always. Things aren’t changing as much as you think.”

  He got up and put some more wood on the fire, not knowing why he was being so difficult. Magiere’s offer was generous, and she’d always been straight with him. Well, as straight as she could be with such a tight lip. No one else in his life had ever included him in their every plan. Perhaps he just didn’t like the unknown risks that might be hiding in so much change.

  “How far is this Musky place?” he asked.

  “Miiska.” Magiere sighed heavily. “It’s called Miiska, and it’s about four more leagues south. If we make good time, we might make it there by late tomorrow.”

  Leesil pulled the wineskin from his pack as Chap circled the camp, sniffing about. His mind began to truly consider Magiere’s plans for the tavern, and the possibilities gnawed at him softly. A bit of quiet and peace might put an end to his nightmares as well, but he doubted it.

  “I may have a few ideas for a sign,” he said finally.

  Magiere’s mouth curled up slightly, and she handed him an apple. “Tell me.”

  At the edge of the camp, a soft glimmer hung in the forest. Most would have taken it for the fading light of dusk, except where it moved through the shadows of trees. It moved closer, pausing each time the armored woman or fair-haired half-breed spoke, as if listening to every word. It stopped behind an oak at the edge of the fire’s reaching light and settled there.

  Rashed paced inside the back room of his warehouse. Tonight, he didn’t wish to go outside and observe the giant glowing moon, as was his custom. Nervous tension lined his pale face as his booted feet clomped across the wooden floor. Personal appearance was important to him and, even in crisis, he’d taken the time to don black breeches and a freshly laundered burgundy tunic.

  “Pacing like a cat won’t make him return any faster,” said a soft voice beside him.

  He glanced down at Teesha in mild annoyance. She sat on a hardwood bench cushioned with paisley pillows, sewing impossibly tiny stitches into a piece of tan muslin. Her work-in-progress was beginning to depict a sunset over the ocean. He never understood how she could create such pictures with only thread and scraps of material.

  “Then where is he?” Rashed demanded. “It’s been over twelve days since Parko’s death. Edwan is not fettered by physical distance. It could not possibly take him this long to gather information.”

  “He has a different sense of time than we do. You know that,” she responded, breaking off a piece of blue thread with her teeth. “And you didn’t exactly give him much to work with. It could take time just to find and confirm whomever or whatever he might be looking for.”

  Holding the needlework with delicate hands, she examined her stitches as if this were just another night—although usually she could be found absorbed in some ancient text after sundown. In one of the lower rooms, her shelves were filled with books and scrolls they’d paid good coin to acquire. Rashed did not fully understand why words on parchment were so important to her.

  He wished her calm could infect him, so he sat down next to her. Candlelight reflected off her chocolate-brown hair. The beauty of those long, silk curls held his attention for only a short time. Then he was up and pacing again.

  “Where could he be?” he asked no one in particular.

  “Well, I’m getting sick of waiting,” a third voice hissed from the corner shadow. “And I’m hungry. And it’s dark now. And I want out of this wooden box you call our home!”

  A thin figure emerged from the corner of the room, the final member of the strange trio living in the warehouse. He appeared to be about seventeen years old, though perhaps small for his age.

  “Ratboy,” Rashed spit the nickname out as if it were a joke told one too many times. “How long have you been skulking in the corner?”

  “I just woke up,” Ratboy replied. “But I knew you’d be upset if I went out without saying hello.”

  Everything but his skin appeared brown, and even that had a slightly tan cast from months’—possibly a year’s—old filth. Plain brown hair stuck to his narrow, pinched head above plain brown eyes. Rashed had heard many terms in his life to describe different shades of brown—chestnut, mahogany, beige—but the dirty figure of Ratboy brought no such words to mind. He played the part of the street urchin so well, the persona had become part of him. Perhaps that was one of his strengths. No one ever remembered him as an individual, just as another grubby, homeless adolescent.

  “You don’t need to worry about my anger, unless you give me reason,” Rashed said. “You should be concerned for yourself.”

  Ratboy ignored the warning and sneered, his upcurled lips exposing stained teeth.

  “Parko was mad,” he answered back. “It’s one thing to revel in our greater existence and senses, but he lost himself. Someone was bound to kill him sooner or later.”

  Hard words froze in Rashed’s throat. Although his voice was soft and calm, his expression betrayed him.

  “Needless killing is another subject you should not criticize.”

  Ratboy turned away, shrugging slightly. “It’s the truth. He may have been your brother once, but he was mad with love for the Feral Path, obsessed and drunk with the hunt. That is why you drove him out.” He picked at a fingernail with his teeth. “Besides, I already told you, for the thousandth time . . .” His voice trailed off like a falsely accused child facing a disbelieving parent. “I didn’t kill that tavern owner.”

  “Enough,” Teesha said, looking at Ratboy like a scolding mother. “None of this is helpful.”

  Rashed paced rapidly across the small room again. He owned the entire vast warehouse, but this room had been designated for private use a long time ago. Several trapdoors in the walls and floors led outside or to lower levels. Teesha had decorated it herself with a mix of couches, tables, lamps, and elaborately molded candles in the shapes of dark red roses.

  With the exception of their unusually pale skin, both he and Teesha passed easily for human. Rashed had worked hard to set up their life in Miiska. It was important that he find out what happened to Parko, not only for revenge, but for the safety of a
ll of them.

  “I’m sick of waiting every night,” Ratboy said petulantly. “If Edwan doesn’t come soon, I’m going out.”

  Teesha’s mouth opened to answer him when a soft, shimmering light appeared from nowhere and began gaining strength in the center of the room. She simply smiled up at Rashed.

  The light grew dense and swirled into the shape of a ghastly form floating just above the ground. A transparent man stared at Teesha.

  He wore green breeches and a loose white shirt, the colors of his clothes vivid in the candlelight. His partially severed head rested on one shoulder, connected by a remaining strip of what had once been flesh. Long, dark-yellow hair hung down his blood-spattered shoulder and arm with the illusion of heaviness. His appearance was exactly the same as at the moment he’d died.

  “My dear Edwan,” Teesha said. “It has been lonely without you.”

  The ghost floated toward her as if the small distance between them was too much.

  “Where have you been?” Rashed demanded instantly. “Did you find Parko’s murderer?”

  Edwan’s movement stopped. His body half turned until his sloping head faced Rashed, and he stayed there in a long silence.

  It was unusual for the ghost to appear visibly like this. His own appearance embarrassed him, and he did not like to see horror, revulsion, or even simple distaste in the eyes of others. Normally, he only appeared to Teesha, who never showed any sign of discomfort. But lately he’d taken to materializing in the most grisly detail whenever Rashed was present.

  Rashed kept his expression emotionless on purpose. “What have you learned?”

  “It was a woman called Magiere.” Edwan’s hollow voice echoed. He turned to face his wife as if Teesha had actually posed the question. “She hires herself out to peasant villages seeking to rid themselves of vampires and their like.”

  “I think I’ve actually heard that name,” Ratboy chimed in, perking up now that his attention was stimulated. “It was a traveling peddler. He mentioned something about a ‘hunter of the dead’ working the villages of Stravina. But it has to be nonsense. There aren’t that many of our kind. Not enough to make a living off of, if anyone was good enough to try. She’s a fake, a charlatan. She could not have killed Parko.”

  “Yes, she did,” Edwan answered, his words like whispers from the past traveling down an endless hall. “Parko rests in the Vudrask River, his head . . . his head . . .”—he stuttered briefly before continuing—“his head severed from his body. She cut his head off. She knew what to do.”

  Ratboy scoffed under his breath from the corner. Teesha simply sat listening and thinking. Rashed began pacing again.

  He’d himself heard much about the occasional “hunter” traveling the lands, calling themselves by fanciful titles such as “exorcist,” “witchbane,” and “hunters of the dead.” Ratboy was correct on one count. They were always cheats and mountebanks merely seeking profit by preying on peasant superstitions—regardless of whether those peasant fears were based on a hidden truth. But Rashed knew something more had happened this time, and Parko had died because of it. It was difficult, almost impossible, for a mortal to kill a vampire, even one who’d abandoned his intellect to run wild through the nights, lost to the Feral Path.

  “And more,” Edwan whispered.

  Rashed stopped. “What?”

  “She’s coming here.” The ghost now turned completely to face Rashed. “She’s purchased the old tavern on the docks.”

  At first no one moved, then Ratboy rushed forward, Rashed stepped close, and even Teesha was on her feet. Their questions barraged the spirit, one upon the other.

  “Where did you hear . . . ?”

  “How can that be . . . ?”

  “Where did she find out . . . ?”

  Edwan’s eyes closed as if the voices hurt him.

  “Quiet,” Teesha snapped. Both Rashed and Ratboy fell silent as she turned back to the ghost, speaking calmly and quietly. “Edwan, tell us anything you know about this.”

  “Everyone in Miiska knows the owner disappeared months ago.” Edwan paused, and Rashed turned a suspicious glare in Ratboy’s direction. “I listened to her talk with her partner. The missing owner owed money on the property to someone in Bela, so the tavern was sold off low just to pay the debt. This false hunter now holds the title to the tavern, free and clear. She will arrive late tomorrow and intends to settle here to run the tavern.”

  Rashed lowered his head, murmuring to himself. “Perhaps she is not such a charlatan. I didn’t kill our master and leave our home just so we could end up as some hunter’s bounty.”

  The others remained silent, lost in their thoughts.

  Finally, Teesha asked, “What should we do?”

  Rashed looked back at her, examining the lines of her delicate face. He wasn’t about to let a hunter anywhere near Teesha. But other thoughts also troubled him. “If the hunter makes it into Miiska, we’ll have to fight her here, and we can’t afford that if we’re to maintain the secrecy we’ve established. Another death in town”—he glanced at Ratboy— “could ruin everything we have here. She must not reach Miiska.”

  “I’ll do it,” Ratboy said, almost before Rashed had even finished.

  “No, she managed to destroy Parko,” Teesha said, her expression changing to concern. “You might get hurt. Rashed is the strongest, so he should go.”

  “I’m the fastest, and I blend into anything,” Ratboy argued, eagerness in his eyes. “Let me go, Rashed. No one on the road will ever remember I passed by. People always remember you. You look like a nobleman.” A hint of sarcasm slipped in for only a blink. “That hunter will never even see me coming, and this will all be over.”

  Rashed weighed the possibilities. “All right, I suppose your bad habits might serve us this time. But don’t toy with her. Just do it and dispose of the body.”

  “There’s a dog.” Edwan began speaking, then his words lost coherency. “Something old, something I can’t remember.”

  Ratboy’s pinched face wrinkled into a frown. He let out a grunt of boredom. “A dog is nothing.”

  “Listen to him,” Rashed warned. “He knows more than you.”

  Ratboy shrugged and started for the door. “I’ll be back soon.”

  Teesha nodded, her eyes a bit sad. “Yes, kill her quickly and then come home.”

  Ratboy stopped only long enough to roll up a canvas tarp that he could tie to his back and to put some of the dirt from his coffin into a large pouch. He brought no weapons. No one saw him exit the warehouse out into the cool night air.

  Thoughts of the hunt consumed him. Rashed’s obsession with secrecy meant that little or no killing was ever allowed in Miiska. The three of them commonly erased the blurred memories of their victims while feeding. While this nourished the body, it did not feed Ratboy’s soul nor the hunger in his mind.

  He loved to feel a heart stop beating right beneath him, to smell fear and the last tremble of life as it faded from his prey and was absorbed into his own body. Sometimes he killed outsiders, strangers, and travelers in secret and hid the bodies where no one would find them. But those were too few and too far between. Occasionally, he had gone too far and caused the death of someone who lived in Miiska and then tried his best to hide the body. Of course, the one time someone truly noticeable had disappeared, the old tavern owner, it hadn’t been his doing, but Rashed still didn’t believe him.

  Tonight, Rashed had actually given him permission, and he would make the most of it, enjoying every slow moment. He felt the hunger rise up again, begging and demanding as he realized that he still had not fed this evening.

  A quarter of the night passed as he worked his way along parallel to the road. Now and then, he stopped to fully test the night with his senses. Sniffing the night air, he picked up nothing at first. Then a thin whiff of warmth reached his nostrils. He crawled through the trees and brush to the edge of the coastal road from Bela, and heard the faint creak and scrape of a wagon, its axle in
need of grease.

  Ratboy waited patiently beneath a wild blueberry bush. Peering through the leaves, he could see the wagon rolling closer. The horse looked old and tired. A lone driver sat with his head nodding now and again as he drifted in and out of sleep. This was certainly not the one he’d been sent to find, but it seemed a waste to let the opportunity pass. And catching the hunter while he was fully fed and powered would be best.

  “Help me,” Ratboy called out weakly.

  The driver’s head raised up, awake. In his well-worn, purple cloak, he looked to be a half-successful merchant, probably one who traveled a great deal and wouldn’t be missed for a full moon. Ratboy fought the urge to lunge.

  “Here, please. I think my leg is broken,” he called in mournful agony. “Help me.”

  His face awash with nauseating concern, the merchant began climbing down instantly. Ratboy did so enjoy this.

  “Where are you?” the merchant asked. “I can’t see you.”

  “Here, over here.” Ratboy kept his voice soft, plaintive, as he stretched himself out on the ground.

  Heavy footsteps brought the smell of warm life running to Ratboy’s side. The merchant knelt down.

  “Did you fall?” he said. “Don’t worry. Miiska is not far, and there we can get you some help.”

  Ratboy snatched the man’s cloak collar and jerked downward while rolling, until the two had switched places. Staring down into the surprised face, Ratboy could not help mouthing the word, “Fool.” Hands like bone manacles pinned the merchant to the ground. In panic, the man pitched wildly, trying to throw off his attacker. It did no good.

  Pain stopped humans from exerting their bodies too far. Ratboy felt no pain, not as mortals did, and had no such limitations. The struggles of his victim amused him. A flash of pleasure coursed through him as he saw surprise turn to fear in the merchant’s eyes.

  “I’ll let you go if you can answer a riddle,” Ratboy whispered. “What am I?”