Dhampir

by Barb Hendee

  “That’s it?” Leesil’s frustration was quickly fueling his anger.

  “That’s all I know.” She finally looked at him, then away, shaking her head. “I don’t know what else it could be.”

  That was no answer, just another evasion. She’d told him nothing. Or had she? Leesil’s past had erased all desire to protect anyone besides himself. He wasn’t certain now if he felt protective or simply puzzled. He only knew that Magiere’s demeanor was at least changing back into the cold and moderately pleasant countenance he’d come to know and depend on. Perhaps it was just the years of living in lies and playing games that had finally caught up with her. That would have to be relief enough for now. But there would be more questions when another opportunity arose.

  “All right,” he said, throwing up his arms and letting them drop. “If you’ve no secrets to tell, we’ll mark this one as another mad thief on the road. By midday, we’ll be in Miiska.”

  “Yes.” She half smiled. “Good enough for a new life.”

  “I’ll make the tea,” he grumbled, kneeling down to collect and fan the last embers of the fire. He looked at her and nodded. “A new life.”

  At the break of dawn, Rashed dragged Ratboy’s bloody, struggling form into the underground drawing room and threw him up against a wall.

  Teesha’s eyes rose from her needlework in near alarm. “What is going on?”

  “Look at him!” Rashed spit.

  Half-dried blood covered Ratboy’s chin and upper torso. Although Rashed thought the youngest member of their trio to be an impatient upstart, he’d never considered him a complete fool—until now.

  “This witless whelp left a dead girl lying in her own yard with her throat torn open!”

  Teesha stood and smoothed her blue satin dress. Her chocolate curls bounced slightly as she approached Ratboy, who was sprawled against the base of the room’s back wall. She looked him over, and her head tilted ever so slightly to the side as her small face took on a disappointed expression.

  “Is this true?” she asked.

  “While you’re staring so hard, take a look at my back,” the dusty urchin answered, finding his voice. “That blackish stuff isn’t human blood. It’s my own.” He held his wrists out. “And these scars were open wounds not long ago. You ever see one of our kind get scars before?”

  “Impossible,” Rashed hissed, but his brow wrinkled when he leaned over for closer inspection. Jagged white slashes resembling teeth marks covered Ratboy’s forearms. “How?”

  “That hunter!” Ratboy screeched back at him in frustration. “She truly is a hunter. I’ve seen few of our own kind move so quickly, and her sword sliced my back as if I were living flesh.”

  “Nonsense,” Rashed said in open disgust, stepping back. “The charlatan used her earnings to buy some warded blade, that’s all. You obviously rushed in with your usual naïve confidence and failed. You got cut for your own recklessness and ran away like a coward. And to make matters worse, you didn’t bother thinking about us, did you? Instead of coming back here to face the slow process of healing, you consumed a young girl to death not twenty houses from your own and then left her body to panic the town.”

  Ratboy’s jaw dropped as if Rashed’s accusations were too outrageous for defense. “But I have scars!”

  Rashed paused only a second, then turned away in disgust.

  “You sent him,” Teesha said gently, eyebrows raised with her eyes half closed, as if to spread the guilt properly. Her tiny red mouth set in a position of chastisement. “He isn’t experienced enough to battle a hunter, charlatan or legitimate, and you know it. And none of us were certain how real or false she was. You should have seen to this matter.”

  If Ratboy had made such a statement, Rashed would have shaken him like a rag doll, but Teesha’s words rang true. The tall leader glared down at Ratboy again, but did not continue his assault.

  “When will she reach town?” he asked.

  Still petulant, Ratboy answered, “Sometime today. She’s traveling with a half-elf and . . . that dog.” He turned to Teesha. “Edwan was right about the dog. His teeth burned me. I wasn’t ready! If I’d known, I could have won. I would have broken that hound’s neck in the first blink.”

  The wax rose candles flickered around them, and Teesha patted Ratboy’s shoulder. “We need to go down to the caverns and sleep. Take off those rags and let me see your back. I’ll find you another shirt.”

  Teesha’s attention washed all the anger from Ratboy’s face, and he allowed himself to be led away like a puppy.

  Rashed frowned at their backs. Ratboy’s injuries were his own fault, scars or not, and Teesha’s motherly kindness only encouraged further carelessness. That little leech of an urchin should sleep all night in his own crusted blood.

  But for now, such petty thoughts were minor concerns. Rashed had built this home out of nothing. His small family had reasonable wealth and safety, the likes of which normally came to only the older of the Noble Dead after years of planning and manipulation. While he slept this day, a hunter—charlatan or no—was coming to take it all away. She must be removed quickly and quietly. Teesha was right. He should have handled this affair himself.

  Rashed began snuffing out the candles, one by one. Keeping the situation away from Miiska was no longer possible. Parko, his fallen brother, must have let something slip before he perished, otherwise why would this hunter come here? There was no question she came looking for the three of them. So he would wait, perhaps a night or two, and allow this hunter to become comfortable. And then he would deal with her personally.

  Chapter Five

  Magiere caught her first glimpse of Miiska late that morning and felt a twinge of uncertainty. She had literally banked everything on finding peace in this small port town, and dreams by a campfire were often a far cry from reality.

  Leesil showed no similar apprehension “Finally,” he said, and his step quickened until he moved out ahead of her. “Come on.”

  Like him, she had become fond of clean, salty air. Unlike him, she could not express such appreciation. His habit of speaking exactly what he thought often confused her, but now she hurried to follow, jerking on the donkey’s bridle. She was glad of Leesil’s open curiosity. He might make this easier.

  Chap no longer rode in the cart, but trotted along beside Leesil, head high as if he knew exactly where he was going, a hound on his way home after the morning run. After so many years trying to perfectly fit their parts in the “hunter of the dead“ game, Magiere was struck by just how peculiar looking a trio they were. She wondered what the townspeople would think of them.

  “I wish we could have cleaned up first,” she said.

  “You look fine,” Leesil answered, sounding ridiculous in his torn, oversize, untucked shirt and dirty breeches. He hadn’t bothered to don a scarf or even to tie up his hair so that the tightened, smooth sides of his ponytail would cover the tips of his ears. Perhaps now that he was arriving at his new home, he didn’t see the need to blend in anymore.

  The distance to the town closed quickly, until Magiere felt as if she had stepped across an unseen boundary to enter its domain.

  People bustled around the main street where it opened into a small marketplace at the near end of town. Smells of warm milk, horse manure and sweat and, most of all, fish assaulted her as she passed the first cluster of hawkers’ shacks and tents. A candle maker measured out dye into a pot of melted wax. Nearby, a clothier emptied a cart and hung up multipatterned cloth that would give a harlequin fits. From beyond the buildings and toward the docks came a shrill whistle and the sound of a taskmaster’s voice cracking dockworkers into motion to empty the belly of some barge just into port. And, of course, there were the fishmong-ers, each trying to out shout the other for their fresh, dried, cured, or smoked catch for sale. This was not an outback village of superstitious peasants but a thriving community.

  “Not bad.” Leesil smiled, watching a wagon rock by toward a small warehouse, its bac
k filled with wooden wine barrels. “I could grow accustomed to this.”

  They passed a small tavern on the right where a stout woman swept last night’s dirt and leavings out the door. By its look and place in the town, Magiere knew it wasn’t the one she’d bought, but she had a moment’s hesitation, wondering if she’d need to jerk Leesil back before he slipped through the open door.

  Even in the mill of activity, heads turned toward them. Magiere kept her back straight and her pace even. Newcomers would be common in a port town. However, only one or two other people openly carried any weapon, and she now wished she’d stowed her falchion in the cart. Hopefully, there would be no need of it here.

  The scent of fresh bread caught her attention, and her gaze wandered about until she spotted the aroma’s origin. She walked up to a table in front of a small cottage. Through one shutterless window she saw the clay ovens and realized it was an actual bakery.

  “A loaf of black forest and a loaf of rye,” she said to a balding, plump man in an apron.

  The man hesitated, and Magiere felt immediately conscious of the way she must look, armored and armed. There was an awkward silence.

  “Do you have any sweet rolls?” Leesil grinned at the baker, stepping up to the table and examining everything. “I’m hungry enough to clean you out.”

  The man’s eyes widened a bit at Leesil’s high eyebrows and blunt-point ears peeking through sliver-yellow hair, but Leesil’s smile inevitably proved infectious. He could come across as the most carefree, harmless creature. Magiere knew better. She also knew when not to disturb Leesil’s influence on people.

  “I have some cream pastries inside,” the man suggested.

  “Cream pastries?” Leesil let out an ecstatic gasp. “Fetch me three before I drop right here at your feet!”

  The baker both scowled and smiled at Leesil’s dramatics and disappeared through the bakery door with a throaty chuckle.

  “You’d be lost without me,” Leesil whispered to his partner, clearly pleased with himself.

  “You just keep on believing that,” Magiere muttered, but she was secretly relieved.

  Upon the baker’s return, Leesil fussed sufficiently over the pastries and then tossed one to Chap, who swallowed it whole with hardly a snap of his jaws. When the baker’s face went flat with indignant shock, Leesil realized his mistake and covered it with a politely dismissive manner.

  “Oh, he’s one of the family. Loves cream, and”—Leesil gave the baker a quick conspiratorial wink—“I only give him the best. Say, do you know where we could find Constable Ellinwood, the town bailiff?”

  “Constable Ellinwood?” the man asked, wiping his hands on his apron with an expression of worry. “Is there trouble?”

  “Trouble?” Leesil pitched his voice to sound surprised. “No, we’ve purchased a tavern here in town, down near the docks. We just need to present the deed and find our property.”

  “A tavern . . . by the docks? Oh, you bought the old Dunction place. Why didn’t you say so?” The plump baker called out to a clean-faced boy chopping wood at the bakery’s far corner. “Geoffry, run and fetch the constable. He’ll be eating his midday meal with Martha about now. Tell him the folks who bought the Dunction place are here.” Then he turned back to Leesil. “Come, come,” he motioned with one thick hand. “I’m Karlin. I’ve some tables around the side, so you can sit and finish your pastries. The constable will be right along.”

  Feeling simultaneously embarrassed and relieved at how well Leesil was managing, Magiere followed along silently. She would rather have gone to find the tavern herself and looked it over in private before tending to formalities, but things were proceeding smoothly enough. And she found herself hungrier than expected when faced with fresh bread—and something more comfortable to sit on than dirt. Moments later, she sat with Leesil, tearing off hunks of rye bread to dip in a bowl of honey the baker had brought, and waiting for the proper authorities to come directly to her. Apprehension faded just a little, now that they were out of the main street and away from so many curious eyes.

  “I don’t think this town sees many strangers come in by the road,” she commented.

  Leesil nodded. “You should have stowed that falchion.”

  Magiere glared back at him but said nothing. He was probably armed to the teeth with his little knives, which were easier to conceal in his clothing.

  Despite her nervousness, Magiere did like the look of constant business around her. These people seemed to live with more purpose than guarding against their own superstitions. They had affairs to tend to, with family and friends around them who didn’t watch each other with a suspicious eye, waiting for some curse to pop up from their own imaginations. She might not get to know any of them, but they would be her customers, and she was determined not to despise them.

  That determination wavered when young Geoffry, the baker’s son, came running back, followed by a behemoth of a man, who strode among the townspeople as if each was his personal servant. At the sight of him, distaste settled in Magiere’s stomach. She put down the pinch of bread she was about to dip in the honey. She’d seen his kind before.

  Dressed in a purple brocade tunic and forest-green sash, he’d garnished his matching purple cap with a white feather. Although his attire must have cost what Magiere earned in three village jobs, the sash only accented the size of his protruding belly rather than helping him appear distinguished. He looked like a grape ripened too long on the vine. His face was filled with the overly forced sternness common to those who took their position—but not their duties—too seriously. This would be Constable Ellinwood.

  Karlin the baker respectfully ushered the constable to her table, and Magiere’s distaste grew. Constable Ellinwood possessed a dour, fleshy countenance, and small, piglike eyes that suggested he thought daily free tankards of ale and fleecing the townsfolk at every opportunity were his rightful due. She doubted he had bought that expensive double-felt tunic with his own wages, from what Magiere knew of the pay for such positions.

  Inwardly, she realized the hypocrisy of her contempt. But although she and Leesil had probably done worse in their time, at least they struck a village once and moved on immediately. They didn’t remain to drain the townspeople like some bloated leech.

  Karlin, on the other hand, seemed pleased with the constable’s presence and began introductions.

  “These are the folks,” Karlin said, and Magiere noticed how the baker’s skin glowed with health next to the pasty rolls of Ellinwood’s flesh.

  “You bought the Dunction place?” Ellinwood asked Leesil, repeating what he’d been told.

  “I don’t know who owned it previously,” Magiere interrupted. “But I have a deed for a tavern near the docks.” She unfolded a worn sheet of paper.

  Leesil leaned back quietly, comfortable enough with the change of roles now that he was stuffing himself and washing mouthfuls down with an occasional sip from his wine sack. Turning his attention to Magiere, Constable Ellinwood’s fingers reached down to grip the deed, exposing two heavy, etched-gold rings on his fingers.

  “I’ll show you where the place is,” he said, after a cursory read, “but I can’t stay to get you settled.” Even his voice sounded thick and sluggish to Magiere. He puffed up importantly. “One of the local girls was found dead this morning, and I’m beginning an investigation.”

  “Who?” Karlin gasped.

  “Young Eliza, Brenden’s sister. Found in her own yard.”

  “Oh no, not another . . .” Karlin trailed off as he glanced toward Leesil and Magiere.

  “Not another what?” Magiere asked, looking not at Karlin but at the constable.

  “Nothing to concern yourself about,” Ellinwood said, puffing up even more. “Now, if you want to see the tavern, follow me.”

  Magiere withheld any further comment. If Ellinwood really considered the dead girl none of their business, he wouldn’t have announced it so blatantly. And Karlin knew the victim, though that was not a
great surprise. Miiska was a healthy-size town, but not so big that most people wouldn’t know each other, at least casually. Magiere’s mild distaste for the constable turned to revulsion.

  Down near the docks, the ocean scent blew stronger, filling Magiere’s lungs with salt-laden comfort. The view of the ocean’s horizon with its thin trailing clouds was breathtaking. A small, treed peninsula shot out south of the town, and to the north the shoreline hooked seaward briefly before heading up the coast. The dark blue of the water in the small bay told her the drop-off was steep and a perfect place for a small port town to crop up, offering commerce and a safe stopover for barges and smaller ships traversing the coastline.

  The tavern, on the other hand, was not all she had hoped. When they passed down to the far end of town, they found a small two-story building tucked back against a few trees toward the base of the short peninsula.

  Dingy, weatherworn, and possibly in need of a new roof, the sight made Magiere hesitant to step inside. The outer walls looked old and hadn’t been re-stained in years, turning mottled brown and gray from years of weather wear in salt air. At least the shutters were still intact. One of them banged softly against a window in the light breeze. Leesil stepped forward and touched the wood next to the entrance.

  “It’s quite solid,” he said excitedly. “Wonderful. A bit of stain, a few shingles . . .”

  “What did the previous owner call it?” Magiere asked Ellinwood.

  “I don’t think he ever gave it a name. Folks just called it Dunction’s.”

  “Why did he sell it?”

  The constable puckered his lips. “Sell it? He didn’t sell it. He just ran off and left it one night when no one was watching. I suppose he didn’t own it outright, because I received formal notice from a bank in Bela that they’d reassumed possession. It was all in order.”

  “The owner ran off?” Magiere asked. “Was business that bad?”