by Barb Hendee
A small form in a muslin nightdress rubbed her eyes and yawned.
Leesil took the stairs two at a time.
“Where’s Grandma and Grandpa?” Rose asked, half awake. Her lower lip quivered slightly. “I heard noisy things in the dark.”
“You had a bad dream.” Leesil grabbed Rose quickly, but gently, and picked her up, holding her against his shoulder.
“Where’s Grandma?”
“People who sleep in my bed never have bad dreams,” he answered. “It’s too big and soft. Would you like to sleep there?”
She blinked again, trying hard to keep her eyes open for the moment. “Where will you sleep?”
“I’ll sit in the chair and watch over you until the sun comes up. All right?”
She smiled, clutching at his hair as she put her head in the crook of his neck. “Yes. I’m afraid.”
“Don’t be.” Before turning toward his room with the weary child, he looked down. Magiere stood at the bottom of the stairs, leaning heavily against the railing for support. His voice was sweet and light as he whispered to the child. “Everything will be better in the morning,” he lied.
Chapter Ten
Rashed paced inside the cave below his warehouse in nearly panicked agitation. He’d raced back home to find Teesha and Ratboy—assuming that Ratboy would have run home as well—in order to move them someplace safe. The hunter had clearly seen his face, and many people in town knew him or knew of him as the owner of the warehouse. Sunrise was only moments away, and not only was Ratboy still missing, but he’d come back to find Teesha gone as well.
Had she gone looking for them or taken Ratboy to safety herself? Either act was certainly in the realm of Teesha’s nature, but he couldn’t be certain. Rashed moved toward the lower end of the cave, ready to head back out in search of Teesha, but he could sense the time. After long years in the night, any vampire was fully aware of the time and movement of the unseen sun. Any who failed to build such an awareness had long since burned to ash in the light of day. He knew the sun was cresting the horizon, and so he stopped short of leaving, turning to pace again, back and forth in the dark.
Where was Teesha?
He’d constructed their world carefully in a place where they could exist and thrive, feed judiciously and not worry over being discovered. It was home enough, but not without Teesha. Given time, he’d even hoped one day she might be free of that specter of a husband who clung to her in after-life. If she had gone to find Ratboy and himself and been burned in the daylight? Then Ratboy best have burned with her, or Rashed would tear him apart slowly, piece by piece, over long blood-starved years, never letting the filthy little wretch have his second death.
Damn the hunter to eternal torture as well. And what a fool he’d been himself.
Blood dripped openly from the gaping wound in Rashed’s shoulder, and he could not easily move his left arm. His collarbone was cleanly broken. The shallow wound down his chest seeped. Each injury burned as if he’d been dowsed with some priest’s blessed oils. The wounds weren’t healing at all. He remembered Ratboy’s own panic upon returning from the fight on the road with the hunter, and he knew he would have to feed soon in order to close his wounds.
He’d told Ratboy “no noise.” Was that such a difficult concept to understand? In a matter of moments, he’d lost control of his fight with the hunter, and Ratboy had managed to alert the entire household. Now the hunter had confirmation that at least two undeads inhabited the town. The situation could hardly be worse.
And what in all the demons of the underworld had happened to him during the fight itself? The hunter’s sword was magically endowed, if not magically created; that much was obvious. Where did she get it? Even a blade that had been warded or arcanely made to battle the undead should not have prevailed against his open attack—he was too strong and skilled. This was not arrogance or pride, but realism. He should have been able to beat her down, if not kill her outright, and been back out the window with the body in a matter of seconds. Instead of tiring, her strength and speed had grown to match his every attack.
And she had bitten him as if she were one of his own kind.
He’d felt the heat of her body, heard the pounding of her heart, and smelled living blood in her veins. She was not a vampire or some other Noble Dead. What had happened? And she had seen his face. It was only a matter of time and questions asked before the hunter connected him to the warehouse.
“We must leave here,” he murmured.
“Rashed!” Teesha’s voice called to him from the far side of the cave.
Relief flooded Rashed at the sound of her voice. But when he turned to see her in the dark, stumbling toward him, her face was filled with as much fear as he’d felt when he dove through the inn’s window to save his own existence. He ran toward her, and anger returned quickly at what he saw.
Teesha held on to Ratboy’s half-conscious form by the back of his shirt collar, dragging him into the cave. She looked exhausted. She’d never had the physical strength with which most Noble Dead were gifted. Perhaps it was a trade-off for her higher ability in thought and dreams that she used to hunt. Even he had sometimes felt the soothing calm wash through him at the sound of her lilting words.
“Someone threw garlic water all over Ratboy,” she said. “I found him crawling by the sea, using wet sand to scour it off. I had to kill a peddler down by the shore to feed him quickly. Haste would not allow a more discreet hunt, and Ratboy needed a great deal of blood. I buried the body in the sand for now. We just got inside before sunrise, but he’s badly hurt.”
By way of answer, Rashed grabbed Ratboy by the front of his shirt and held him off the ground against the dirt wall of the cave. The little urchin’s skin was still partially blackened and charred in places, cracking and split. It served him right for his recklessness.
“We’re stuck in here now because of you,” Rashed hissed. “That hunter may come during the day and burn this place around us.”
Ratboy’s eyes were mere slits, but hatred glowed out clearly.
“What a pity,” he managed hoarsely.
“I told you ‘no noise’! You forced me out before my work was finished.” That was only partly true—but Ratboy and Teesha didn’t need to know that.
“And who cut through your shoulder?” Ratboy opened his eyes wide in mock surprise. “Did she hurt you, my dear captain?”
Rashed dropped him and drew his fist back to strike.
Teesha grabbed it. The mere touch of her hands was enough to make him pause.
“This will not help us,” she said. With light pressure he could have easily resisted, Teesha pulled Rashed’s arm down. “We have to get every trap set and hide as deeply as possible.”
Of course, she was correct. There was nowhere to run until nightfall. Now he was the one playing the fool and right in front of her. Ratboy’s blundering had undone him in more ways than one. He quickly collected himself.
“Yes, you help Ratboy. I’ll set the devices and join you below.”
Her tiny fingers brushed his face as if glad to see him in charge again. “Let me tend your shoulder.”
“No, it’s all right. Just get deeper below.”
Perhaps they would all survive until nightfall.
Leesil and Magiere waited in the common room for Constable Ellinwood to arrive. At sunrise, Leesil had accosted a passing boy on the street and paid the youth to run to the guardhouse with the news of Beth-rae’s murder. His initial instinct had been to clean the mess up in the common room, but Magiere stopped him.
“All of this proves we were attacked,” she said.
Everything was left where it had fallen the night before with two exceptions. Caleb had taken Beth-rae’s body to the kitchen and had not come out again. And then there was Ratboy’s thin-bladed dagger.
Leesil hadn’t even remembered it until he’d stepped around to the back of the bar to put away the crossbow, and found it lying on the floor. He quietly picked up the blade out
of Magiere’s sight.
Ratboy must have used it to trip the latch on the common-room window. The blade was wide and unusually flat, making it thin enough to slip between shutters or into a doorjamb, and the width would provide strength when pushed against any metal hook or latching mechanism. Inspecting the blade, he found it well tended and sharpened, but with an odd shape to its tip. It wasn’t overt, and perhaps anyone else wouldn’t have noticed, but Leesil had slipped through enough windows in his life to know what he saw.
Near the tip, the edges were no longer straight, but indented slightly. Long use as a tool had worn down the metal and frequent resharpening had produced a slight inward curve in the edge on each side. Ratboy was not a common thief, whatever else he might be, but Leesil could see the beggar boy was practiced at unseen entry. A blade like this was a personal choice, sometimes specially made, and certainly a well-cared-for possession. And yet, Ratboy had obviously not entered the inn to steal anything, and his manner was not that of an assassin—the little creature might be cunning and stealthy to a point, but he had no finesse.
Leesil had serious doubts Ellinwood could even understand such things without them being pointed out blatantly and then explained. And he wasn’t even sure how it connected to the more unusual details of last night. If necessary, he’d show the dagger, but for now he tucked it under the back of his shirt. Magiere might not agree with this action, but he would handle that if and when it came up. He stepped around the bar into the open room, surveying the ruins of broken tables and chairs, fresh scars in the bar top, and dried pools of blood.
Magiere’s words made sense—everything needed to be left as it was to make Ellinwood believe what had happened, but he hated the thought of doing nothing. The bloodstained floor kept drawing his attention. Why hadn’t he initially held his ground and reloaded the crossbow? Why hadn’t he rushed the creature as soon as Beth-rae threw the garlic water? The scene played over and over in his mind as he examined every move he could have made differently. Scenarios taught long ago by his mother and father crept back into his conscious thoughts from places where he’d hidden them. He’d made so many mistakes, and now Caleb was a widower and little Rose had no grandmother.
Chap’s chest was almost healed, which in itself seemed too much for Leesil to think about, in addition to everything else that made no sense in their lives of late. Magiere’s facial wound looked days instead of hours old. Whenever Chap or Magiere fought these strange attackers, they healed with an unnatural quickness. Or had they always been quick to mend? It occurred to him that in their years together he’d never before been in such situations with either of them, so there was no way to be sure. He didn’t want to talk about any of it, but how much were they going to tell the constable?
“Magiere?”
“What?”
“Last night . . . your teeth,” he began. “Do you know what happened?”
She walked closer to him, her black hair still a tangled mess of long waves and strands around her face. Scant light that filtered in through the windows hit her from behind, and the highlights in her hair turned their usual red, almost a blood red, and that comparison made Leesil uneasy. Her expression was earnest, as if she wanted—had been waiting, even—for some reason or moment or encouragement to tell him something.
“I don’t know. Not really,” she answered. Her eyes closed tight and she shook her head slowly.
Leesil noted her jaw shift, perhaps as she checked her teeth with her tongue yet again for the return of what he’d seen there. Her voice dropped low, near a whisper, though there was no one else nearby to hear her.
“I was so angry, worse than I’ve ever felt in my life. I couldn’t think of anything but killing him. I hated him so—”
A knock on the inn’s door interrupted her. She frowned in a mix of frustration and distaste, letting out a sigh.
“That must be Ellinwood. Let’s get this over with.”
With a quick glance and nod to Magiere, Leesil went to open the door, but to his surprise it was not Constable Ellinwood on the other side but Brenden.
“What are you doing here?” Magiere demanded.
“I told him he could come by,” Leesil interjected, having actually forgotten about it until this moment.
“I heard what happened,” the blacksmith said sadly. “I came to help.”
Leesil had never seen anyone with such vivid red hair as Brenden, and with his matching beard, he seemed like a broad head of fire in the doorway. His black leather vest was oddly clean for someone who worked with iron and horses all day. Magiere just looked at the blacksmith as if she honestly didn’t care whether he stayed or not.
“Ellinwood’s useless,” Brenden went on in the same sad voice. “If you tell him what really happened, he’ll bury the case and never discuss it unless you force him to. Nothing will be done.”
“Fine,” Magiere said, turning away. “Stay if you like, go if you like. We aren’t expecting any assistance from the constable anyway. Beth-rae was murdered last night, and the law requires us to inform the authorities.”
Leesil remained quiet through this exchange in the hope that Brenden and Magiere might actually speak to each other, see one another as individuals. The blacksmith was one of the few people in town they’d met so far who was willing to speak about anything related to the attack on the road or what had happened last night. The result of his presence wasn’t all Leesil had hoped for, but at least Magiere hadn’t ordered him off the premises. Leesil stepped back and urged him inside.
“I’ll make us some tea,” he said.
“How’s Caleb?” Brenden asked, staring at the bloodstained floor by the bar.
“I don’t know. We haven’t seen him since just after . . .”
The tavern suddenly felt cold, and the half-elf busied himself by making a fire and boiling water for tea. He could have done it in the kitchen, but he didn’t want to leave Magiere. And Caleb was in the kitchen with Beth-rae’s body, which Leesil could not bring himself to look at right now.
Somehow the three of them managed to make small talk. Brenden seemed hesitant to question too much concerning the night’s events, likely not wanting to wear out his welcome now that he’d regained some acceptance. Magiere avoided giving any complete answers to the few questions asked. Enough of that would be covered all over again once Ellinwood arrived. With Magiere running out of evasive answers and Brenden short on acceptable questions, the room became oppressively quiet until another knock sounded.
“That will be him,” Magiere said with distaste. “Leesil, can you get the door?”
This time the visitor was indeed Constable Ellinwood, clearing his throat in place of a greeting and looking somewhat put upon in fulfilling his duty. His vast, colorful form filled the doorway like that of an emerald giant gone soft through years of idleness.
“I hear you had some trouble,” he said, his tone that of someone wishing to take command, yet preferring to be somewhere else. Dark circles under his eyes suggested he hadn’t slept well, and his fleshy jowls appeared even looser than usual.
“You could say that,” Leesil answered coldly. He turned away without even a gesture for the constable to enter. “Beth-rae is dead. Some lunatic tore out her throat with his fingernails.”
Ellinwood, entering behind him, sputtered at the bluntness of Leesil’s statement. Then he spotted the dark stain on the floor at the bar’s far end.
“Where’s the body?”
“Caleb took her into the kitchen,” Leesil answered. “I didn’t have the heart to tell him no.”
“Why don’t you ask them what happened,” Brenden said, his arms crossed, “before you start looking for ‘clues’ for something you know nothing about.”
“What’s he doing here?” Ellinwood demanded.
“I invited him,” Leesil answered in a half-truth.
Up to this point, Magiere had drifted closer to the fireplace and simply stood by watching and listening. Now she turned away from all three me
n.
Leesil experienced a wave of pity followed by concern. He had many unanswered questions regarding Magiere, but those could wait until a better time. She was dealing with too much already in too short a space of time. They all were, for that matter. And as much as he wanted answers, he didn’t want to see her pushed over the edge any further.
“You start, Leesil,” she said softly. “Just tell him what you saw.”
Leesil began recounting everything as clearly as possible. For the most part, it sounded like little more than a vicious thief interrupted during a botched robbery—except for the quarrel the beggar boy had pulled out of his own forehead. Strangely enough, Ellinwood did not react to this with more than a raised eyebrow. Then Leesil reached the part where Beth-rae ran in from the kitchen.
“She threw a bucket of water all over him, and he began to smoke.”
“Smoke?” Ellinwood said, shifting his heavy weight to one foot. “What do you mean?”
“His skin turned black and began to smoke.”
“Garlic water,” Brenden interrupted. “It’s poison to vampires.”
The constable ignored him.
Leesil grew more suspicious. He still didn’t accept the idea of vampires, and hadn’t actually said or implied any such thing, yet the details were there. Ellinwood did not appear even slightly shocked, neither denying nor accepting Brenden’s implied conclusion. Leesil held that thought to himself for the moment.
“Then what happened?” Ellinwood asked.
“He rushed her, struck her, tearing her throat with his fingernails, and breaking her neck,” Leesil continued. “Then he escaped through the back door in the kitchen.”
A few more questions and answers followed, all of a similar matter-of-fact and what-happened-next nature, each of which led to no further real exchange of useful information. The constable was casual, almost bored, and always slow to ask his next question. Somewhere along the way, Leesil noted that Ellinwood had not asked about any motivation for the intrusion. The concept of burglary or theft had not even come up. Not that it should have, since it was obviously not a burglary, but the constable hadn’t even tried to pass it off as such. When Leesil described the intruder, he did note that Ellinwood fidgeted slightly before resettling into complacency.