Dhampir

by Barb Hendee

  It was then Leesil decided he would keep the issue of the dagger to himself. Ellinwood’s disinterest was obvious. He was playing his role and giving lip service to his duties—and he was hiding something. Why this was so, Leesil couldn’t yet tell, but the dagger might be more useful in his possession than handed over to be stowed away and forgotten.

  The constable turned to Magiere.

  “And while all this was going on, you were attacked upstairs?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she managed to answer. She turned and looked directly at Ellinwood as she spoke. “He was very tall and striking, with dark hair close cropped and nearly clear eyes with a tint of blue. He was dressed as a nobleman in a deep blue tunic, cloak, and high boots. And he carried a long sword, which he used as if trained and experienced in combat.”

  Magiere continued, trying hard to remember more details of her assailant. His expressions and manner of superiority, the way he moved, the way he spoke. Slowly, the constable appeared less bored. His complexion shifted and began turning paler, until his flesh had a sickly white cast to it. Brenden, however, added more wrinkles to his brow, eyes narrowing as if he were trying to focus Magiere’s description in his mind and recognition was beginning to settle upon him.

  Leesil began to see that Magiere, as well, had caught the fact that Ellinwood had lost his disinterest. And now he looked openly nervous. Magiere grew more intent, turning to questions instead of answers.

  “How many men in this town can that describe?” she asked. “I don’t know why that didn’t occur to me until now. You must know everyone here, yes? This one was dressed too well for a common ruffian looking for some quick coins in his pocket.”

  “He owns Miiska’s largest warehouse,” Brenden answered softly. “I don’t know his name, but I’ve seen—”

  “Quiet!” Ellinwood shouted at the blacksmith in a voice that squeaked with strain, surprising them all. “Keep your foolish conclusions to yourself. There are hundreds of tall, dark-haired men in this town and new ones come in port every day.”

  “Hundreds?” Leesil asked, mockingly.

  Ellinwood ignored the goad, focusing on Brenden.

  “I’ll not accuse a respected businessman just to please you!”

  “You’re a coward,” Brenden said, more in resignation than anger. “I can’t believe what a coward you are.”

  “Quiet, both of you!” Magiere snapped, looking more like the caustic tiger Leesil remembered as she stepped between the constable and the blacksmith. Ellinwood backed away, scowling, trying to maintain an air of righteous indignation, but Magiere didn’t even notice.

  “I’m not reporting this because I expect or desire any help,” she said to him. “I’m only behaving like a law-abiding citizen. If you want no part of this, you’re free to go back to your guardhouse or breakfast or whatever else you do with your mornings.” She turned to Brenden. “And no one asked for your counsel, blacksmith.”

  Ellinwood made no move to continue his investigation, neither inspecting the room nor making any pretense to go survey the body or the second level of the inn. Leesil began to think it was likely that the constable didn’t need to do any of those things. The repulsive man probably knew much more than anyone else in this room. Beating the truth out of him was somewhat tempting, but would only add to their troubles. At least for now.

  The constable puffed his cheeks out, attempting to gain control of the situation.

  “I’ll have my men do a sweep of the town, looking for anyone matching the descriptions you’ve provided. You’ll be informed if anything is discovered.”

  “Yes, you do that,” Magiere said in dismissal.

  After the constable left, the three remaining occupants in the room stood looking at each other.

  “I seriously doubt we’ll hear anything,” Leesil said. “Or at least we won’t be the first.”

  Brenden merely grunted in agreement.

  Several tables lay in broken heaps around them, and Leesil remembered they would have to replace Magiere’s bedroom door and window. For the time being, he would settle her in his own room, and then bed down himself on the bar or by the fireplace.

  “It’s not over. We have to hunt them down ourselves,” Brenden said to Magiere. “You know that, don’t you?”

  Oh, by everything holy, was he mad? Annoyance, possibly more than annoyance, hit Leesil for the first time.

  “Just leave that alone!” Leesil half shouted before controlling himself. “She’s had enough already for one day.”

  “I know,” Magiere answered in a whisper, ignoring Leesil’s outburst. “I know.”

  Ratboy believed that vampires fell dormant during the day, like inverted plants or flowers. Of course, he kept this opinion to himself, and would never relate such a fanciful thought in front of Rashed or Teesha.

  As the sun rose, he always collapsed into dreamless sleep. But not today. Today.

  How long since he’d even considered a term with the word “day” in it? He could not remember. Lying in his coffin, in the dirt of his homeland, deep in the tunnels under the warehouse, he could not sleep. His body still burned from the garlic water, even though Teesha had fed him, and his spirit burned from Rashed’s harsh words.

  Would that arrogant sand-spawn ever take responsibility for his own mistakes? Ratboy doubted it. Every action, every decision Rashed made was motivated by his consuming love for Teesha. And what was so comical—so tragic—was that he’d never be able to acknowledge the force that drove him. He played the father and the protector. But he’d never admit anything so pathetic as love, even to himself. Especially to himself.

  Not even for Parko.

  In the darkness of his coffin, Ratboy allowed his mind to drift back to their journey from Corische’s keep. Due to Rashed’s foresight, the trip was not uncomfortable. Rashed packed a large wagon with their coffins, stacked two on two, each carefully covered by a canvas tarp. He also broke into Corische’s private quarters and took plenty of money. Ratboy never asked how much, but that was part of Ratboy’s past and current dilemma. He always left the details, the planning and the worrying to Rashed. He constantly walked a fine line between hating Rashed and depending on him.

  One night on the open road, low growls reached their ears as the wagon approached an overgrown bend in the road. A moment later three half-starved wolves dashed out of the trees and attacked their horses.

  Two more wolves leaped up from behind into the wagon, and Parko kicked one away on instinct. More shapes poured out of the forest, and Ratboy realized just how outnumbered they were. He wasn’t exactly afraid of wolves, but famine could make these beasts formidable, and their numbers were growing before his eyes.

  The horses screamed. He kicked the other wolf out of the wagon and looked around for a weapon. Then the attack stopped.

  Teesha was holding the horses’ reins, fighting to keep them from running. Rashed was standing in the driver’s seat with his eyes closed. He appeared to be whispering, but as close as he was, Ratboy could not hear a sound coming from his lips.

  Snarls faded, and the wolves pulled back. A few of them even whined.

  One by one they slunk away into the trees.

  “What did you do?” Ratboy asked.

  Rashed shrugged it off. “One of my abilities. I don’t use it often.”

  “You can control the minds of wolves?”

  “And sand cats and other predators.”

  Ratboy could not control the minds of animal predators. He knew that all Noble Dead developed slightly different powers and abilities, but why did Rashed seem to have all the useful ones? It bothered him to depend so much on Rashed, yet he was forced to trust their leader, who always knew exactly what to do.

  The crux of this dichotomy had occurred on the road nearly halfway to Miiska.

  Before their undead existence began, Parko and Rashed were the closest of brothers. Ratboy learned this through snippets of memories that Rashed occasionally expressed. Parko had been a gentle cre
ature, who needed the protection of his older brother. And again, although Rashed did not seem to recognize his own drives, Ratboy understood that the need to protect was built into Rashed’s nature. However, once their lives as Noble Dead began, Parko was a completely different person, savage and often incoherent. He became more and more difficult to control.

  Once they left Gäestev Keep, Rashed’s thin hold on Parko’s behavior grew even weaker. Their leader planned each night’s travel carefully and often consulted several maps he carried. Usually they arrived well before sunrise at a town or village with an inn. Rashed would pay well for cellar rooms if they were available, and since he knew they could never unload the coffins without drawing attention, he simply had his little “family” all keep pouches of dirt with their belongings. Each of them would sleep with these pouches next to their bodies until nightfall, when their travels resumed. Rashed always told a similar story to the innkeepers about how they had traveled all night and needed quiet rest. Teesha would appear to be dainty and exhausted, and Parko and Ratboy played the servants. Although he would never admit it, Ratboy found safety in Rashed’s planning and the way he handled both mortals and the mortal world so easily.

  Yet something about Parko’s wild manner was attractive as well. And Parko hated Rashed’s rules that they sleep inside and only feed when absolutely necessary. He rebelled at every opportunity.

  One day on the road, they were forced to sleep in an abandoned church. Parko had slipped out of the wagon unseen. Once his absence was discovered, Rashed halted the wagon immediately. He stepped out and glared through the dark, turning slowly, searching. He stopped with his focus directly down the road.

  Usually only a master such as Corische could do this to locate a created minion. Perhaps because they had been siblings in life, Rashed could sense Parko’s whereabouts. Apparently, his brother had traveled out ahead of them. They would stop at the next village, down the road, to see if he was there.

  When they arrived, the village was in a state of hysteria. A small cluster of people was gathered around the open front door of the inn, a few armed men holding them back. Voices were loud and angry, and it was easy enough to overhear that the innkeeper and his wife had been found dead in their beds. Ratboy watched as a guard came running out of the inn and began vomiting in the gutter of the street.

  There would be no welcome for strangers in this village, and Rashed did not even slow the wagon. Once out of sight of the village, he whipped the horses into speed. Daylight was coming.

  Although the roadside shrine they found down a side road looked ancient, as if untended and unvisited for years, Rashed clearly did not like the tenuous state of their situation. He raged over the idea of Teesha sleeping somewhere so insecure. When Parko caught up with them just before sunrise, his face and hands were covered in blood, and he no longer cackled and smiled as usual.

  Rashed was furious at his brother and actually shouted at him. Parko merely backed into a corner with his pouch of soil, his eyes unblinking as he glared at Rashed. Ratboy suspected Parko had acted from spite, sick of being restrained and forced to continually repress his natural drives and instincts. And Ratboy, as well, wondered what it would be like to let go, to revel in a kill as Parko had done. Parko was still glaring at his brother when Ratboy finally closed his eyes much later and tried to rest.

  Teesha kept her own council where Rashed’s brother was concerned, but Ratboy could feel tension building in the group. He himself felt torn. At times, he did feel Parko was too wild, but Teesha and Rashed were certainly too tame. Three nights after the inn incident, Rashed stopped the wagon at midnight near a small village so they could hunt. Teesha sat in the wagon for a little while, gazing at trails of smoke rising over the trees from the little huts, her expression wistful.

  “Rashed, how far is it to the ocean?” she asked. “I’m so tired. Will we find our own home soon?”

  Rashed was standing on the ground, strapping on his sword. He quickly climbed back in the wagon and sat beside her.

  “We have a long way to travel yet, but we have the maps I took from the keep. Before we sleep in the morning, I’ll show you where we are and where the ocean is.” His voice was concerned and tender.

  Suddenly Parko howled in rage.

  “Home! Ocean!” he shouted. His black eyes turned toward Teesha. “You!” White flesh seemed stretched over his thin face, and his uncombed hair stood out in several directions. “No home,” he said. “Hunt!”

  Pain registered on Rashed’s face. And it was not lost on Parko, who turned and ran into the forest.

  Rashed looked at Ratboy. “Will you go with him? Make sure he doesn’t do anything to endanger the rest of us?”

  Their leader rarely asked Ratboy for anything. So, Ratboy nodded and slipped into the trees after Parko. Actually, it was a relief to be running through the woods after Parko, leaving Rashed and Teesha in their own private world.

  Ratboy reached out with his mind and tried to locate Parko as Rashed had done, but he could sense nothing. Instead, he resorted to mundane methods of tracking. Parko was in such a fit he’d left a trail that was easy to follow. It wasn’t long before Ratboy caught up with his charge behind a patch of small trees on the far side of the village. He crouched down beside Parko.

  “You see something?” he asked.

  “Blood,” Parko answered.

  Even at this late hour, a small band of teenage boys was sitting outside what appeared to be a stable. They were laughing and passing a jug among themselves. They had probably stolen some ale or whiskey and were feeling quite rebellious. The sight of them actually brought back memories of the “life” Ratboy had left far behind, long ago. He’d done the same thing in his youth often enough.

  “No, Parko,” he said. “There are too many, and they’re out in the open. One of them would raise an alarm. We’ll look elsewhere.”

  Parko turned to him.

  “You are not Rashed,” he said with surprising clarity. “We kill. We hunt. We fear no calls to alarm. We fear no boys. No men.” He looked back at the drinking band of teenagers. “You should not be like Rashed. Drink with me.”

  Without another word, he darted from the treeline. Startled, Ratboy watched him move silently and swiftly along the stable’s side. Uncertain, Ratboy followed him, until they stopped at the corner.

  The boys were almost close enough to touch now. Ratboy could hear every word they were saying, mainly complaints about their fathers, interspersed with laughter and gulps of liquid. He could smell the contents of the jug—whiskey.

  In a flash, Parko was gone, and then Ratboy heard laughter silenced as it turned to screams.

  Hungry, excited, Ratboy stepped out from the corner of the stable to see three boys lying dead on the ground, their necks broken, and Parko drinking from the throat of a boy with dirty-blond hair. The boy was still alive and flailing his arms in terror.

  A short, slightly pudgy boy with dark hair stood screaming. Why didn’t he run? Ratboy felt free. He wasn’t like Rashed. He was like Parko, and he grabbed the screaming boy and drove both fangs straight into his neck, closing his teeth over the plump throat until the boy was choked into silence. Fear and blood from his victim seeped into him in equal measures, and he felt euphoric, so alive.

  Shouts from deeper voices began sounding down the street. Ratboy drank his fill and then dropped the body to the ground with a thud. He knew he should run. Common sense told him he should run, but he didn’t.

  Parko finished with the blond boy and laughed.

  Instead of dropping the carcass, he began dancing, capering with it. Covered in blood, his black eyes wide, he looked completely mad, but Ratboy didn’t care. He laughed as well.

  Two grown men with wooden pitchforks came around the corner and halted in shock, then one jabbed his pronged tool at Ratboy. The man looked more frightened than fierce. Ratboy simply feinted around the pitchfork, and tore the man’s throat open with his fingernails.

  He watched with ple
asure as realization, and then horror, dawned on the mortal’s face and the pitchfork tumbled from the man’s hand as he clutched his gaping wound. Ratboy heard a crack behind him and turned to see Parko dropping the second man’s body to the ground.

  Parko seemed to be in the mood for breaking necks.

  Ratboy wanted to laugh aloud again. They were invincible, free. Why had they ever feared discovery from these mortals?

  Then movement caught his eye. Rashed was standing one arm’s length away in absolute disbelief. His mouth was even opened slightly.

  Euphoria faded. Five dead boys and two men lay on the ground around them. Other villagers must be aware but hiding.

  Rashed seemed to search for words. “What have you done?”

  By way of answer, Parko hissed at him like an animal. Rashed closed the distance between them in two steps and swung hard with his fist.

  Ratboy had never seen Rashed hit his brother. He didn’t think Rashed capable. As the fist connected with his jaw, Parko crumpled and dropped. Parko tried to rise up, and Rashed struck him again, so hard that his brother flew backward and smashed through the outer railing of the stable. Parko lay still and silent in straw and mud.

  Rashed grabbed his brother’s limp body by the leg, and jerked him out onto the road. Lifting Parko, he slung the unconscious form over his shoulder and glared at Ratboy.

  “You come now.”

  Ratboy followed without speaking. He was actually frightened, not of Rashed, but what would happen next. When they reached the wagon, Rashed dropped Parko on the ground. Then he climbed into the wagon’s back, cut Parko’s coffin loose from the others, and shoved it out the back. It thumped and skidded to the ground as Parko began to stir.

  Ratboy looked to Teesha, who could sometimes bring reason to such scenes, but she stood silently on the other side of the wagon, watching.