Dhampir

by Barb Hendee

  By this point, he was standing among the crowd.

  “This coward you call a constable has known of these creatures for years, and he’s done nothing to protect you! The warehouse may be gone, but at least your children are safe. You should be thanking this man behind me. You should be thanking that woman.” He pointed past the crowd.

  When Leesil looked beyond the dockworkers, he saw Magiere standing alone in the street. He’d never seen her resemble a warrior so vividly. Tall and lithe in her leather armor, with her falchion hanging casually from her waist, she stared at the mass of people through haunted eyes. Grime and smoke streaked her cheeks and hands. A thin red line stood out on her throat.

  No one spoke. Then one of the guards, with a cold look on his face, stepped away from the crowd, walking toward her.

  Leesil watched Magiere closely. There was no way he could get through the crowd to her in time if this guard tried to take out his anger on her, and she’d been through too much.

  The young guard stepped up to her. Everyone in the street became silent, waiting to see what would happen. He just stood there quietly, looking her in the face.

  “My brother disappeared two years ago,” he said. “I’m not arresting anybody.”

  He said nothing more, but turned and walked away. The other two guards paused, and then followed him.

  Ellinwood puffed three breaths, and Leesil knew the constable had lost his hold. If his guards refused to take action, he himself was useless. But why was Ellinwood so angry? He wasn’t posturing here for the benefit of pretending to do his job. And the fleshy beast certainly did not care about any of Miiska’s working-class families. So what caused this surge of venom over the lost warehouse?

  Magiere moved straight through the crowd. Leesil quickly stepped aside to let her in. She didn’t speak.

  Brenden was still bristling at the constable. Leesil faced the dockworkers and shook his head.

  “Go home, please. If you want ale or a game of cards, we open at dusk.” He glanced at Ellinwood. “Cheer yourself. There’s nothing for you to hide from now.”

  The first stab of real pleasure he’d experienced in days washed over him as half the crowd regarded their constable with open disgust. People began to break off and walk away. Ellinwood, however, wasn’t finished.

  “Amends will be made,” he said, in the most serious voice Leesil had ever heard him use. “If I have to confiscate your bank notes and sell this tavern and the smithy to do it.”

  Brenden’s fury increased, and Leesil feared his friend might attack the frustrated and equally enraged Ellinwood.

  “Don’t kill him,” the half-elf said tiredly. “Or you really will be arrested, and I don’t have a copper left to bail you out.”

  Dry humor was the only tool he had left, but it worked. Brenden held his ground, relaxing slightly.

  “You do what you have to,” Leesil told the constable. “But I somehow doubt the town council will allow you to sell anything that belongs to us over this.”

  Ellinwood looked shocked at these words, and Leesil decided the conversation was over. He reached out for Brenden’s arm and pulled him into the tavern, leaving Ellinwood and the few remaining townsfolk out in the street. He then placed a wooden bar in the door’s metal bracket.

  “Let him knock if he wants to.” But no sound came.

  Inside, the common room was empty. Magiere must have gone upstairs. He and Brenden were alone.

  “Someone needs to clean out those claw marks on your face,” Brenden said matter-of-factly. “They’re going to scar as it is.”

  Leesil sighed and ignored the comment. “How did that rabble get started?”

  “I went to see the warehouse, to make sure it collapsed. When Ellinwood and his men showed up, the dockworkers started demanding action. I tried to be honest about what happened, about why you did what you did, but they just wanted someone to blame. He used you and Magiere as scapegoats, got everyone worked up. I couldn’t stop them before they reached the tavern.”

  Leesil stoked the fire. Well, at least Brenden was still on their side. Considering how he’d reacted the night before, a change in his loyalties would not have surprised Leesil.

  “Brenden, will you tend to Chap while I check on Magiere?”

  His friend paused uncertainly. “What is she?”

  “I don’t know. I truly don’t, and neither does she.”

  “She seems so much like a woman. I’d even thought about . . .” His words trailed off. “But now I just don’t know what to think.”

  Leesil felt his body stiffen. What was Brenden saying? Had he considered courting Magiere? As if that were possible. As if Magiere would court anyone. Leesil suddenly felt an unfriendly urge to make Brenden leave. He calmed himself and realized how foolish he was being. Brenden was his friend, and he didn’t have many of those.

  Instead of its usual fiery red, the large man’s beard was black-brown with dirt and dust, and Leesil knew how tired he must be. The half-elf didn’t like leaving him to care for the dog, but Magiere was back and he had to see her.

  “Will you see to Chap?” he asked again.

  The blacksmith nodded. As Brenden began heating water, Leesil went up to Magiere’s room, stood outside the still half-broken door, and knocked once.

  “It’s me. I’m coming in.”

  She sat on her bed in silence, head down, hair hanging forward. Not excited at the prospect of honest conversation, he remained standing in the doorway for the moment.

  “What’s done is done. Come to the kitchen with me. We’ve got to get started cleaning ourselves up and taking stock of each other’s wounds. It’s impossible to gauge injuries under all this dirt.”

  “I don’t have any wounds,” she answered quietly. “I only had one, and you healed it.”

  Exhausted or not, he wasn’t getting out of this.

  “Magiere, they’re dead. I burned that warehouse over their heads and it collapsed. Whatever happens to you only happens when you’re fighting undeads, and they’re gone now. It’s over.”

  Her head lifted. “Your face. Look what they did to your face.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll still be pretty.”

  She didn’t smile. “You have to tell me what happened.” He stood straight and tried to exude an unbendable resolve.

  “Brenden’s downstairs. You come to the kitchen with me so we can get cleaned up. Then we make tea and breakfast. While we’re eating, I’ll tell you everything. Bargain?”

  She started to argue and then stood up. “All right.”

  “Grab that dressing gown,” he said. “Those pants you’re wearing are so torn and dirty even I want to burn them—and you’re the fussy one.”

  Although distressed by Leesil’s insistence that they clean up and eat before talking, Magiere later admitted to herself that his instincts were right. Once she’d washed, braided her hair, and donned the thick, warm dressing gown, she made tea and sliced some bread, while he scrubbed his own soot away. These simple activities gave her time to collect herself, to feel more sound and capable of facing what they might tell her.

  She’d had blood all over her last night and not all of it was her own. Her stomach had felt rock hard as she wandered alone in the hours before dawn.

  Thinking about how much blood he’d lost for her last night, she found cold mutton and cheese for Leesil. Then she carefully cleaned the angry scratches on his face and applied the ointment Welstiel had supplied. Sitting on a stool, softly smearing medicine on his skin, she began to feel more like herself again. She felt better just doing something, anything, for him. He would have some scars, but he was right, and his narrow features would still be handsome.

  During this process, Brenden came in to tend himself, and the three of them made no references to the night before until they were all comfortably seated around a table in the common room. The tea tasted good, and she was thirsty.

  She finished one cup and poured another before asking, “Are you going to start
talking?”

  So far, she and Brenden had managed to avoid speaking to each other, but his questioning, sidelong glances were difficult to miss.

  Leesil swallowed a mouthful of mutton. “How much do you remember?” he asked.

  “I see bits and pieces of the fight, but the last clear memory I have is jerking Rashed’s coffin lid open.” Both her companions shifted in their seats at the mention of the undead’s name. “That is his name,” she insisted. “He must have told me.”

  Leesil sipped his hot tea. She noticed the skin on his face looked less jagged and swollen. Perhaps the ointment would diminish any scars.

  “After that,” he said somewhat matter-of-factly, “Ratboy smashed through his coffin lid from the inside.”

  He went on for a long time recounting the chain of events. She knew he wasn’t one to tell well-ordered stories in this manner, and she appreciated his concentration and use of detail. But she became—and remained—embarrassed from the point where Brenden had to carry her out all the way to the part when Welstiel showed up. Brenden glanced away as Leesil faltered. There was little mention of specifically what happened when he had fed her.

  “I didn’t know what else to do,” he said. “You were dying.”

  Leesil had fed her his own blood, and the act somehow saved her life. She did not know how to respond to his sacrifice. Brief memory flashes came unbidden, of his fingers gently moving on the back of her head, of his wrist in her mouth, of his strength supporting both their bodies close together until that strength passed into her.

  “You breathed for me and brought me back after that cave-in,” he said. “I don’t see the difference.”

  But Magiere found his comment too simple. Everyone alive needed to breathe. They did not need to feed on blood to survive. What exactly was she?

  “There’s something else,” Leesil added. “But I don’t know what it means.” He pointed to her neck. “Welstiel had me pull out one of your amulets and lay the bone side against your skin. Do have any idea why?”

  Further confused, she shook her head. “No, I don’t. He seems to know much more than we do. But he also talks in circles and how much can we believe? You said he used the word ‘dhampir.’ He said that once before when I was standing at the spot where . . .” She looked at Brenden. “Where Eliza died.”

  “A dhampir is the offspring of a vampire and a mortal,” Brenden finally spoke. “But they are only a legend, a folk-tale. My mother’s people are from the far north, and her mother was a village wisewoman, a practitioner of hedge magic, rural spellcraft, and the like. I’ve heard some things about the undead, and they cannot create or conceive children. Such an offspring would be impossible.”

  “Then how do you explain my healed throat?” Magiere asked, not really wanting an answer. “My weapon? The amulets? The things that happen to me when I’m fighting Rashed?”

  “Well, we can’t believe everything Welstiel says,” Leesil put in. “He called Chap a majay-hì, and I know that’s ridiculous.”

  “Why? What does it mean?” Brenden asked.

  “I know little of the elven tongue, but I’ve been thinking about it. I think it means something like ‘magic hound.’ Well, probably more like ‘fay hound.’ But the fay and nature spirits I’ve read of weren’t exactly pleasant creatures. No, Welstiel may know more than we do, and he may be useful in some ways, but he’s either mad or just as superstitious as the villagers of Stravina.”

  “You can’t deny there’s something special about Chap,” Magiere whispered. “He’s different, like me, whenever he fights one of those . . .” She trailed off.

  Leesil grew thoughtful. “I’ve been wondering about that. My mother said something to me once about Chap being bred to protect. Perhaps undeads were more plentiful in the distant past, and my mother’s people tried to breed a line of hounds capable of fighting such monsters.”

  Magiere looked up at him, and blinked in surprise. It had been a long time since Leesil had said anything of his past, and he never spoke of his family.

  “Did you know your mother?”

  He stiffened. “Yes.”

  A knock sounded at the door.

  “Oh, for the love of drunkards,” Leesil exclaimed. “Brenden, if Ellinwood is still trying to arrest us, I give you permission to kill him.”

  Brenden got up with a scowl and went to open the door, but it was not Ellinwood who waited outside. On the other side of the door stood a teenage girl Magiere didn’t know and a boy who looked vaguely familiar.

  “Geoffry?” Leesil said. “What are you doing here?”

  Then Magiere placed the young man. He was the son of Karlin, the baker.

  “Hello, Brenden,” the girl said, holding out a green pouch. “We brought payment for the hunter.”

  The girl was perhaps fifteen, with large eyes, a pleasant face, and one missing front tooth. She had an odd manner of speech Magiere had never heard.

  “I heard you was with ’em,” she added. “I always thought you was brave.”

  “This is Aria,” Brenden said by way of introduction. “Her family moved here from the east a few years back. She was a friend of Eliza’s.”

  Aria stepped into the common room and looked around. Geoffry followed.

  “My father collected payment,” he said, “and he sent us here.”

  At first, Magiere didn’t understand. Then she studied the pouch Aria handed to her, and her stomach lurched. They were paying her for killing Miiska’s undead.

  “Take it, Miss,” Geoffry prompted. “It’s real money, not just trinkets or food. We know you don’t work cheap. The constable may be a fool, but lots of folks here are thankful.”

  “This is a nice place,” Aria said, touching the oak bar. “I never been in here.”

  Magiere tried to stand up, but couldn’t. She dropped the pouch on the table and pushed it quickly across toward Aria.

  “Take those coins and give them back to everyone who contributed. We didn’t do any of this for money.”

  Aria and Geoffry stared at her in confusion, even disappointment. Perhaps they had asked for the honor of bringing the hunter her fee. Magiere could imagine where the money had come from. Visions of bakers and fishmongers and now out-of-work warehouse laborers pooling their last pennies rushed into her mind.

  She felt sick and her breakfast threatened to come up. This was like a nightmare from which she couldn’t awaken. The past kept tracking her down to repeat itself over and over.

  Brenden politely rushed the young visitors out. Magiere heard phrases and bits of kind words like “appreciate” and “thank your father” and “the hunter is tired.” But once Aria and Geoffry had been bundled off down the street, he turned to her in puzzlement.

  “They were just trying to thank you. And it isn’t as if such gratitude is unfamiliar. You and Leesil have destroyed undeads and taken payment many times before.”

  Magiere turned away from him. She couldn’t help it, and she looked to her partner for some kind of response, any kind. Leesil drained his teacup, walked behind the bar and filled it with red wine.

  “Of course,” he said. “Many times.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  At a loss for what to do, Ellinwood left The Sea Lion and hurried home to The Velvet Rose. He needed to think, and he thought best at home.

  Once safely ensconced inside his plush rooms with the door closed, he allowed panic to set in. What was he going to do? His first thought was to sell the lovely furnishings all around him. But then he remembered that he did not own them. It was all property of The Velvet Rose. He owned little besides the expensive clothes on his body, the clothing in his wardrobe, a sword that he’d never actually used, and a few personal items such as silver combs and crystal cologne bottles.

  Rashed was gone, and there would be no more profits coming in from the warehouse trade.

  The constable’s own image stared back at him from the oval, silver-framed mirror, and a portion of the panic faded. He cut a fine figu
re in his green velvet. Of course, some people thought him too large, but the thin were always intimidated by men of stature. He had dominated Miiska for years. He could weather this current situation.

  Walking over to the cherry wood wardrobe, he unlocked the top drawer and looked inside. Rashed had not left him coinless, and he had not spent all of his profits. Indeed, if he rationed money for his opiate and spiced whiskey slightly, he could keep himself in comfort for perhaps half a year.

  Then a thought struck him. His arrangement with Rashed was not so unique. After all, as Miiska’s constable, he knew many things. He had recently discovered that the wife of Miiska’s leading merchant was betraying him with a caravan master who came through town six times a year. How much would she be willing to pay to keep her secret? And Devon, one of the council members, had used a large sum of the town’s community funds from taxes to pay off a gambling debt not long ago.

  Ellinwood’s mind began to race. There was no need for fear. When powerful people had secrets, they would pay handsomely for silence. He knew exactly what to do.

  But not yet.

  First he would change tactics in this Magiere situation and praise her. He would offer her his full support, now that there was nothing left to do, and win back the trust and loyalty of his guards. At the moment, his position was somewhat tenuous. He would become the ideal constable for several months—before taking any action toward quiet extortion. In the end, very little would have to change in his game besides the names of the players.

  Feeling safer and more content, he opened the bottom drawer of his wardrobe and removed the opiate and spiced whiskey. He’d never indulged in the morning before, but today was special. He needed comfort.

  Soon his crystal-stemmed goblet was filled, and he sat comfortably in his chair to sip.

  The entire day passed quickly.

  Teesha stirred first that night and sat up with an odd sense of disorientation. Then visions from the night before flooded her mind, and she remembered Rashed settling her in the belly of the old ship.