Dhampir

by Barb Hendee

  “Yes, grateful,” she repeated. “The desperate are always grateful.”

  He looked at her quizzically, but did not speak.

  “How many people knew, really knew their town was a home for a band of undeads?” she asked him. “And how did they know? How did you know?”

  Again, he seemed further puzzled by her words. “People don’t simply disappear without a trace in a town the size of Miiska, especially people like my daughter and Master Dunction. Before you came, a body with holes in the neck or throat would be found now and then. It didn’t happen often. Sometimes a season or two would pass between such happenings. But word traveled quickly. I think most of the townsfolk believed something unnatural plagued us. Wasn’t that the way with most villages you served in the past?”

  The clean lines of his aging, questioning face pulled at her heart. She’d never had a father to speak with, and a desire to tell Caleb everything suddenly gripped her. But she knew doing so would only hurt him further. His wife was dead, and he believed her sacrifice had been made to help the great “hunter of the undead.” He needed to believe that Beth-rae’s life was worthy of sacrifice for the freedom of Miiska, so that no one else had to endure the disappearance of a daughter or the loss of a spouse. Magiere would not be so selfish as to destroy his illusion in order to ease her own conscience.

  “Yes,” she said. “But for me, this is over, Caleb. I just want to run the tavern with you and Leesil now.”

  A mild gust of air hit them both as the kitchen door banged open against the wall.

  “Over?” a near-angry voice said from the doorway. “And why exactly do you think that?”

  Welstiel stepped in like some lord invading a peasant’s home on his lands. Dressed and groomed, as always, his striking countenance was concerned, almost agitated.

  “Caleb,” Magiere said. “You take Rose and go upstairs.”

  The old man hesitated, but then he left the kitchen.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded of her new visitor.

  Somehow, this seemed an odd place for a conversation with Welstiel, standing among pots, pans, and dried onions hanging on the walls. Though they had spoken in Brenden’s yard, in her mind, she now saw him always as part of his eccentric room at The Velvet Rose, surrounded by his books and orbs. Only two small candles and one lamp illuminated the kitchen. The white patches at his temples stood out vividly.

  “I’m wondering if you’re truly as much of a fool as all the other simpletons in this town,” he answered, voice deep and hard. “I expected that you would be planning your next steps, yet you served ale all night, celebrating some illusory victory.”

  “What are you talking about?” she asked. “I’m tired of your little half-mysteries and concealing observations.”

  “How could you possibly assume the vampires here have been destroyed? Have you seen bodies? Have you counted those destroyed?”

  A cold trickle of fear ran down her spine.

  “Leesil burned the warehouse, and it caved in. Nothing could survive that.”

  “You are a dhampir!” he said angrily. “You received a fatal wound last night, but now you stand here, whole again. Their bodies heal even faster than yours. They are like the black roaches beneath these floorboards.” He stepped closer. “Imagine what they can endure.”

  Magiere leaned over and gripped the aging oak table that Beth-rae had once chopped vegetables on. She felt fatigue weigh her down until she had to sit on the stool. This could not be happening. It should all be over with.

  “I may not have seen any bodies, but you haven’t seen any undeads roaming the streets either. Have you?”

  The flesh of his cheekbones pulled back. “Look to your friends.”

  He turned and quickly disappeared out the door into the darkness.

  “Wait!” Magiere shouted.

  She ran after him through the kitchen door, but the backside of the tavern that faced the forest between the building and the sea was empty. In a moment of crystal clarity, only one thought registered.

  “Leesil.”

  Magiere bolted back through the kitchen to the bar and grabbed her falchion.

  As Brenden and Leesil walked down the streets of Miiska in silence, Brenden marveled at what a mass of contradictions this half-elf was: one moment a cold-hearted fighter and the next a mother hen. Leesil wore a green scarf tied around his head which covered the slight points of his ears. He now resembled a slender human with slightly slanted, amber-brown eyes. Brenden wondered about the scarf.

  “Why do you sometimes wear that?” he asked, motioning toward Leesil’s head.

  “Wear what?” the half-elf said. Then he touched his forehead. “Oh, that. I used to wear it all the time. When Magiere and I were on the ga . . . when we were hunting, we didn’t like calling attention to ourselves. She thought it best to blend in until we’d decided to take on a job. There aren’t too many of my kind in or around Stravina, so I kept my ears covered. It doesn’t matter here, but old habits die hard. Besides, it keeps my hair out of my face.”

  They talked of such simple, small things along the way. Except for a few drunken sailors, and a guard here and there openly patrolling the streets, no one else was about. Soon enough, the two of them approached Brenden’s home.

  Leesil finally asked, “Are you all right?”

  Answering such a question was difficult for Brenden, but he had no wish to hurt his friend.

  “After my sister’s death, I was so enraged by Ellinwood’s conduct that anger consumed me. Then you came. While we were searching, fighting, seeking revenge, I had a sense of purpose. Now that it’s all over, I feel like I should bury Eliza . . . begin to mourn. But she’s already in her grave. I don’t know what to do.”

  Leesil nodded. “I know. I think I’ve known all day.” He paused. “Listen to me. Tomorrow, you’ll get up and go visit Eliza and say good-bye. Then you’ll come here, open the smith’s shop and work all day. At night, you’ll come to The Sea Lion, have supper, and talk to friends. I swear that after a few such days, the world will begin to make sense again.”

  Brenden choked once and looked away.

  “Thank you,” he said, needing to say something, anything. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

  The half-elf was already walking away down the street, as if he too felt a loss of appropriate words.

  “If you run out of horses to shoe, you can help me fix that damned roof.”

  Brenden watched his friend’s long-legged strides until Leesil turned a corner, and then he went inside his small empty cottage. Only sparse furniture and decor remained, as he had bundled all of Eliza’s things and stored them away. Such items were too painful to see every day. A candle she made last summer rested on the table, but he didn’t light it, preferring to undress in the dark. As he began untucking his shirt, beautiful strains of a wordless song drifted in the window and filled his ears.

  Was someone outside singing?

  He walked to the back window and looked out. Standing next to the woodpile was a young woman in a torn, velvet dress. Soft curls the color of deep Portsmith coffee hung to her small waist. She seemed vaguely familiar. Such sweet music floated from her tiny mouth. Something told him to stay in the house, but an irresistible urgency and longing pulled at him. He stepped out the back door and off the porch into the yard.

  Slowly approaching this serene visage, he saw her white hands were those of a child. Yet the tight-laced bodice of her gown and rounded breasts proved her a woman. He could not tell how old she was with her doll-like face.

  “Are you lost?” he asked. “Do you need help?”

  She stopped singing and smiled. “I am lost and alone. See the sadness in my eyes.”

  He looked into her dark, oval eyes and forgot where he was. He forgot his name.

  “Come sit with me,” she pleaded.

  He crouched down beside her and leaned against the woodpile. Her delicate bone structure made him afraid to touch her, but she laid her hea
d against his shoulder in contentment.

  “So gentle,” she whispered. “You would never hurt me, would you?”

  “No,” he answered. “I would never hurt you.”

  Her face turned up toward his, and her hand touched the back of his hair.

  “Yes, you would.”

  A grip of solid bone restrained him, and she bit down hard on his throat.

  No, she wasn’t biting him, but kissing him, and he wanted her to go on. He relaxed in her arms, letting her do as she wished.

  Then he closed his eyelids and sank down into her embrace.

  Ratboy had not stopped thinking about the slim, tan-armed girl for days. He remembered standing outside her window, watching her sleep, drinking in her scent when Teesha had pulled him away. Now, he found himself standing outside her window again.

  Rashed would want him to feed, heal, and grow strong again before attacking the half-elf and the dog. He was certain of it. This time there could be no failure, so he should be at his peak of strength and reeking of fresh blood.

  The girl had long, tan hair to match her arms. When she rolled over in her sleep, he caught a whiff of clean muslin mixed with lavender soap, and he could wait no longer.

  He rarely exercised any of his mental ability beyond making some of his mortal victims forgetful. Why should he? They were killers, not tricksters, but at times he admired, even quietly envied, Teesha’s ease of hunting. And weren’t they going to rid themselves of this hunter and begin traveling again? Perhaps he should practice his abilities and improve them. Teesha’s concern for Rashed was beginning to outweigh her concern for him. Maybe it always had and he’d simply never realized. Ratboy would never be Rashed. But he had other gifts, other skills. He should develop them and impress her along the road. The thought made him smile.

  At the same time, he felt an uncontrollable desire to possess this tan-haired girl, to touch her skin, to feed on her life. And he needed to be at full strength.

  “Come,” he whispered.

  She opened her eyes, and he projected a thought into her mind. There was something important outside. She must get up and find it. Perhaps she was dreaming? But in the dream she still needed to see what waited.

  Rising, she hurried to the window and looked out. Upon seeing nothing, she leaned the upper half of her body over the edge.

  Ratboy grabbed her shoulders protruding through the window and pulled her outside. She did not scream, but blinked at him in mild surprise.

  He did not want to frighten her, so he kept projecting the idea that she was lost in a dream. She didn’t struggle in his arms, but rather examined him curiously through slightly slanted, brown eyes. An alien sense of excitement passed through him. He took his time, experiencing the scent of lavender soap in the crook of her neck mingling with the barest hint of dried fish on her hands. His fingers brushed the softness of her hair and the smoothness of her arms.

  Then he pushed her slowly to the ground and used his teeth to puncture the wellspring in the base of her throat, all the while continuing to calm her with the power of his mind.

  Her slender hands instinctively pushed once against his shoulders, but the moment passed, and he felt her gripping his shirt.

  Power and unbelievable strength flowed into him. Domination through blind fear was one thing, but this was something else, something he and Parko had never talked about.

  He drank until her heart stopped beating.

  She was only a shell now, and he left her body where it lay, feeling some regret that the moment was over. Somehow, he knew Rashed didn’t care about secrecy anymore.

  Thoughts of the half-elf and the dog moved to the front of his awareness. Weapons? Shouldn’t he find some weapons? No, his burned flesh was healing rapidly, and he had never felt stronger. No mortal trappings were necessary. He slipped down the near-deserted Miiska streets toward The Sea Lion.

  Upon reaching it, he jerked one of the common room’s shutters off. The dog lay alone in the large room, resting by the hearth.

  “Here, puppy, puppy,” he sang. What had that half-elf called him—Chap? “Here, Chap.”

  Chap’s great, wolflike head snapped up in what Ratboy swore was disbelief. Then, as Ratboy anticipated, the dog’s lips curled up in a hate-filled snarl, and he launched himself toward the window. Loud high-pitched wails burst from his long mouth.

  Ratboy smiled. He bolted for the outskirts of town and the tree line.

  Magiere ran down the near-black streets toward Brenden’s shop until her lungs threatened to burst. Her long dress kept catching at her legs, but she pulled it up with her free hand and kept running.

  What if Welstiel were right?

  Truth hurt more than the exerted ache in her chest. How could she simply assume all danger had passed because Leesil and Brenden believed the burning warehouse had caved in the tunnels? She ignored the pain in her legs and ran on, falchion in hand.

  As the smith’s shop came into sight, she called out, “Leesil!” not caring whom she woke up.

  The front door was closed. She pounded on it.

  “Leesil! Brenden?”

  No one answered, and she tried to open it. The door was unlocked.

  Magiere shoved it open and stepped inside, but there was no one at home in the small one-room cottage. Maybe Leesil and Brenden hadn’t gone directly to the blacksmith’s house. What if Leesil had tried to cheer his friend by hunting up a late game of cards somewhere else?

  Yes, she comforted herself. Leesil had taken Brenden somewhere else, and they were probably both sitting in some decrepit little inn playing faro. But her hopes were hysterical attempts to create personal security, and she knew it. Aunt Bieja always said, “We mustn’t worry until we have something to be worried about.”

  No, Leesil had said he wouldn’t be long.

  When she walked past the back window, a flash of white caught her eye. She turned and saw Brenden’s shirt. He was lying near the woodpile, not far from the fading stains of Eliza’s blood.

  “No!”

  She rushed out the back door and into the yard, dropping to the ground at the blacksmith’s side. His flesh was alabaster, contrasting with the dark red of his torn throat. She crouched down in front of him. His expression was not horrible, but more peaceful than any she’d ever seen on his face. Bright red hair stood out starkly against wan skin.

  There was little blood on the ground, as whatever had ripped his throat open had carefully consumed every drop. She tried to let the sight sink in, to allow it inside where she could properly absorb and deal with it. But she couldn’t.

  Brenden was the only truly brave member of this town, the only one to help her and Leesil. And what had his bravery purchased? What did standing by them bring him? It had brought him death.

  She reached out with her free hand and touched his beard. Her hand moved down to his throat, where her fingertips pressed against the side as if to feel the blood pumping. Nothing. She already knew he was dead, and her actions futile, but now she was one of the desperate, and she was paying a price.

  Magiere remembered him standing in front of the tavern door that morning, blocking Ellinwood’s entrance, protecting her home.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered to him. “I’m so sorry for everything.”

  Welstiel was right. She should have made sure. She should have searched for the bodies and never stopped until she made sure those vampires were truly dead. She had let Leesil and Brenden just walk out into the night air. This was her fault.

  She dropped her falchion and gripped her own knees, rocking back and forth. It was too much.

  Too much.

  In the distance, an eerie keening wail broke through her inaction.

  Magiere grabbed her falchion off the ground and ran out into the street near the front of Brenden’s stables and forge.

  Chap’s cry sounded out again. Chap was hunting.

  “Leesil.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  After Leesil left Brenden, he started
for The Sea Lion, then changed his mind. Sounds of the sea called him, and he wanted a bit more time to himself before going home, so he walked toward Miiska’s waterfront instead of taking the streets back to the tavern.

  Pity for Brenden occupied his thoughts, but he was also troubled by the realization that he wanted to tell his friend the truth—well, maybe not the entire truth, just the part about how he and Magiere had earned a living for several years. How would Brenden react when he realized he’d risked his life hunting undeads with two people who probably knew less about it than he did?

  Then again, they had been successful and everyone in their group survived. Perhaps the truth didn’t matter.

  Before him, gravelly sand and water stretched up along the forested shore and to the docks farther down. The sea lapping gently in and out on the beach was strangely comforting in moonlight.

  Leesil tried to push aside any troubles that did not require immediate attention and focus on the moment at hand. Of course, some memories, old and deep, haunted him no matter what, but tonight the beach was peaceful, Magiere was alive, and Brenden might finally be able to mourn and someday recover from the loss of his sister. And Chap was on the mend. What more could he ask of life?

  He strolled down the shoreline at a steady pace, and soon he found himself thinking about the tavern roof and getting an advance from Magiere for some new clothes. She needed some as well. Had she mentioned something about already ordering a new shirt? Maybe she had.

  Magiere.

  He tried hard not to think of the previous night, and found himself testing the bandage around his wrist. He felt the lingering ghost of her lips and teeth on his arm.

  Leesil shook himself. It wasn’t bad enough that the whole event had been macabre and grotesque—it was somehow alluring. Or perhaps that was just because of her and not what had happened, what he’d been forced to do not to lose her.

  A small wave lapped near his feet and then a high-pitched wail exploded near the tree line. He froze.

  Impossible.

  It was impossible for Chap to be hunting. That cry he had only used when pursuing vampires. There was nothing left to hunt.