Dhampir

by Barb Hendee

  Leesil bolted down the beach toward the docks.

  “Chap!” he yelled. “Hold! Wait for me.”

  The small bay grew deeper as he approached the docks, and the beach disappeared into the water until only rock and earth slanted sharply up to the edge of town. He climbed the rough embankment and kept going, not even pausing at the burned remains of the warehouse. When he reached a point where The Sea Lion was just up ahead, he stopped to listen.

  Leesil turned slowly around, waiting to hear Chap’s howl again. When it came, the eerie sound was out in the trees beyond the tavern and the south end of town. He bolted again, not bothering to wonder what he would do when he caught up.

  “Chap!” he shouted while still in motion. “You stop. I mean it!”

  The dog’s cry stopped briefly, but Leesil couldn’t tell if this had anything to do with his orders or not. As suddenly as it stopped, the wail burst out again, but it changed directions.

  Leesil stopped in a small clearing, panting among the giant firs and brush, in almost total darkness. Though the moon was bright, it did not penetrate the forest completely. He forced himself to stand still and just listen. The howls were growing quickly louder, now separated by barks and snarls. Then he realized that Chap—or whatever the dog pursued—was coming directly toward him.

  Almost too late, Leesil dropped and tried to roll as a blurred form flew at him from nowhere, striking him hard across the jaw. Dazed and gasping for breath, he looked around wildly, still not sure what had hit him.

  “Why don’t you run?” a faintly familiar voice asked with gleeful intent. “Run and I’ll catch you again.”

  Despite severe dizziness, fear caused Leesil to push himself upward and see the creature taunting him: a dirty, brown urchin with a skeletal face and torn clothing.

  Ratboy.

  “How?” he tried to whisper, but his mouth wouldn’t work.

  With unnatural quickness, Ratboy dropped to a crouch as if he wanted to talk. He half smiled, but the gesture did nothing to ease Leesil’s panic.

  “You know,” Ratboy said, “I’ve never been one to play with my food, but now I feel like taking my time.” His smile faded. “Where’s your oil? Your stakes? Your hunter?”

  Leesil tried to swallow, to think. In one flick he could have a stiletto in each hand. Would such weapons help him? Could he even get close to this . . . this thing that moved faster than he could see?

  Chap’s voice grew closer, and Leesil willed him to hurry. How had this creature survived the fire?

  Ratboy’s face caught and held Leesil’s attention for a blink of time. So human, so young and lean and sharp like his body. Brown eyes glared, shining with the emotions of hate and triumph. Leesil had to remind himself that he wasn’t facing an unkempt teenage boy.

  Where was Chap?

  “Perhaps we could call this a draw?” Leesil joked to buy time. “I promise not to hurt you.”

  “Oh, but I want to hurt you.”

  Ratboy jumped up and kicked him in the ribcage hard enough to flip him over onto his back. A loud crack resonated through Leesil’s body, and he felt at least two of his ribs snap. For a moment, the pain blinded him.

  And then, like a song cut short, the eerie baying stopped, as if Chap had disappeared.

  Ratboy’s head swiveled toward the trees and back again. “Is that what you were waiting for, the dog? I’m strong enough for him now, too, but my pretty partner must have finished with your blacksmith and come to assist me. I do apologize.”

  He leaned down and grabbed Leesil by the shirt.

  As Ratboy pulled him to his feet, Leesil curled his hands and flicked open the holding straps of the sheaths on his forearms. Stilettos dropped out of his sleeves into each hand.

  He slammed both hilt-deep into Ratboy’s sides.

  “One good . . . turn for another,” he gasped out and then wrenched both hilts down.

  Ratboy’s mouth dropped open at the sound of his own ribs snapping. One of the stiletto hilts came away in Leesil’s hand, its blade breaking off inside the vampire’s body.

  Without exerting himself, Ratboy flung the half-elf through the air.

  Leesil’s body glanced off a tree trunk into a low branch. His impact severed the branch, and he fell hard to the forest floor.

  Choking, fighting for air, half-blinded by pain, Leesil clutched the broken piece of wood and held on tight.

  Magiere cursed her long skirt as she ran into the forest, following the sound of Chap’s voice. Catching on brush and hitting her ankles, the heavy fabric slowed her pace.

  Something told her not to cry out, not to call for the dog.

  Who murdered Brenden? How many of the vampires had escaped Leesil’s fire? Why had they lured Chap into the forest? If they wanted to kill the dog, they could have done it while he slept alone by the tavern’s fire.

  The dog’s cry suddenly stopped. So did she.

  Two breaths later, the wail burst out of the night again, and she could tell Chap had changed directions. He was chasing something through the trees. Or was something leading him?

  She realized that crashing through the forest like a wounded bear would only give her away, so she gathered her skirt in one hand, clutched her falchion in the other, and moved more carefully through the trees.

  Damn Welstiel. How had he known? Leesil was neither careless nor foolish, and he’d been certain nothing could survive the burning collapse of that warehouse. The brush was dense around her, and she stepped cautiously over bushes and through damp nettles.

  Chap’s voice was closer now. An odd relief grew inside her that she would see him within a wail or two. Then, like a bird shot in flight, his death song ended. It did not return.

  Throwing caution aside, Magiere ran in the direction of his last cry. Falling into a small clear patch, she scarcely believed the sight.

  A lovely young woman with dark brown curls and a torn red dress stood calmly, holding one hand out, speaking soft words. An arm’s length away from her, Chap stood quivering and trembling. He growled, but his voice and expression lacked conviction. If he’d been a human, Magiere would have called him “confused.”

  “It’s all right, my sweet,” the woman said, her tiny, pale hand offering him a caress. “Come and sit with me here. You are very special.”

  Both dog and woman were so intent upon each other that neither noticed Magiere’s entrance—though it could hardly be called a quiet one.

  “Chap!” she snapped. “Get away from her.”

  Both sets of eyes turned in her direction, and the haze left Chap’s expression. He shook his head and charged to her side. He whined, pacing back and forth around her and watching the small woman in red.

  “Is that how you killed Brenden?” Magiere asked, falchion pointing at the woman. “You used some trick?”

  The woman smiled, and Magiere felt its power like a physical blow. Small white teeth flashed from a face so gentle and innocent and warm that she might have been the source of love.

  “You need to talk,” she said. “To tell someone your troubles. I know these things. You’ve lost your friend . . . Leesil? Is that his name? Come sit with me, and I will listen. Tell me everything and then perhaps we can find him together.”

  On a starkly conscious level, Magiere desired nothing more than to sink down beside this woman and pour out the last twenty years of her life. But she did not. Rage swelled up inside her, and fangs began to grow inside her mouth with a sharp, but now familiar, speed.

  “That won’t work,” she half whispered. “Not on me.” She stepped closer. “Are you armed? For your sake, I hope so.”

  Images from the woman’s mind floated into Magiere’s.

  Teesha. This woman’s name was Teesha.

  “I think not,” Teesha answered calmly. “Why should I when I have a swordsman?”

  “I don’t see him here,” Magiere replied, but banter grew difficult, and she feared losing control.

  There was no rage or lust for revenge
or madness in Teesha’s eyes. Everything she did, everything she said, was calculated. Magiere hesitated, uncertain. This creature’s powers were different from Rashed’s or Ratboy’s.

  Chap growled low, and Magiere clung to rational thought. Teesha backed slowly toward the tree line. This vampire was afraid.

  “You didn’t think I’d be here, did you?” Magiere asked. “Or you would have come prepared.” The truth became clear. This was all some plan to remove Leesil and Brenden. “I can kill you, and you can’t stop me.”

  She stepped forward to swing, but the ground where Teesha stood was vacant. A rapidly fleeing voice echoed through the trees.

  “You’ll have to find me first.”

  Magiere pursued. Behind her, Chap whined and then began barking loudly. She stopped and turned. Chap remained standing tensely in the clearing, barking at her, and Magiere’s thoughts cleared again.

  This undead woman was trying to draw her away from the real reason she’d come out here.

  Wiping savage thoughts from her mind, Magiere ran back to Chap. “Go, I’ll follow.”

  Chap turned and sprinted off into the forest.

  Still panting, Leesil clutched the broken branch and forced himself to wait, to play the lame bird luring the fox in. If he attacked out of desperation, he would die.

  Ratboy’s pleasure and confidence were now marred. The blades thrust through his sides couldn’t have hurt him much, but he was now openly angry. And that might make him careless again. He looked less human now and more like a filthy, feral creature.

  “This is so much fun,” he spit out, but there was less laughter in his voice than before. “I might even bring you home—except I have no home. Do you remember Rashed? Tall, dark-haired, dead eyes, big sword? Yes, I bet he’d love a word with you. That warehouse meant a lot to him, you know, more than simply a business. It represented freedom and his ability to exist in your world. Can your small mind understand such ideas?”

  Leesil’s chest hurt so badly that every breath cost effort, but he regained his composure and tried to appear restful. Pulling himself up, he flopped back to lean against the tree.

  “If you’d stop your senseless chatter, we could go and meet him now,” Leesil said. “I doubt he’d take this long to kill me.”

  Any remaining glee on Ratboy’s face now faded. “Do you wish death?”

  “Anything is better than listening to you.”

  Leesil tensed, anticipating a rapid lunge. When it came in a blur of movement, he fell back into the past and became a product of his parents’ teachings, someone able to set aside pain, someone able to strike a focal point with fluid second nature and the right amount of force. His hand thrust out of its own accord just before Ratboy’s hands could reach him.

  The sharp, jagged end of the branch burrowed into the center of Ratboy’s chest before either of them could grasp what had happened. A small spray of warm, black-red blood spattered Leesil’s jaw and ear as he tried to roll out of the way.

  Ratboy screamed in shock and what sounded like fear. The undead stumbled back, wildly clawing at the branch in his chest.

  “Leesil! Where are you?”

  Those words had come from out of the forest, not from the beggar boy’s gaping mouth.

  Magiere was somewhere in the trees. Relief flooded Leesil’s mouth like water, but he found shouting impossible.

  “Here,” he tried to call. “I’m here.”

  One of Ratboy’s hands found its way around the branch, and he pulled it out. But he behaved nothing like he had when he’d pulled a crossbow quarrel from his body. He was choking, and blood poured, rather than leaked, from his body. He alternately gagged and whimpered, pressing both hands over the hole in his chest.

  “I hit your heart, didn’t I?” Leesil managed to whisper. “I didn’t pierce it completely, but I hit it. What happens when you bleed out? Will you fall limp, too weak to move, and lie in fear till the sun rises?”

  Ratboy gargled spitting sounds and stared at him in panic. Approaching footsteps could be heard, and Chap’s growls. The undead made a limping run for the trees away from the approaching sounds.

  Ratboy disappeared through one side of the clearing as Chap burst through from the other. Magiere was close behind the dog. Through a haze of exhaustion, Leesil felt a tongue licking his face and Magiere’s hands on him, searching for injury.

  “Are you cut?” she asked. Then she asked louder again when he didn’t answer immediately, “Are you cut?”

  “Go after him,” he whispered. “Hurry.”

  “No, I’m getting you home.”

  “Brenden,” he said. “We have to warn him.”

  She offered him neither comfort nor sympathy, but he heard the edge of hysterical sorrow in her voice. “Brenden’s dead.”

  The underbrush grew thicker as Ratboy approached the small inlet river which hid the landlocked boat. Pain such as mortals feel did not plague him, but fear and exhaustion as he’d never known slowed his pace. All he could think of was Rashed and the boat and finding help. His lifeblood—taken from the tan-armed girl—covered every leaf and nettle he passed over. He had no idea how large the hole in his chest might be, but the entire front of his shirt was soaked.

  How? How had the mortal half-elf injured him again?

  Ratboy used the trees to support himself as he lurched forward, desperate to find his own kind, no longer caring about pride nor the shame of needing assistance.

  Through the dense, deep green around him, the smell of life hit his nostrils. He tensed in confusion, and then an unfortunate deer hopped almost directly in front of him. Large, liquid eyes and a flash of white tail registered in his vision, and he rushed forward on instinct, screaming out in desperation as he grabbed the creature by the head and bit into its neck.

  The deer kicked hard and dragged him a short way, but the terror of true death coming for him made his strength maniacal. He hung on with his arms and rolled his body, pulling the beast over to the ground. The animal weakened and began to grow limp in his arms. Feeding on animals was a pale shadow in comparison to people. An animal’s life energy did not fill him with satisfaction or contentment, but it still offered life and healing. He released the animal as it died.

  Panic subsided. The opening in his chest closed just enough for his own bleeding to stop. He left the deer where it lay, its eyes wide open, and headed for the boat again.

  Now that true death was not imminent, his state of mind changed. He was uncomfortable and embarrassed by his previous fear—and his need for Rashed. Undeads lived in each other’s company out of choice, not need.

  The wild, clean life force of the deer flowed through him, unfettered by the complexity of relationships and emotional attachments. He felt the heart of the forest beat inside his ears, even though his own stopped beating many years ago. Wolves howled and an owl hooted.

  Did he wish to hide inside the belly of a boat for weeks while Rashed forced them all to sail until settling in a new town—but just like this one? Would they build another warehouse and pretend to live as mortals?

  Ratboy slowed his pace. He looked down at his chest and then ripped off what was left of his shirt. Torn flesh met his inspection. The blood of a mortal would finish healing him. Again, he wondered about the best course of action.

  Teesha had wanted to flee.

  Rashed wanted to stay and fight.

  Both their motivations were becoming clear. Rashed wanted revenge and to make certain Teesha would be permanently safe from the hunter. Teesha just wanted to keep Rashed away from that hunter. But what about him? What about Ratboy? Did he matter to them at all? He had stayed with them all these years because he’d never really liked living alone, but standing there in the forest, looking at his wounded chest, he wondered if he hadn’t been alone the whole time.

  “Do not be one of them,” a mad but familiar voice breathed in his ear.

  He cast about wildly, but saw no one. He knew the voice. Unbidden, images of Parko danced in t
he darkness, and he longed for the freedom to hunt and kill and feed as the need drove him.

  The white face and feral laugh of his old companion followed when he started moving again. And where was Parko’s body now? At the bottom of a river because some hunter put it there—the same one who now hunted him.

  He heard the sound of a hammer pounding on wood and moved up quietly behind a tree. The mild inlet river gushed softly as it flowed past, and Rashed stood not far away with his own shirt off, attempting to repair the hole in the boat’s hull.

  Rashed’s white skin was the only unnatural element of his appearance. The heavy bones of his bare shoulders and the practiced swing of his mallet seemed completely human, completely mortal. Other tools and boards lay on the ground, waiting to be used.

  “Is he a true Noble Dead?” Parko’s dead voice whispered in Ratboy’s ear.

  “No.” Ratboy shook his head. He stepped back, realizing the futility of Rashed’s actions, the pointless danger of remaining to fight this hunter, the regret of leaving Teesha behind.

  There was no indecision, no real turmoil inside him anymore. He wasn’t going back. The forest called him. He could kill along the way, steal clothes from his victims, and be true to his own nature.

  One last pang of longing passed through him as he thought again of Teesha. Then he disappeared into the trees . . . heading north.

  Even though the hole in the ship’s hull was small, Rashed was beginning to realize he’d never be able to mend it himself without proper supplies—and even then it would take several nights to make her seaworthy. He’d ripped some boards from the deck and attempted to use them for hull repairs. At first the work pleased him, as it gave him something constructive to do and reminded him that he indeed controlled his own fate. Now he decided a different course of escape might be in order. If they could travel by road at night to the next town along the coastline, he could buy them passage on a ship.

  He frowned. That would take money. He had counted on being able to delay concern over finances.