Avador Book 2, Night Shadows

by Martin, Shirley

  Moreen faced him. "Let's see if I can help you. Since I'm not attached to anyone," she said with a knowing smile, "my time is my own. I come and go as I please. I'll do anything I can to learn more about these demons."

  A sense of optimism lifted his spirits. "Ah, then, Moreen, we will both defeat the monsters."

  * * *

  Done fortune-telling for the night, Fianna left the scrying room and walked down the hallway, into the dining room. Her mind on Gaderian and his deception, her gaze fell on Stilo. She had managed to avoid him since his previous ensnarement that Gaderian had interrupted–thank the Goddess. Catching Stilo's eyes on her, she felt a magnetic pull, conscious that he was attempting to lure her again. This time, he would fail; she would fight him with every breath in her body. She must move cautiously, pretend that he succeeded with his bewitchment.

  Wanting to avoid him now, she knew that was a hollow wish. She should have stayed in her room but as usual, wanted to get a bit of fresh air after scrying for so many hours. Besides, she hadn't seen Stilo for a long time and had assumed he would stay away from the tavern. But she was wrong. She hesitated for only a moment before making her way to his table and smiling brightly, as if nothing extraordinary had happened between them.

  Stilo eased out a chair for her. "Angharad," he said with a slight bow, "always a pleasure to see you. You enliven my evening."

  His gaze, focused and sensuous, remained fixed on her, his eyes beckoning, luring. For only a moment, she turned away, aware she must fight his magic, must never let him ensnare him again. Could she pretend? she agonized. Could she act as if she had fallen under his spell? She saw no other course, but even as she vowed to resist his magic, a haziness fuzzed her brain, a sensation of floating above the table and looking down at herself. She stared at her fingers on the table, resolved to fight him.

  "–a drink?"

  She blinked her eyes and looked his way. "Sorry, I didn't hear what you said." Talmora, she had to defeat his efforts.

  His voice carried a note of assumed patience. "I asked if you wanted a drink."

  "No thank you." A drink would only weaken her further, and she needed all her faculties to persevere. She turned her head as one of the patrons a few tables away plucked on his lute and softly sank a plaintive melody, one that was popular in Avador and often sung by the minstrels.

  She smiled at Stilo, acting as if all was normal, as though she wanted nothing more than to remain in his company. She breathed hard as she dug deep her soul, her very self, for an inner strength to resist him.

  "You look lovely tonight." He raised his tankard to his mouth, the full force of his gaze on her.

  "You look rather handsome yourself." And he did look handsome, she thought, afraid she was succumbing to his charm. The noise and laughter of the room faded away, replaced by a disorientation that undermined her every sense and left her groping for reality. Countless moments passed between them, a time she could tell he was projecting all his charm magic to win her over, so that she would want no one but him. But he would not, must not, succeed.

  Best to divert him. "I've never scried for you. Don't you want your fortune told? I'll do it for free." She offered him a teasing smile even while a miasma of confusion pulled her down.

  "I already know my fortune," he said with absolute assurance.

  His answer surprised her. "You do?"

  A few tables remained occupied as talk drifted around but she sensed a constant tug on her mind. She felt as though she was floating in the corridors of perception, unsure what was real and what was make-believe, as she searched for an anchor of actuality.

  Stilo's words wrenched her back. "I'll fall in love with the most beautiful woman in Avador, and she'll fall in love with me. And then . . ."

  "And then?" she prompted, swimming against the tide of his blandishments but resolved to reach the shore of sensibility, the here and now.

  "It remains to be seen if she'll marry me, but that is my most fervent wish." He drained his tankard and set it down, his look heavy with beguilement.

  She forced herself to hesitate, aiming for her goal to think that she fell for his bewitchment. "Who is this woman? Someone I know?"

  He leaned closer on the table, speaking in low tones. A lock of blond hair fell across his forehead, and he shoved the hair back with his blunt fingers. "Fianna, when is the last time you looked into a mirror, a looking glass?"

  "My mother once said the same thing, but my lips are too full." A wave of nostalgia for her home, her mother, further debilitated her.

  "Your lips are just as I like them, the better to kiss."

  "And my nose turns up."

  "You have a lovely nose. And beautiful eyes I can never forget." His expression changed from deep intensity to calm detachment. "Gaderian Wade . . .," he began.

  "A casual acquaintance, nothing more." What was Stilo's game now? Why had he introduced Gaderian into the conversation? She injected conviction into her voice. She could not let Stilo guess her feelings for Gaderian, even while she realized there could be no future between her and Gaderian, nothing at all.

  "He's a fickle man," Stilo said, "flitting from one woman to another. He never remains faithful to one woman."

  Yes, she recognized the truth of Stilo's comment, one more reason why she had to avoid Gaderian. Goddess, how it hurt. She swallowed a painful lump in her throat.

  She drew herself up straight in her chair, striking a balance in her struggle to shrug off Stilo's allurement and at the same time, pretend she had succumbed. "Well, Gaderian means nothing to me. At one time, yes. But the man I love must love only me, be faithful to me." That much, at least, was true.

  He placed his hand on his heart. "And surely you know the woman I claim as my own will have my sole allegiance, my faithfulness for all time. I'm a one-woman man, Fianna, please believe this."

  Believe him? Never!

  She threw him a loving glance and placed her hand atop his. Almost, he made her believe every word he said, almost, but not quite. A battle still raged within her, a struggle for her heart and mind, for her very self. But something told her she was winning this struggle, that if she tried hard enough and projected everything within her–everything that made her Fianna Murtaugh–she would conquer this weakness and emerge stronger for her victory. And never let him guess his failure.

  She glanced around and found that all the tables stood empty now, the rest of the patrons gone. She turned back to him, her eyes meeting his, her mind and soul fighting, fighting, fighting, his bewitchment.

  And winning.

  Chapter Twelve

  Stilo stepped out into the dark night, unsure about his seduction of Fianna. Had he succeeded? He'd seen the loving look in her eyes, felt the warmth of her skin in her touch. Granno's balls, how he wanted her in his bed. But when he did bed her, ah, when he had her lying beneath him, she would be his sex slave, his to give him pleasure in every way he could imagine. Just thinking about whipping her excited him almost beyond endurance. He liked to see two women making love, and he knew the very woman to pair with Fianna, one with full breasts and buxom hips. Ah, what a pair they would make!

  His thoughts switched to Gaderian Wade. Stilo knew his own powers had increased since his last visit to the sacred well at Magh Eamhainn. And if Wade dared to go after him to kill him, one bite from the vampire would render him–Stilo—invisible. Let Wade try to capture him then!

  Could Wade save Fianna again? The question taunted him, a reminder that Fianna was not yet his. He clenched his jaw, wanting to kill the vampire now, stab him over and over and burn him to ashes. Torn between fear that Gaderian might rescue Fianna again and the knowledge that he must move slowly with the mortal woman, he vowed he would bide his time but never falter in his pursuit.

  Stilo ignored the night sounds, the footfalls of the tramps who roamed the streets, his every thought on Fianna. He wondered if she even suspected that Wade was a vampire. But what reason would she have for her suspicion? Clever cre
atures, the undead, but not as powerful as the bandregas. An idea popped in his head; why hadn't it occurred to him before? Next time he saw Fianna–soon!–he'd plant the idea in her mind that Wade was a vampire. Well, it was the truth. Goddess damn all the vampires, the bastards!

  Never mind that Stilo himself was part vampire; Fianna would never guess. More and more, he found his bandrega half growing stronger, giving him ascendancy over any of the undead that might challenge him. Soon, he hoped to gain the ability to endure the sunlight and not need to live only by night. Before long, he wouldn't need blood for sustenance but would prefer great quantities of red meat, like the other bandregas.

  A hint of hunger teased him, and although he had fed recently, another desire tormented him–he needed to kill, kill, kill! But not here. Far better to go where he would find his victim alone. He strode on, his boot heels clicking on the cobblestones. He passed other taverns until he reached Vernunna's Alley, where the cheaper shops resided, a section of the city where rats ruled the night, and stray cats fought over garbage. Queen Keriam wanted to clean up this part of the city by taxing absentee landlords to pay for improvements. Hah! Fat chance! Anyway, the city's appearance meant nothing to him.

  Relief poured into Stilo as he saw a lone vagrant trudging the stinking alley, the tramp in tattered clothes, a look of apprehension on his face when he spied Stilo. He gloated as the man's steps slowed. I'm going to suck him dry, drain all the life from him.

  Stilo approached the vagrant. "Say, friend, it looks as if I'm lost. New to the city, trying to learn my way around. An acquaintance wanted me to visit him tonight, keeps late hours, don't you know. Lives on Granno's Way. Can you tell me where that is?"

  The tramp reeked of alcohol. "Ah, Granno's Way," he said, pointing off to the south. "That's where all the rich folks–"

  Quick as lightning, Stilo grabbed the man and jerked his head back.

  "Ah!" A look of terror seized the tramp's face. Despite his struggles, Stilo held him tight. He bit into the fellow's throat, sucking, sucking the blood, that rich, restorative liquid that flowed through his veins and increased his strength. Even after he'd drunk more than enough and the man languished in his arms, as helpless as a blade of grass in a windstorm, Stilo continued to suck, heady with desire. His loins tightened, his body desperate for a woman. After he sucked the man dry and ended his foolish mortal life, Stilo dropped him to the ground, like a sack of chicken feed.

  He needed a woman, and he knew just the place where he could find the one he wanted, the girl who knew how to please him. Engorged with blood and lust, he headed for Pleasure Alley. Looking down at his protruding tunic, he forced himself to dampen his passion. Plenty of time for fornication in a short while.

  A few minutes later, he reached his destination where pleasure houses lined the street, some fancy, some plain. Scantily clad women advertised their charms outside the houses, calling to the men who passed by, pulling their dresses lower at their bosoms and higher at their thighs. Ignoring them, Stilo entered the most splendid house on the street, where red velvet curtains graced one wide window, and gold-plated oil lamps hung from the ceiling, casting shadows on the purple walls. Several girls in transparent dresses sat on a red velvet sofa, looking at him expectantly, but he didn't see the one he wanted.

  "Morna," Stilo barked as the madam approached him.

  Clad in a tight black satin gown, her face caked with makeup and bright red lipstick, the madam smiled apologetically. "Ah, Stilo Mongan, one of our best customers. But I must tell you that Morna is no longer here."

  "Not here!" A crush of disappointment sank his spirits. Morna knew every trick to please a man. "Why not? Where did she go?" Anger heated his face.

  The smile never left the madam's face. "Would you believe she married a very wealthy man who did not want to share her charms with another. Wanted her only for himself. But we have many other girls here who know all the tricks to please a man. Take Lavena, for instance, one of our most popular girls," she said, indicating a blonde woman on the sofa.. Still reeling with fury, Stilo followed her gesture. "We've had no complaints about her," she said as the blonde woman sashayed forward and hooked her arm through his. Since Stilo didn't draw his arm away, the madam took that as his acquiescence and smiled obsequiously. "Enjoy yourself."

  Stilo nodded. "Pay you later."

  Clad in a gown that revealed all her charms, the blonde girl–her hair obviously died--led him up the winding stairs, swinging her hips with each step.

  Fueled with desire and frustrated with disappointment, Stilo followed the girl up the stairs, to a room a few doors down a long carpeted hallway.

  The room stank of the heady scent of patchouli. Mirrors covered the walls, pink silk curtains at the window. Lavena closed the door behind her, giggling and swaying her hips provocatively. She drew her gown over her head, revealing wide hips and full breasts, just as he liked them. Without a word, Stilo picked her up and threw her on the bed. Wearing no under-tunic, he lay atop her and plunged himself inside her, finding release within seconds. He waited a few moments for his lust to return. He moved inside her again, slowly this time, then faster, faster. Passion exploded inside him, going on and on, the best orgasm he'd ever had. Moments passed before he withdrew, wondering if he could try for another fornication.

  Throughout the years, Stilo had found a thin line existed between lust and wrath. His fury at Wade's rescue of Fianna returned, coupled with fear that the vampire might succeed again. He burned with anger, a pulsing, living thing, a need for vengeance. He raised himself from the girl and pressed his fingers against her throat, at the same time holding his hand against her mouth. He delighted in seeing her bulging eyeballs, her reddening face. She struggled and pushed him, gasping helplessly against his hand, unable to prevail against him. Moments later, she collapsed against the pillow, her body still, her eyes staring upward. Stilo rose from the bed and adjusted his tunic. He left the room and trod down the stairs, a pleasant smile fixed on his face while he nodded to the madam.

  A satisfying night, he mused as he left the pleasure house, a compensation for past failures. He walked out into the darkness, aware that he would escape punishment. No one at the pleasure house knew where he lived, and he would surely never come back here again.

  * * *

  Sunlight flooded Fianna's room as she awoke the following morning. A hint of disorientation teased her mind, a disquiet she thrust aside, too well aware a remnant of Stilo's enchantment remained within her. With all her resolve, she threw off his enscorcellement as she slipped off her nightgown, and tossed his bewitchment aside on the ash heap of failed endeavors.

  And Gaderian? The question lurked at the edge of her consciousness, like a sore that wouldn't go away. She could never love nor marry a vampire, a man who killed others for sustenance. She wondered if she had the nerve to apprize the authorities of Gaderian's vampirism. Could she do that to him, mindful that he would suffer a stake through the heart and possibly public burning? Revulsion at the prospect of his cruel death grappled with the knowledge that vampires killed mortals by sucking all the blood from their bodies. Let the vampires be captured and die, then. They deserved it.

  She stared at herself in the mirror on the wall, as if seeing herself for the first time. Who was she, and what did she want from life? First thing, she wanted independence, what she had sought since leaving home and had found here in Moytura. Besides that, she wanted stability, to settle down and stay in one place. As always, memories of her mother and brother taunted her, a torment that never ceased. A sob caught in her throat, a desperate wish to leave the capital and return home, to see her mother and visit her brother in Sligo. Would she ever see them again? No, not while Angus Kendall remained a menace, a hateful interference in her life.

  She turned away, aware she had much to do this day and little time in which to accomplish her errands before her workday began. For one thing, she intended to pick up a dress at a shop on Vernunna's Alley. Now that cooler weather h
ad arrived, she'd need warmer clothes, and the seamstress at the dress shop had told her the frock would be ready today. One dress was all she could afford now.

  If she still had time, she thought as she splashed water on her face and hands at her basin, she intended to visit Moytura's Treasury of Knowledge to check out one or two books. She enjoyed reading and indulged in that pleasurable pastime in her few spare moments. She combed her hair with her silver comb and tied the locks back with a green silk ribbon. Finished dressing, she headed for the main dining room.

  As usual at this time of day, most of the tables in the dining room stood empty. Business at the Snow Leopard rarely picked up until late afternoon or early evening, when most laborers completed their day's work, the exception being special fair days and festivals, when customers crowded the tavern. Faint sunlight penetrated the stained glass windows, leaving the room in semi-darkness, but Cedric never lit the oil lamps until darkness had fallen, wanting to save on oil. After an exchange of friendly words, the waitress brought her a bowl of brose–boiled milk poured over barley mill, and flavored with honey. Fianna dipped her spoon into the brose but found it too hot. The tempting scent of cinnamon rose from her mug of steaming tea as she took a tentative sip of the spicy brew. Finding the tea too hot, too, she sat and waited a few moments for the tea and brose to cool a little. She attempted her cereal again and found it just right, neither too hot nor too cold. She finished the brose and drained her tea, noting that the room had brightened a little since she'd sat down.

  Done with her breakfast, Fianna pushed her chair back and left the tavern. Outside, the sun shone brightly although remnants of last night's rain puddled on the cobblestones. Stepping over the puddles, she made her way to the shop on Vernunna's Alley, a short walk from the tavern, along the twisted streets and alleys. Centuries ago, when the city had been constructed, foreign invasions were taken into account. Thus the city was built with a pattern of convoluted streets, to discourage invaders.