Avador Book 2, Night Shadows

by Martin, Shirley

  Even though the shops were located in one of the seedier sections of the city, she didn't worry about going there at this hour of the morning. At night, well, that was a different story. Word was that Queen Keriam wanted to clean up this part of the city, but the landlords refused to pay the taxes necessary for the rejuvenation.

  She loved this time of year when the heat of summer gave way to the cooler air of autumn, and the leaves changed from green to orange, gold, and red.

  Along the narrow alley, she passed a second-hand bookstore, a candle shop, and a store that sold nothing but men's under-tunics, but there were no trees, no bushes, nothing to add beauty to the street. She noticed that most of the shops were opening now, men raising the awnings, others mopping the cobblestones in front of their shops from buckets of soapy water, as if to compensate for the stores' location in such a derelict area. Two cats snarled over a scrap of garbage, a mangy dog trotting along the avenue.

  Looking ahead, she saw–a pile of rags? No! A man languished on the street a few yards away. A vagrant, no doubt, a man who'd passed out after one drink too many. Afraid her guess might be wrong, and that he was dead, she warily approached the body on the street. She wondered why the shop owners had not checked on the man but assumed they were used to seeing drunks here in this alley. She knelt beside him and sniffed but didn't catch the smell of liquor. The man lay still, so still, no rise and fall of his chest. Her heartbeat quickened, her fear intensifying. Goddess! He couldn't be dead. And look at his skin–so white, as if all the blood had been drained from his body. Gingerly, she shook his shoulders but got no response. And he was cold, so cold. Bile rose in her throat and she swallowed hard. The street tilted around her.

  She waited several moments for her dizziness to pass, then rose on shaky legs. Trudging back the way she had come, she searched for one of the city's sentries to report the dead man.

  After that, she would go to the magistrate's office to report Gaderian.

  * * *

  Leaving the village of Tir Conaill far behind, Gaderian headed back to Moytura, approaching the Nantosuelta River. Oaks, pines, and hemlocks lined both riverbanks, a pleasant, piney aroma filling the air. Clouds hid the moon and stars, and a strong northerly wind sent tree branches thrashing. He reached a bridge that spanned the river, the horse's hooves clattering over the wooden boards, then onto the hard ground again. For too long, he had been away from the capital, away from Fianna. He had yet to discover the bandregas' secret, what gave them their ability to look human, their skill in practicing black magic. He knew from centuries past that a tribe of bandregas had inhabited a village close to Tir Conaill, this at a time when they had remained genuine demons, before they had developed the ability to assume human form. Other such hamlets existed in Avador, when the demons had been banished from mortal centers. Yet he had found these old villages empty of habitation, human or demons. The knowledge that Moreen was searching for the bandregas' secret gave him a glimmer of hope that between the two of them, they were bound to discover a clue. He considered enlisting the help of others among the undead, but decided against it. Too many of them talked loosely, revealing secrets, and quite possibly word would reach the bandregas that the vampires searched to discover their secrets.

  Hunger gnawed at him, a burning, tormenting need. The craving weakened him, but he dared not stop. He must see Fianna again, ensure that she was safe. As a cloud slid away from the moon, he looked up at the sky and guessed the time, mindful that Fianna would soon end her work day. Surely Stilo wouldn't attempt seduction of this dear woman again. Surely he had learned his lesson.

  Tempted to stop by his home on the outskirts of the city, he decided against it. He must see Fianna again. And he must feed.

  The spires of the city's temples came into view as he cantered down a rocky, woodsy hill, the city's streets and edifices laid out before him, as clear as daylight. The Gorm Forest loomed to the north, a vast area of pines and hemlocks.

  A recent rain slicked the city's cobblestones, the streets devoid of people. He slowed his horse to a walk as he approached one of the city's stables. The smell of horses and fresh hay floated up his nostrils as he entered the structure, most of the animals asleep while standing. After giving instructions to the stable boy, Gaderian walked on, headed for the Snow Leopard. He glanced all around him and saw no one, just frame apartment houses and a few cheap shops, their windows closed and shuttered.

  His hunger intensified, his weakness slowing his steps. He had to feed–now! He needed to find someone—

  A man stepped out from the shadows and grabbed him from behind. A bite on his neck, a sizzling pain like acid, sent him falling. The world spun around him.

  With his last bit of strength, he looked up to see his assailant. He gasped as he saw wolf-like features and furry hands.

  A bandrega!

  Chapter Thirteen

  "Gaderian has been asking for you." A woman stood in the doorway of Fianna's scrying room, looking worried. Her voice–so familiar! Ah, yes, the woman she'd heard talking to Gaderian. Fianna kept silent, allowing herself time to think. Why was Gaderian asking for her? And why did it hurt so much to see this other woman, his lover? She wished she could drive him from her mind, this man who haunted her dreams and teased every waking hour.

  "Madam?" She strode into the room, a beautiful woman with silvery hair, a black velvet dress hugging her curvaceous body. No wonder Gaderian loved her.

  Fianna forced herself to speak. "Gaderian? And who are you?"

  The woman sat down across from her. "Forgive me for not introducing myself. My name is Moreen, and I'm a friend of Gaderian's."

  More than a friend, oh, so much more. Fianna shook her head, an indefinable haziness hindering her ability to think clearly, Stilo's allurement she thought she had conquered.. A plethora of emotions fused inside her head, Gaderian's betrayal foremost. He was a vampire, a fact he had never revealed to her. But why should Gaderian's affection for this woman matter to her now? He was one of the undead, out of her life forever. If Gaderian was the enemy, why did her heart beat faster at the mere mention of his name?

  Moreen leaned forward, looking increasingly worried. Her low decolletage revealed full breasts. "Gaderian is very sick. He wants so much to see you." Her nails were beautifully manicured, shining silver in the dim light, to match her hair.

  "Sick?" Fianna didn't know vampires suffered illnesses. Yesterday returned in full force, the dead man on the street, her report to the city sentry. She'd headed for the magistrate's office to inform on Gaderian, but at the last moment, she couldn't go through with it, and why, she didn't know. Did she still love Gaderian, this man who had betrayed her? You can't just turn love on and off; that much she knew. She folded her hands on the table and forced herself to speak calmly. "What illness does he suffer from? And where is he?"

  "Last question first. He has taken shelter in a cave–"

  "A cave!" The same cavern in which she had first met him?

  "I'll let him tell you why he chose a cave to take refuge in. And he can explain his illness." Moreen stood. "Come, we are wasting time. I've hired two horses at the stable, healthy mares. You must come with me. Believe me, he is quite ill. I'll let him explain everything to you. But please, we must hurry." She hesitated. "You do ride, don't you?"

  "For years, since I was a child." More worried by the minute, she pushed her chair back and stood. "Give me but a few moments to tend to matters here."

  Leaving Moreen, Fianna headed for her room, there to return her mirror and money box to her dresser. She grabbed a woolen shawl from a drawer and tied it across her chest, then left the room, locking the door behind her and pocketing the key. At the tavern counter, she spoke a few words with Noel, the man who took Cedric's place at night, explaining that an emergency had arisen, a very sick friend. Noel gave his reluctant permission but advised he expected her to work a full day on the morrow.

  A short walk on the rain-swept cobblestones, past the other inns and tav
erns and an occasional shop, took Moreen and Fianna to a spacious stone stable with a few small windows. The aroma of fresh hay and horses permeated the air. Recognizing Moreen, the stable boy led the mares out, two fine-looking animals already saddled and bridled. From the mounting block, they mounted their horses and the boy adjusted the stirrups, then they rode away under an overcast sky, past the shops and warehouses on the southern edge of the city. Thunder rumbled in the west, a thick bank of clouds blocking the moon and stars. Along the way, they passed the mansions of the wealthy, these three-story structures of stone and brick with their spacious lawns and beautiful greenery.

  First trotting the mares, they increased their speed after leaving the capital, then galloped the rest of the distance. Her hair whipped behind her, the wind against her face. Fianna felt the horse's muscles bunching beneath her, its mane flying back. How good it was to be riding again, although she lamented the reason for the journey. They splashed over mud puddles as they ascended rock-strewn hills and descended into deep valleys, the horses' hooves pounding on the ground as they covered miles. Oak trees and earthberry bushes lined both sides of the dirt road; a fresh, woodsy scent filled the air. Here and there cottages nestled on small plots of land, and sometimes large farms commanded acres rich with crops ready for harvest. A owl hooted from a tree, and foxes took refuge among bushes at their approach.

  "Almost there," Moreen said, now slowing her horse to a canter.

  Fianna slowed her horse, too, but remained silent, seeing all the familiar trees and bushes, aware they headed for the cave where she had first seen Gaderian. Memories came flooding back, of her first meeting with him, of his kiss. Despite the rush of warmth inside her, she thrust the recollections aside, knowing there could never be anything between them. He was a killer of humans, a creature she must learn to hate. If only she could.

  They trotted the mud-splashed horses up a grassy hill and stopped outside the cave, then tied the reins to an oak branch. Darkness covered the land, the moon in hiding, not a star to be seen. A wolf howled in the distance, and a chorus of howls answered.

  "Take my hand," Moreen advised, "sharp drops and dips inside here."

  Clasping Moreen's hand, Fianna found the woman's skin ice-cold, like winter snow.

  Moreen led the way, moving with sure-footed confidence inside the cavern's craggy interior as they followed the twists and turns, from one chamber to the next. Water dripped from overhead, and Fianna heard gushing waters in the distance as they moved cautiously along.

  "Moreen?" Gaderian's voice sounded weak, without its usual rich timbre. His voice echoed through the chamber.

  "Fianna is with me," Moreen answered as they approached. A flaming torch thrust in the limestone wall lit Gaderian's prone body, his hands crossed over his chest. "I'll leave her alone with you and wait outside the cave. First, I'll take the horses to the stream so they can drink. I'll return in a little while."

  Alone with Gaderian, Fianna was torn by emotions as the torchlight cast flickering shadows over his body, making him look whiter than chalk at one moment, and the next, giving his body a faint gray color. Still hurt by his betrayal–for concealing the truth about himself–just the same, a burst of sympathy gripped her upon seeing his weakened state. She sat down on the cold limestone floor, confused about his illness, about her feelings for him, and waited for him to speak.

  "Fianna." He reached his hand toward her but she refused to take it, opting instead to face him head on. Yet she wanted to take his hand, to know the feel of his skin, to have contact with this one man she could never forget, no, not in a thousand years. His voice was weak, the sharp lines and planes of his face more pronounced than ever.

  "I wasn't aware vampires got sick." Speaking the word "vampire" made her breath catch in her throat, her skin shivering. She had to remain calm, never let him see how merely the sight of him made her want to lie down next to him.

  A surprised look claimed his face, and he shot her a questioning glance. "How did you find out that I am a vampire?"

  "Scrying, of course, and I should have figured what you were when I first scried for you. But you weren't honest with me, were you?"

  He sighed. "I knew . . . knew about the reward posted for turning in a vampire." He quirked a smile. "Do you know, I took that sign down when I first saw it, but it went back up again. As for not telling you, I couldn't take the chance. I wanted you to accept me for what I am, as one who . . . cares for you, very much."

  She let that remark about caring pass, instead addressing his illness. "How did you become sick?" And when will you get well? she wanted to ask. But he had pained her too much with his deception, for not telling her what he was, and she wanted to hurt him back. He loved another woman, so remained forever out of reach. She wished it didn't hurt so much.

  "First let me tell you that Moreen found me about an hour after I was attacked, else who knows what might have happened to me. A bandrega–"

  "Bandrega?" There were no such creatures.

  "A bandrega bit me. I was weak from hunger, unable to fight back." He looked long and

  hard at her, a look of pleading on his face, but defiance too, as if daring her to challenge his words.

  "Bandregas! Tales to scare children. They disappeared from Avador long ago. No doubt they are living in Fomoria or Partholonia now." She snorted. "You'll have to think of something better than that."

  "Please believe me!" He reached for her hand again, his skin as cold as the limestone, then dropped it as he sank back on the stone floor. "The bandregas are demons, walking and living among us now. They have magical powers beyond comprehension."

  A painful bitterness roiled inside her. "You expect me to believe this?" She shifted her position, her backside numb from sitting on the cold cavern floor. "How can you expect me to accept what you say?"

  He gazed at her in poignant misery. "Because you mean so much to me." She opened her mouth to speak, but he rushed on. "I have never lied to you."

  "Never? A matter of interpretation. You haven't told me the truth."

  He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. "I already explained why I didn't tell you everything about me. I didn't want to lose you."

  "You never had me," she said with brutal frankness. She immediately regretted her harsh words but would not stop now. Certain his illness was temporary, she sought to get even with him. "Stilo loves me and wants to marry me." She assumed an expression of serene acceptance. "I'm considering his proposal."

  "Stilo!" He jerked up, then winced with pain as he lay back down. His face held a look of agony. "Stilo?"

  "Yes, the same." Shadows flickered across the limestone, bestowing a ghostly quality on the cave. Disorientation still hazed her brain, prompting her to wonder if this was all a dream.

  He laid his arm across his forehead. "Marry Stilo? You can't mean that." His voice sounded distant, then closer, and she questioned if it was her haziness or his illness that created that impression.

  "What if I do?" She nodded toward the entrance. "Anyway, you have a lover." Water dripped from overhead, and she moved a few feet back.

  "Moreen is a friend, one I have known for centuries. We were lovers at one time, yes, but no more."

  Fianna said nothing, letting the silence speak for her. What if he was telling the truth? If he was, the truth made all the difference in the world, but it still didn't mean that he loved her.

  He drew one leg up close to his body, then stretched it out again, grimacing with pain. "You must not marry Stilo. He–"

  "Must not," she interjected. "Who are you to tell me what I must and must not do?"

  "–he is a vampire, also."

  "Impossible!" She glanced around, wanting to leave, but she couldn't see beyond the torchlight.

  Gaderian narrowed his eyes. He leaned closer, a look of purpose on his face. "Please, Fianna, I beg of you. Don't marry Stilo."

  She bristled with resentment. "Don't tell me what to do. My life is my own now. For once, I'
m not dependent on anyone. My decision is mine alone."

  He looked up at her. "Have you ever scried for Stilo? No, I can see by your expression you haven't. Do it, then, when you return to the Snow Leopard. And please stay away from him."

  Memories chased themselves in her brain, of her and Stilo, but Gaderian, too. Vague images penetrated her mind, of the festival and Stilo, the recollections leaving her more bewildered than ever. And something about an elevator. She shook her head to clear it, agonizing that she was going out of her mind.

  "One thing I wish you would promise me, that you'll stay away from Stilo."

  "Why should I?"

  A pleading note crept into his voice. "Because I'm asking you to."

  She shook her head. "Not a good enough reason."

  He sighed. "For now, please do as I ask you. And when you get back to the tavern, take a look in your scrying mirror. See what you discover about Stilo." He spoke forcefully. "Be strong, Fianna. Fight him. Don't let him lure you again."

  She let his remarks pass as he changed his position on the hard limestone. Still muzzy-headed, she had a sense that she was someone else, looking down at her body. She pondered what was real—what existed in the here and now—and what was her imagination. The silence stretched, an awkwardness that left her bereft and confused. Above all, she didn't know what to believe about Stilo.

  "I still don't understand about your illness," Fianna remarked to change the subject. "Whether or not bandregas exist," she said with a wave of her hand, "in what way are you sick? What are your symptoms?"

  He moved his hand restlessly across his chest. "Weak, so weak. A burning ache in every muscle, a pain in every joint. And nauseated." He sighed heavily. "Caught unaware, when I was already so weak and hungry."