Avador Book 2, Night Shadows

by Martin, Shirley

  "Well, um, how do you feed now?"

  He smirked. "Haven't felt much like feeding, but when I do–" He motioned toward the cave entrance. "Moreen."

  "I see." She nodded, aware of the breach that separated them. "I'd better leave now," she said in a tone of finality. Goddess, her thoughts were scrambled, and she wondered if she'd ever straighten them out. She rose and brushed the limestone from her hands.

  As if she had sensed Fianna's discomfiture, or possibly felt it was time for Fianna to leave, Moreen appeared in the chamber where Gaderian lay and stopped in front of Fianna, throwing her a questioning look.

  Fianna nodded. "Best I get back to the tavern now."

  Within minutes, the vampiress led her from the cave. A light rain fell on their way back to Moytura, the rain matching her mood. Neither said a word.

  * * *

  After Fianna left, Gaderian cursed himself for his illness, and for being caught by a bandrega in the first place. Pain wracked his stomach, a torment he'd tried to hide in Fianna's presence but feared he hadn't succeeded. He hated his weakness, this incapacitation. Despite his optimistic words to her, he lamented when–or if–he would get better.

  He breathed deeply, catching her lilac scent that still lingered in the air. He recalled her sultry voice, her slender fingers and delicate hands, her skin so soft and warm, like cattail puffs on a hot summer day. He remembered the time from so long ago–eons!–when they had kissed and held each other so close in the meadow. In spite of his debilitating illness, a yearning stole over his body, a desire to make love to her, to make her his own. He closed his eyes, his imagination running free, and pictured all the ways they could make love, how to prove to her all that she meant to him. Passion gripped him, hard and strong, replacing the pain that tortured him.

  He had to get well soon, had to discover the bandregas' secret! He would find that out, damn it! Thank the Goddess Moreen would help search, too, promising she would cover as many cities and villages as possible, whatever was needed to discover the bandregas' secret. And when he–or she--did find out what gave the bandregas their powers, he would supplant Orrick, that feckless good-for-nothing, as leader of the undead. He must not permit his people to remain in danger. Already he'd heard of two of the undead, captured and imprisoned in the magistrate's dungeon. In time, they would go on trial, but how had they allowed themselves to get caught? Perhaps they had been captured in a moment of weakness, suffering from hunger, as he had been snared. More to the point, how would they prove their innocence once their trial came up?

  Gaderian clenched his hands at his sides. He had to get well soon, for his sake and Fianna's.

  Stilo. The name taunted his brain and drove him to madness. What was there about Stilo that set him apart from the other vampires? Why did his very essence arouse puzzlement, coupled with fury? Ah! It came to him then, like a sword stroke. He remembered Stilo's fingers–talons! He recalled taking a drunken Stilo home so many years ago, back to the man's apartment, when Stilo had been weak, his defenses down. The vision resounded in his head now, beating against his brain like thunderclaps–the sight of those talons. The image had disappeared so quickly, that Gaderian had thought at the time, he must have imagined it.

  Now he knew. Stilo was part bandrega.

  * * *

  Returned to her room at the Snow Leopard, Fianna sank onto her pallet and closed her eyes. Haziness obscured her thoughts, a feeling she wasn't quite anchored to the present, while images, mostly of Stilo, drifted in and out of her head. Now and then, a vision of Gaderian emerged, and with it, a wellspring of happiness. Pictures of Stilo flashed in her brain again, leaving her more puzzled than ever. Opening her eyes, she pressed her fingers to her forehead, trying to recall something Gaderian had told her to do, an important task she must fulfill.

  Ah, yes, Stilo. Gaderian had told her to scry, to find out what she could about Stilo.

  Fianna stood to get her mirror from the drawer, then sank back down on her pallet. She closed her eyes again and breathed evenly, shutting out all thoughts except those of Stilo. Silent moments passed before she opened her eyes and gazed at the black mirror, her mind still focused on Stilo. Pictures gradually appeared, his handsome, even features, a face she'd seen so many times. The pictures faded in and out while others took their place, of feral features, a long nose, and furry hands. She saw him in this form, biting into a human's neck and drinking blood. She gasped and rubbed her eyes, convinced this was another creature, not Stilo. She stared at the mirror again, once more glimpsing his handsome face, but ugly animal attributes surfaced once more, frightening pictures that made her heart pound. Nausea churned in her stomach, her skin snow-cold.

  Gasping, she dropped her mirror on the pallet, as if it were deadly poison. This can't be, can't be, can't . . . She swallowed hard, fearful she would vomit, her skin turning hot, then cold. She pressed her hand to her heart and took deep breaths, afraid–Talmora, so afraid!–to accept what her eyes told her.

  Stilo was part vampire, part bandrega.

  * * *

  "I'm going after her." Angus Kendall faced Kelvin Connor across the jeweler's desk. "She's in Moytura, I have no doubt. Why that fool of a messenger failed to find her is beyond me." He tapped his chest. "I'll find Fianna this time."

  Kelvin looked up from his desk. "I have more rings finished for you to deliver to the bandregas. As for Fianna–what if she's not in Moytura?"

  Irritation stirred inside Angus. "We've been through this before. Something tells me she is in the capital. But if not, I'll search every city, every village in Avador. No one gets away from me."

  Chapter Fourteen

  Fianna braced herself and walked out into the tavern's main dining room, her new woolen dress clinging to her ankles. She smiled at the men as she passed all the tables while her eyes teared in the clouds of smoke. For days after her visit to Gaderian in the cave, she had avoided Stilo, unsure how to handle him. She must face him and could no longer postpone their meeting. Yet she had to proceed cautiously, pretend that all was normal between them. If she didn't . . . her intuition told her Stilo could be dangerous when crossed, a warning sign she should have recognized long ago, upon first meeting him.

  Despite her efforts not to think about him, Gaderian dominated her thoughts. Had he recovered from his illness? She found herself thinking about him every day; the more she avoided Stilo, the more Gaderian teased her mind. But nothing would come of their friendship—and friendship their link would remain, for even if what Gaderian had told her was true, that it was the bandregas who were killing the mortals, she could never share her life with a vampire.

  Now that she had evicted Stilo from her thoughts, she realized she could manage very well on her own. She liked her independence, living her own life, making her own decisions.

  Fixing a smile on her face, she approached Stilo's table, the usual place by the front door where he always sat by himself. As soon as she looked his way, she felt a pull on her senses, a disorientation, as if she were two places at the same time. She took the chair he held for her and sat down, a haziness surrounding her. His musk scent overwhelmed her, and she wondered why she'd ever found it appealing.

  His eyes were penetrating, his gaze focused on the space between her eyes. "Why haven't I seen you here lately?"

  "Been working long hours," she hedged, aware that was a feeble excuse. She had always worked long hours here. Fight his spell. Don't let his magic overcome you.

  "But I haven't seen you here," he said, tapping the table. "Avoiding me?" He grinned, as if to take the edge off his words.

  "No, of course I haven't been avoiding you. My goodness, why should I? I've been very tired lately. Not sleeping well." She bit her bottom lip, regretting her last remark. He would wonder . . .

  He leaned forward, his elbows on the table. "Why haven't you been sleeping well? Thinking about me, no doubt. Wanting to bed me? You should be happy, about to be married soon." He reached for her hand, his skin cold and furr
y. Furry? Goddess! A tuft of brown hair fouled the back of his hand. She jerked hers away, furious with herself for being so obvious. She recalled his image in her mirror, his bandrega features. She tried not to shudder.

  "In the name of all the gods and goddesses, Fianna, what is the matter with you?" Curiosity defined his face, but anger, too.

  She glanced at his hand again and saw normal skin, a human hand. She thought quickly. "Sorry, it's . . . it's my moontime. Women often act oddly at that time, you know."

  "Oh, yes, I see." He shoved his hair back and stood. "Come, let's go outside for a while. This is no place for courting a lady."

  The last thing she wanted, but she dared not refuse. "All right, but only for a few minutes. It's late. I should go to bed soon."

  He held her chair back as she rose from her seat. "And I'll see that you do." Together, they left the tavern, she ignoring the grins and knowing looks from the other men. How can Stilo act such a gentleman, she agonized, when he is an evil demon? Yet she knew his charming manners were part of his magical powers, the ability to pretend to be something he wasn't, and to act with assurance.

  They walked out into the cool night air, a strong breeze from the north fluttering tree branches and sending dry leaves scraping along the cobblestones. He gripped her hand and she felt the pull of his magic with every breath she took, every drop of blood in her veins. At the same time, she sensed his ensorcellement was weaker now, or was it that she had developed stronger defenses?

  "Shall we walk to the river?" He looked up at the sky, where a multitude of stars stretched across the heavens, and a full moon cast its light on the land. "A clear night, no hint of rain."

  "Not to the river this time." She claimed the wooden bench where she often sat. "Not feeling well tonight . . . you know, what I explained earlier."

  He joined her on the bench. "Very well, if that's how you want it." She caught the edge to his voice and reminded herself she must remain alert. A shiver of fright raced down her spine.

  He turned her way, his eyes alight with craving. "If we are to marry, it's time we pleasured each other." Without another word, he jerked her into his arms and pressed a wet kiss on her mouth, a kiss as cold as mountain snow. Revulsion swept over her. She must not fight him, for she could never let him suspect her feelings, or lack of them. She had no choice but to let him think she returned his affection. His tongue plundered her mouth, driving in deep. He pressed his hand to her breast, squeezing so hard tears brimmed her eyes.

  "No!" She struggled in his grasp, but he persisted, reaching for her hand and setting in on his crotch. He held her hand down so that she couldn't draw back, pressing it down and releasing it, again and again, moaning with passion. He released his other hand from her breast and tried to push his hand past her thigh, but her position on the bench prevented his intent, thank the Goddess!

  This wasn't love; this was lust. Gasping, she tried to break loose, but he held her tight. His hand inched up her dress, past her thigh, his fingers aiming for her most feminine part. She panted and struggled in his arms, trying to push him away, but her efforts were as meaningless as pushing against a tree trunk.

  "Enough!" She feared she'd vomit.

  A tramp shuffled past and guffawed, the sound like thunder in the nighttime quiet. Stilo drew back, his face set in anger, his breath coming in hard gasps. He threw her a look of fury, as if she were to blame for their aborted lovemaking. Nevertheless, she silently thanked the vagrant for his interruption, because if he hadn't laughed at them, she would have screamed for help.

  Relief poured over her, coupled with a strong warning inside her head. She would never permit Stilo to guess how abhorrent she found his lovemaking. If this was lovemaking, she wanted no part of it.

  Fianna straightened her dress and sought serenity, even as her own breathing came in quick gasps and she struggled to hide her revulsion. Loathing and fear tangled inside her, a constant barrage that hindered clear thought. He kept his gaze on her, his expression accusing, even while deep passion lurked in his eyes. Smoothing her dress, she stood and he followed, his face twisted with frustration.

  She dipped deep into her mind for the right words that would veil her contempt and not betray her feelings. "Stilo, when we are wed, we can consummate our love and enjoy each other's bodies. Until then . . ." She let the sentence hang in the air, hoping with all her heart he would attribute her caution to modesty. Goddess, she could never marry this wretch.

  "Yes, yes, of course." He jerked his head in the direction of the tavern. "Come, let me walk you back."

  Fearful he would still catch her aversion to him, she set her hands on his shoulders and kissed him lightly on the lips. "When I'm your wife," she whispered, "we can make love like animals." He would never know what her pretense cost her.

  * * *

  After Fianna left him, Stilo kicked a street lamp, cursing his impulsiveness. Fool! Had he frightened her away? Worse, had she freed herself of his ensnarement?

  He vowed to stay away from her until the next moonphase, not too long from now. His powers always weakened at the end of each moonphase; indeed, that was true of all bandregas. Once they drank from the sacred well, they were rejuvenated, their capability restored. He counted the days until the next journey to Magh Eamhainn, agonizing that he couldn't wait that long. Yet he had no choice.

  Granno's balls! He needed a woman. His loins stiffened, his desire at a fever pitch. One thing he knew: his passion never lessened, no matter what day of the moonphase, unlike females, ruled by the moon. Dampening his ardor, he strode the cobblestones, heading for Pleasure Alley, but not the house he'd visited before, where he had killed the bitch. On second thought, best he avoid that street altogether, on the slim chance that one of the girls in the area might recognize him. Very well, then, he would prowl the alleys until he found a woman.

  He wandered the lonely cobblestones, looking for a woman, any woman, as he walked past cheap shops and businesses. Rats skittered along, and cats fought over piles of garbage. But no woman, damn them all to hell. Fierce anger coursed through him, melding with a sizzling desire that brooked no denial. About to succumb to his temptation and head for Pleasure Alley, after all, he saw a woman ahead of him on the street. Woman? No, a girl, no more than fifteen, he guessed as he shortened the distance between them. He caught her frightened expression, his excitement mounting. She switched directions and ran, but he quickly overtook her and grabbed her from behind. She screamed, but he clapped his hand over her mouth while he held her in an iron-tight grip and turned her around. A pretty girl, he mused, with blonde hair and dark eyes. Making helpless sounds beneath his hand, she threw him a look of entreaty, her eyes wide with terror.

  So excited he thought he would burst, he dragged her over to a darkened shop entrance, away from the street lamp. He threw her down on the street, her head banging on the cobblestones, and pushed his tunic up. Thrashing in his hold, she tried to fight him, kicking him in the shins, but he held her fast. He thrust himself inside her, disappointed but not surprised that she wasn't a virgin. These homeless girls often had to trade their favors for any food or clothing they could get. He gloried in her struggles as he plunged himself inside her again and again, finding his release all too soon.

  His hand still over her mouth, he fumed at the night's events–Fianna's snub of his advances and his fear that Gaderian Wade had warned her away from him for good. Damn the bastard! In furious reprisal, Stilo bit into the girl's throat and sucked, then kept on drinking until he knew there was little blood left, even while she struggled in his arms. Satiated, he dropped her lifeless body on the cobblestones and glanced every which way, making sure no one else walked the streets.

  Seeing no one, he strode on, headed for his apartment, Fianna tormenting his mind the whole way. As difficult as the prospect was, he decided to stay away from the tavern and thus avoid the beautiful scryer. He would wait until the next moonphase before seeing her again, after he had revived himself at Magh Eamhainn. E
ven as he made the resolution, he wondered if he could keep it. She was a fire in his blood, a burning need in his gut.

  At any rate, he had gained gratification this night, both sexual and corporeal. Not a bad night, after all.

  * * *

  Outside the deserted village of Magh Eamhainn, Moreen trotted her horse to a stop and slid off the beast, then tied the reins to an oak branch. Forested hills surrounded her in all directions, the night air cool but clear, with moonlight pooling the ground. Tired and discouraged, she questioned her sanity in coming to this abandoned hamlet, for what would she find here that had eluded her in the other cities and villages she had visited? What secrets about the bandregas could this lonely place possibly reveal? She had heard tales about this isolated place, stories she discounted, about Magh Eamhainn being haunted, the mortals fearing to live here.

  Still, she was performing this mission not for herself but for Gaderian and indeed, all the undead. Surely, if she could bring good news back with her, it would help in Gaderian's recovery. She worried about his sickness more than she wanted to admit, but hoped and prayed he'd be better when she returned to Moytura, especially if she had reliable news to give him about the bandregas. And if Fianna would only return his affection, she silently admitted, recognizing that his devotion and love for the mortal woman ran deep and unswerving. She sighed with regret, for the love she and Gaderian had once known, a love he now felt for another woman. But thinking of the past would not help her deal with the present, of the mystery she had to solve.

  Her gaze covered the empty frame houses that squatted on their small plots of land, the huts decrepit with broken windows and hanging shutters that banged in the wind. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a family of foxes that raced across the rutted lane and disappeared into the woods that bordered the hamlet. She glimpsed a well close by, where the forest ended and the village began. Overgrown weeds and tall grasses tossed in the wind, a wind that swept dirt along the road, getting in her eyes, making her cough. She asked herself again why she had come to this Goddessforsaken place. Obviously, no one lived here, yet she had vowed to cover as many villages as possible.