Night Shadows

by Martin, Shirley

  "How long has it been?" he asked. Gaderian! Who else? "Fifty years, one-hundred? Time means nothing to our kind. You taught me that fact after my transformation, so long ago."

  Fianna caught her breath. What was Gaderian talking about? Who was he talking to?

  "Ah, yes," a woman replied. "But we always meet again, don't we? You're a difficult man to forget, Gaderian. No other man can compare to you, ever."

  A few moments of silence followed, leaving Fianna with no doubt of how Gaderian and the woman were filling the time.

  Dizzy and sick with heartache, Fianna unobtrusively slid along the bench and walked steadily back toward the tavern. Inside, she suppressed tears and assumed her friendly face, smiling and returning the greetings of the men who occupied the tables in the main dining room, men who surely must have wondered why she'd returned so soon. After wending her way among the tables, she headed down the hallway to her bedchamber, her heart hammering inside her chest. Careful to hide her feelings in case any of the men watched her, she opened the door to her room and shut it behind her, breathing a long sigh, stifling the tears that threatened to spill. Cedric had recently provided her with a pine three-drawer dresser, and within the tiny room, she withdrew her black mirror from her dresser drawer, then sank down on her pallet. Once and for all, she must discover the truth about Gaderian. She should have done this long ago but realized she'd been afraid to learn the truth.

  She blinked her eyes and sought concentration as she aimed for a trancelike state. She waited long moments, willing her heart to stop pounding, waiting for the visions to appear. Silent minutes passed as she stared into the mirror, every thought, every focus on Gaderian. Images swirled in the mirror, visions of a man, tall and handsome–Gaderian!—biting into a helpless victim's throat. She saw the man thrash and struggle in Gaderian's grasp. Gaderian sucked blood from the man's throat, then looked up, as if looking straight at her! Blood ran down his chin and dripped onto his tunic. He let the man slip from his hold and–the image faded, leaving a blank mirror. Fianna willed the visions to return, but the mirror remained blank. Frustration taunted her that she couldn't see more, but she'd seen enough, discovered the monster Gaderian was.

  A jumble of emotions raged within her, where sorrow mingled with shock, but anger, too. She recalled the notice on the village bulletin board when she had first arrived in Moytura. She could see it clearly, a reward offered for information leading to the capture of a vampire. Goddess, don't let it be true. Let this all be a nightmare. Vampire. The word repeated itself in her brain, over and over, a never-ending torment. Anguish churned inside her, making her sick. She swallowed again and again as tears streamed down her face. He'd led her to think he cared for her, when all along another woman held his heart. And he wasn't even human.

  If she turned him in, then what? A stake through the heart. Could she do that to the man she loved? But he didn't love her. He had misled her, betrayed her, this man who was not mortal, this man who preyed on human beings.

  Her heart pounded inside her chest, so fast she feared it would explode. With careful deliberation, she set the mirror aside as her ears rang and the room spun around her. It was all true, what she had pondered from the beginning but dared not believe.

  Gaderian was a vampire.

  * * *

  After gently removing Moreen's hands from his shoulders, Gaderian sought to tell her they could no longer see each other as they had since his transformation. Or if they did meet now and then, best to meet only as friends. Without a doubt, he loved Fianna and her alone. He would love her until the sun died and the world stopped spinning.

  He spoke with hesitation. "Moreen, your friendship means more to me than I can say, but–"

  "But friendship is all you want, is that it? Well, it is the same with me. But a bit of casual sex now and then would not be amiss, as we've done all these centuries. Gaderian, you are so good in bed, I live for the times we can spend together. If only we could see each other more often–"

  He opened his mouth to speak, but she rushed on. "–and after all, why don't we? You surely can't be so busy that every spare moment is taken. And I get bored with many of my other lovers," she said with a look of beguiling appeal. She placed her hands on his chest. "None of my other lovers are as good as you."

  Seeing that several mortals had gathered on the street, he lifted her elbow and led her away, where they could walk along a narrow alley, devoid of people. He looked down at her and spoke with resolve. "Moreen, I need to tell you that there is someone else I love very much."

  "Ah," she said, her eyes alight with interest. "Who, Gaderian? Germaine, Nola? Aye, she's a pretty one, is Nola. Or Ronat?" Coming to the end of the alley, they crossed over to Gwydion Street, this one leading to a seedier part of the capital.

  Despair twisted inside him. "She is a mortal woman, and yes, I know nothing can come of our . . . friendship. But don't you see, I can't make love to someone else–to you–while my mind is on this woman." He remembered the love he and Moreen had once shared, the good times they had spent together. He wondered if his love for another woman hurt Moreen, the farthest wish from his mind.

  Moreen sighed. "You have always held a special place in my heart. And although you tell me nothing will come of your attraction to this mortal woman, I sense you intend to pursue this love interest. I–no, let me finish. You must stay away from this mortal woman, forget her. Our kind should never mingle with humans. Therein lies only heartache–"

  "You think I don't know that?" he cried, the words wrenched from him, his despair deepening.

  "We are in enough danger already."

  "The bandregas!"

  She nodded. "Just so. And what if this mortal woman discovers you are a vampire and turns you over to the authorities? Or have you forgotten that there is a price on our heads?"

  "I haven't forgotten," he muttered. He tried to think rationally, despite the many doubts that stalked his mind. Fianna's scrying had hinted to her of his secret. Talmora forbid that she would find out he was one of the undead. "In the first place, I have given her no reason to suspect what I am." He tried to reassure himself as much as to convince Moreen. "In the second place, I flatter myself that she returns my affections. Even if she did guess what I am–and I'm certain she won't–she would not turn me in." He spoke with a confidence he didn't feel, knowing full well she might be tempted to look into her mirror again, to discover the secret he'd tried so hard to conceal. And if she did discover his secret, would she surrender him to the authorities? Goddess forbid!

  She waved her hand. "As important as this matter is, we will let it go for now. You know I want only what is best for you. I fear you are trusting too much to chance or good fortune, but I fear I can't dissuade you from your purpose. I don't want you to get hurt. Now, another matter--what shall we do about the bandregas?"

  "Just as important, what shall we do about Orrick?" Absently, Gaderian glanced in the window of a shoe shop as he and Moreen trod along the cobblestones and reached Vernunna's Alley. Bitterness crept into his voice. "How I'd like to replace Orrick as leader of the undead. The man is useless, does nothing for us. He remains aware of the danger from the bandregas, but I swear the threat means nothing to him. How in the world did he become our leader?" Overhead, clouds formed again, the breeze picking up. Heaps of garbage were piled up outside buildings, waiting for collection in the morning. A rat skittered across the cobblestones, then another . . . and another.

  Moreen smirked, sidestepping a loose branch on the street. "I'll tell you how Orrick became our leader. Threats, bribes. He basks in the prestige that comes with the position, the luxurious apartment. He doesn't do anything to earn his keep, as the mortals would say. All of which brings us back to the bandregas." She laid a hand on his arm and spoke with determination. "If you were to discover their secret, how they can make themselves look human, what enables them to practice black magic–if you could turn them over to the government, you could easily replace Orrick as our leade
r."

  "This same thing has occurred to me–to discover the puzzle of the bandregas. I'd give anything to learn how they've gained their special powers." He ran his fingers through his hair. "It seems an impossible task. I don't know where to begin." His jaw tightened. "But I intend to do everything possible to defeat the demons." Silently, he cursed himself for his words of futility. It wasn't like him to be so pessimistic. A plan formed in his mind. He would search from village to village in the kingdom of Avador, to the places where the bandregas used to live at the time of their banishment. Would Fianna be safe from Stilo Mongan while he was away? Doubts lodged in his mind. He could not stay away for long, would need to hurry back to Moytura, to protect Fianna.

  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 W
ade 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 creatures, 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.