Night Shadows

by Martin, Shirley

  A short walk on the rain-swept cobblestones, past the other inns and taverns 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."

  "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.