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 furry. 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. Even 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.
The answer was the same, no matter where she went. "Bandregas! No such creatures in Avador. They left the country years ago, gone to Fomoria or Partholonia." More often than not, she got this additional refrain, "It's the vampires that are killing the mortals."
Now here she was, in this empty village of Magh Eamhainn, apparently deserted a long time ago. Well, she might as well leave and–
"They come here, you know."
Moreen swiveled around, scolding herself for getting caught unaware.
A lone man approached, a hermit by the looks of him, with a scraggly beard, long, stringy hair, and tattered clothes. Up close to her now, she saw he had an eye missing and one arm that ended at the elbow. He smelled of sweat and stale urine.
Quickly, she recovered, retreating a couple steps. "Who comes here?"
He gave her an odd look, as if to say part of her brain was missing. "Why, the bandregas, of course."
Her pulse raced. "How do you know about the bandregas?"
He shifted position, putting his weight on one foot. "Why, I seen 'em, naturally." He snickered. "Rest of the village left, a long time ago. Somethin' about the well water." He pointed, and she followed the direction of his finger. "You see that well over there? Years ago, one of the bandregas–the leader, I reckon–put somethin' in the water that made the people sicken and die–"
"But not you? You never drank from the well?"
"Nah, never did. I live in a cave," he said, nodding toward the hills that rose in the distance. "Never did drink from the well or mix with the villagers. They wouldn't have nothin' to do with me on account of my missing eye and bad arm. But sometimes I'd stand in the wood and watch these people–them that lived here before the bandregas. Within a few days, jist about all of them got sick and died. But some of them sur–sur–"
"Survived?"
"Yeah, survived. Don't know why. Mebbe they was stronger than the others, or didn't drink as much water as the others. Who knows? Anyways, them that didn't die packed up all their things and left for other villages and never came back, everyone sayin' the place is cursed."
"The bandregas. . ." she prompted.
"Well, that's what I'm tellin' you if you'll jist listen. Whatever is in the water that killed the people is like a magic elix–elix–"
"Elixir?"
"Yeah, that's it. The bandregas come here once every moonphase to drink from the well. They come at night, takin' lonely back roads, I reckon, one at a time. I seen 'em sometimes, not all the time, mind you. But I been livin' in the cave for years and sometimes I come here at night, sometimes during the day, jist to see what I can filch from the houses. Those bandregas always come at night, lots of them lookin' like the demons they are, others lookin' weak, kinda bedraggled. They line up at the well–hundreds of 'em!–and drink from a dipper there. Within a little while–no more'n an hour, 'cause that's how long it takes for all of 'em to drink, they look handsome, the best lookin' people you ever saw."
"Men and women?" Moreen asked.
"Sure, both. Children, too."
Moreen nodded, scarcely able to hide her exhilaration. Just wait 'til she told Gaderian this news. She couldn't get back to Moytura fast enough.
"Oh, and one more thing–"
"Yes?"
The hermit turned and spat. "Last time they come, their leader–I think his name is Kane–handed out rings to the men and women, like the rings was somethin' special, magic or somethin'."
She digested this information, wondering at its significance. What magical function did the rings serve?
"Sir, you–"
"Dyfed's the name, ma'am."
"Dyfed, I can't thank you enough for all you've told me." She rummaged in her pocket for a gold piece. "Please take this, use it for–"
"Nah." He waved his hand. "I ain't got no use fer a gold piece. Where would I spend it? I'm happy livin' alone in my cave." He squinted his one eye at her. "But tell me, how come all these questions about the bandregas?"
"Well . . .a friend and I suspect they are doing evil things to the people of this country, killing them, mainly in the capital. We must thwart them, ensure that they kill no more." And kill them, she vowed, but would not say. "So they come here every moonphase? When, do you know? Beginning, middle, end?"
He shrugged. "How should I know? Time means nothin' to me. I only knows they come here every moonphase. I count the days between the visits."
She was getting closer to solving the puzzle, the question of when. "How many days has it been since they last came?" She held her breath.
He scratched his crotch. "Lemme think. Musta been more'n twenty."
More than twenty
! Not much time left. She placed her hand on his shoulder, wishing she could give him something to express her gratitude, at the same time anxious to return to Moytura. "Dyfed, you have helped me so much, more than I can ever say. If there is anything I can do for you–"
"Nah, ain't nothin' I want, 'cept my other eye and the rest of my arm. And I reckon you can't give 'em to me."
"Believe me, I would if I could. I thank you, Dyfed, from the bottom of my heart. Goodnight to you, and may the Goddess watch over you."
After Dyfed plodded away, she untied the mare's reins and led the horse toward the well. There, she saw it was well-constructed, lined with brick, a dipper and bucket resting on the ground beside it. It stood about four feet from the ground and maybe the same distance across. She stood in silent contemplation and stared down into the well, her keen night vision enabling her to see the water, as clear as if it were daylight. She sniffed, trying to catch a smell, but found the water odorless.
Night Shadows Page 14
