From him, but maybe not from inside him.
Turning slowly, I reached into the shadows of the room. If not him, then what? Some possessing spirit? Some hidden phylactery amid his clothes? The lingering taint of a previous brush with some damned soul? Whatever it was, my theory about Tashan being Kensre’s killer was evaporating. Those shadowy fingers reached out through my gaze, blind but lusty, probing but rejecting everything I fixed my sight upon.
Then they snared the hookah, grasping, squeezing, seeking what was within.
I lunged for it.
Tashan made a hoarse sound. He tried to sit up but collapsed from the pain of his smashed innards.
I grabbed the ruby water pipe by its slender neck. Immediately it exploded in smoke, as if whatever pungent lump filled the thing had caught fire. I almost let it shatter to the ground, the thin clouds spilling out like a genie escaping a bottle.
As soon as I recognized the smoke, I did let it fall.
The vapor rose in an unnatural column, then retreated into nothingness, releasing a lean figure in a wine-colored vest embroidered with gold thorns.
Considine.
“I surrender.” The vampire turned his palms to the ceiling, less the pose of a captured thief and more that of a child caught in the act.
I was gripping one of the daggers hidden in my cloak before I checked myself. My hesitation lasted only a moment, though. The silver-shod dagger flashed as I lunged. A too-familiar look of obnoxious bemusement flashed across his face as he flowed back from the blade.
“Dear, please don’t tell me I’ve surprised you—not Grandfather’s esteemed half-vampire vampire hunter. How could you have not known I—” A wild slash for his mouth momentarily halted his chuckling.
“Why did you follow me?” I reversed my blade, slashing across his chest. The point squealed across one of his vest’s golden, bloom-shaped buttons. He flung himself back and looked down with the horrified expression of a gutted soldier. He threw up a hand, calling for pause, but I wasn’t playing. My next slash crossed his extended palm, cutting a hollow streak across its width. The barest hint of blood that stained my blade was incidental—and likely Kensre Saunnier’s. Considine didn’t even flinch, mourning his scraped button.
“Only following orders, dear.” He frowned over his shirt.
“Bullshit.” I almost stabbed him again, but it seemed pointless. Not only wasn’t he paying attention, but the gash across his palm was already knitting shut. In a moment, nothing but a smear of someone else’s blood would mark the wound’s existence.
“Oh, yes, you know how I’ve pined for the rustic comforts of the mountains. I’ve always been quite the outdoorsman.” He frowned up at me, smudging the button with his thumb.
I snatched up a corner of the bedsheets and wiped off my blade. Tashan was still on the floor, but had scooted into the room’s corner, quietly holding onto his guts at the end of a trail of sheets and blankets.
“Grandfather sent you after Rivascis?” I didn’t believe it.
His elaborate snort proved he equally dismissed the possibility. “Afraid not, dear. No, I’ve been sent to assure that you do all you promised to.”
“Promised to?” My brow knotted. “I didn’t promise to do anything.”
“That’s not what I was told. Grandfather said you wrote him a whole confession—all strong words and apologies and must-dos.” His hands crossed over his unbeating heart. “It sounded truly moving.”
“I didn’t write any—” But I had. And I’d burned it.
Considine nodded thoughtfully. “Hope you didn’t think I was the only one who kept a concerned eye on you.” He stepped around me, briefly touching my shoulder before retrieving the cracked but still mostly intact hookah. “You must watch what you jot down and where you do it. Otherwise, he’ll find a way to make you into your own traitor.”
It was my turn to scoff. “So what, then? You’re here to help?”
He delicately set the hookah back on the nightstand. “Dear me, no. I’m merely on hand to make sure your hunt goes as you said it would. To make sure you don’t accidentally trip into some sort of reunion with your long-lost papa.”
“You think I’m doing all this just to meet my father?” Muscles tightened, both in my chest and around the weapon in my grip.
“Not at all, my dear, but Grandfather … well.” He looked at me with something approximating sympathy. “I’m sure it’s just that he hasn’t felt anything for so long. Conviction must be a constant mystery.”
“Shouldn’t he be just as worried about you? Rivascis made you what you are, after all.”
“Grandfather knows my loyalty to him has always been my downfall. Ratting out Rivascis when he fled the Old City was what permanently placed me in Grandfather’s low regard, after all. Betraying my maker to serve my liege didn’t go quite the way I expected.” He tapped his lips, as if contemplating his old half-crime for the millionth time. “Still, exile as a traitor to a fallen prince has always sat better with me than death for disobeying Grandfather’s will.”
“I’m sure.” I didn’t sympathize. “So then you’re just all wrapped up in this by coincidence?”
“Oh, not at all, I’m afraid. This is as much Grandfather’s trick on me as it is on you.” He perched himself on the end of the bed, near where Tashan huddled. “It’s also this little desert mouse’s fault.”
I didn’t bother to keep the incredulity from my voice. “Tashan’s? How?”
“We’ve had an arrangement for a bit now. I pride myself on knowing when anything interesting washes up on the docks, and he was the first thing from Osirion I’d ever seen that wasn’t bound for the Royal Archives.” Considine grinned down at the young Pathfinder. “And since I’m one of the only people in the city who knows where to find decent shisha, we became fast friends.”
“You dominated him, then?” Like the vampires I’d fought in Thorenly Manor, Considine could effortlessly force his will upon the living.
“No, no, no.” That caught-in-the-act expression returned to Considine’s face. “Well … perhaps a little at first, but just to lubricate our first outing. Beyond that it’s been absolutely consensual.”
If Tashan was at all bothered by the revelation, the grimace on his face disguised it.
“Then Grandfather enlisted you because he knew you had a Pathfinder in your pocket.”
“That.” He frowned. “And you didn’t exactly give him much time to put together something else. By the time I received my orders, I had just enough time to stow away in Tashan’s glassware before you were off.”
“What about your coffin, then?”
“Oh, did you not notice a seven-foot-long box smuggled amid your luggage?” His sarcasm took on a nasty tinge. “Probably because Grandfather’s command forced me to leave it back in Caliphas. A dark box and a piece of stained glass has been all there is between me and the sun for the past week.”
To call the move reckless would be the grossest understatement. It would have been like walking into the desert with the hope of discovering water along the way. For every vampire, his coffin—not just any coffin, but his coffin—is a sanctuary. More than a resting place, as a vampire has no need for sleep, it serves as his connection to death, a focal point for the energies that keep him tied to this world. While a vampire doesn’t need to rest in his coffin nightly, not doing so would be uncomfortable on a fundamental level. Beyond comfort, though, a vampire’s coffin is the only place he can restore his body if mortally wounded. Relying on instinct and the draw of dark energies, the vampire flees, practically mindlessly, back to his coffin to regenerate. In Considine’s case, though, his coffin was several days’ travel away. If his body were destroyed and drawn back to his coffin, he would doubtlessly be caught under the sun, which would obliterate him utterly. Actually, it would be far less dramatic—reduced to nothing but a bank of mist by whatever attacked him, he would dissipate in the sun faster than morning dew. There would be nothing left.
; He noted my sudden understanding. “It’s no secret that I’m expendable.”
I was incredulous. “You understand we’re traveling with a Pharasmin priestess. If she discovers you, she’ll be bound by her faith to destroy you.”
His grin returned and he clapped me on the shoulder. “So we’re traveling together now?”
I jerked away. “You haven’t given me a choice in the matter. There’s no way to send you back, and I can’t leave you here with the—” In my shock I’d almost forgotten. “You idiot! The innkeepers’ son! Why? Especially when this one’s apparently so accommodating.” I flung a hand at Tashan.
“If you don’t mind …” Considine cooed over Tashan. The Osirian didn’t seem to be in any condition to resist whatever the vampire had in mind. Considine pinched a fold of the sheets entwining Tashan and pulled deliberately. The cloth slid across the beaten Pathfinder’s dusky leg, over his knee, and up an only slightly paler thigh, moving like silk across a harem dancer’s skin. Across Tashan’s inner thigh spread whole constellations of tiny, twin wounds. Piercings, tiny slashes, delicate perforations—the signs of repeated feedings.
The vampire sounded nonchalant. “You can’t drink the same wine every day.”
“Selfish letch!” I nearly shouted. “They’re going to blame me for this!”
He threw the sheet back over Tashan. “Oh, did you tell the innkeep you’re a half-breed with a taste for street folk? You’re making confidants so swiftly these days, I can hardly keep track.”
“Jadain! Jadain will think it was me. She already thinks it’s me!”
A soft rap sounded at the door.
“Hum. Now that you say it, I can see how that would be your problem.” He burst like a popped bubble, leaving behind a cloud of mist that quickly drew itself to the ceiling.
My frustration released in something between a growl and a sigh. Tashan stared up at me, jaw set with the pain of whatever I’d broken in his bowels. “You and I have more—” I started through clenched teeth, but settled with driving the point of my boot into his bare shin. He gave another yelp of surprised pain.
“We could hear shouting,” Jadain said as I opened the door. She looked into the room, her face painted with confused concern. “What happened in here.”
“I had to be sure he wasn’t involved.” I jerked a finger at the Osirian huddled in the corner. “I am now, but he’ll need healing.”
“And what about you?” The question sounded like an accusation.
“What about me?”
She reached out to my shoulder and wiped at something on my cloak, then presented the smear of blood that came back on her fingers. I cursed Considine a thousand times more.
Jadain searched my face so intently that she didn’t notice the fine ribbon of mist slipping like some repulsive millipede down the wall of the room, over the doorframe, and out into the hall.
I met her gaze and spoke in a manner that made it clear I wouldn’t be repeating myself. “I didn’t touch him.”
She nodded, but her doubt was clear. “Do you know what did, then?”
I slipped past her, leaving her to her next patient.
18
NOT FOR THE LIVING
JADAIN
I felt like I should say more. I’d repeated the blessings and offered all the usual condolences. Anything else I could think of sounded either trite or repetitive. It still seemed like I should apologize. Even though the church strictly taught us to never accept a stranger’s death as ours to control, to never internalize blame for the goddess’s will, my lips barely held back a flood of regret. The spiral of life and death was the goddess’s alone, but even though I hadn’t laid a hand on Kensre Saunnier, I couldn’t help but feel like I’d brought death into his home.
The Slit o’ the Sun huddled at the foot of the slope below us, still partially shadowed by the surrounding cliffs despite the sun’s height in the sky. Tashan had loaded the cart and prepared the horse. He was already sitting in the driver’s seat, obviously ready to leave. Larsa waited in the shadows of the kitchen doorframe. I couldn’t see her face, but I knew she was staring up at me. She’d wanted to leave hours ago. Whether out of honest desire to be on our way or a criminal urge to leave the scene of the crime, I couldn’t be sure.
Something had transpired between her and Tashan, something that had left our Pathfinder friend with three broken ribs and a belly full of blood. The goddess had seen fit to heal him, but despite my prayers his torso would be tender for days. I’d tried to get him to explain what had happened, but he’d said only that there’d been a misunderstanding, and then refused to elaborate. I asked Larsa if she had confronted Tashan about whatever it was that killed the Saunnier boy, guessing the Osirian’s wounds were evidence of very direct questioning. She’d confirmed my suspicions, but didn’t elaborate, confessing that she’d been wrong and that Tashan hadn’t been involved with the murder. When I pressed her on what had, she claimed she couldn’t be sure.
I wasn’t satisfied. The wounds on the young man’s neck were too distinctive and too obvious. Even Mr. Saunnier had swirled his thumb over his heart when he noticed me examining them. I tried to assuage the parents’ concerns, but any explanation I attempted sounded too hollow to even give voice. Only the stranger in the road seemed a possibility, with his scarred face. When I’d suggested that, though, the innkeeps shared a long look, then dismissed the possibility. I knew I wasn’t being told the whole story.
My duties as a priestess swiftly overshadowed my attempts at investigation. Being so isolated, the Saunniers had no one to assist in their son’s burial. Their fears about his manner of death lent haste to their preparations and Mrs. Saunnier demanded I stay long enough to preside over his burial. My unquiet conscience aside, I couldn’t refuse.
Mr. Saunnier had climbed the slope near his home to a broad ridge where the innkeeps kept a row of dusty gardens. Among the struggling gray-green things he’d found an unused plot with a view of the inn and a vista of the dramatic, knifelike mountains beyond. When he couldn’t dig any deeper, he collected heavy stones. In the end, it didn’t look like a comfortable bed, but even without the goddess’s blessings nothing was likely to rise from such a rocky tomb. I helped the vacant, voiceless man wrap the body in clean linens and what protective herbs were on hand—mostly rosemary, violet, and a small clump of mistletoe. Less than an hour later we laid our bundle into the ground and I watched as he and his wife said their unexpected, too brief good-byes.
The blessing for a stranger’s son was far from the shortest of the goddess’s burial rites, but too soon there was nothing left to be said. It wasn’t my place to guide them back to their lives or put an end to their grieving. I bowed once more toward the cairn, circled it with one last solemn spiral of my thumb, and reverently made toward the path back to the inn. I passed close to the mourners, but respected their vigil.
Mrs. Saunnier’s hand shot out, seizing my robe. Though her abruptness surprised me, I turned my calmest expression to her. She glared back. She looked older than the woman in her forties who had buzzed over us just the night before. The streams of tears had dried, but their paths were still etched upon her face.
“Your fault.” Her words were a curse. “You brought this with you, and now my son—” She choked, momentarily unable to go on. “I don’t know how, but never—never before …”
Tremors shook her, throttling me through her grip. I tried to pull away, startled not just by her hand on me but by her reckless expression—the look of a beaten child with her fingers around a bird’s neck. She held fast.
Again I thought to apologize, but for what? I had only the barest hint of what had happened to her son. Would I beg her to forgive me for brining a dhampir into her home? Could I truly blame Larsa for the boy’s death? Did I know the thing traveling alongside me at all? And what secret did she and Tashan share while I’d been consoling parents over the body of their son?
I gaped and tugged my robe from Mrs. Saunnier’s grasp, tr
ipping away a step. Something in me—a young faithless piece of myself—wanted nothing more than to run. I took another step away.
The woman’s eyes flared, but Mr. Saunnier’s hand was on her shoulder. Her jaw trembled and she bared her teeth. “You never come back here. None of you. If ever I see you again, I swear by all the gods of blood I’ll … I’ll drag you down. I’ll drag you down with me if I have to!”
I swallowed my shock. I’d counseled dozens of grieving souls. I knew what close siblings anger and grief were. I’d even heard threats against the goddess herself. I’d never been personally blamed, though, and I’d never felt like I deserved to be.
I’m too close. The thought rang through my mind, though I wasn’t certain if they were the words of my training or bodily fear. Either way, I bowed respectfully, as if heeding the woman’s wishes, and walked swiftly away.
“You hear me!” her words followed. “I’ll drag you so deep Hell will never find you!”
Her curses rang off the surrounding cliffs until they were nothing more than wordless echoes of rage.
“Is it done?” Tashan asked from the wagon’s bench.
I only nodded.
“Are you all right?” he asked, his slow southern accent somehow making his words sound more sincere.
I looked up at him. “How did their son die?”
The honesty in his eyes faded. My jaw tensed in frustration. Was this why he and Larsa had come to blows?
“Tashan.” I laid a hand on the knee resting almost at my eye level. “Please. I have to know we didn’t do this.”
Something flitted across his expression, perhaps a shiver of doubt, but he merely turned his eyes away.
“It’s my fault,” Larsa said almost nonchalantly, climbing into the back of the wagon and angling her hat’s wide brim against the sun just climbing above the cliffs. She fixed her sights on me, challenging.
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