by Barb Hendee
“I’ll speak with her in the morning.” Magiere nodded, glad to focus on tasks at hand again, anything to distract her. “But wasn’t the front door locked?”
“I’m not sure. I just assumed so. Caleb and Beth-rae don’t seem the types to leave the place wide open.” He was about to leave again, but stopped, turning to Magiere with serious intent on his face. “Don’t let that lunatic bother you. We’ll keep him out of the tavern. We don’t have to do business with anyone we don’t want to.”
Magiere laid her falchion back down, watching candlelight reflect off the shining blade.
“That’s not necessary. I think he’s harmless, but he’s out on his ear if he starts talking about vampires again.”
“How do these people find us?”
She looked at him with a little annoyance. They’d spent years spreading every possible rumor across the countryside about her, just so people could find her.
“Yes, right,” Leesil added. “Stupid question.”
She shook her head. “We’ll try to open for business as soon as possible.”
“Have you come up with a name?”
“I thought you’d do that when you painted the sign.”
“How about ‘The Blood Pie Inn’?”
“You’re not funny.”
He laughed and stepped out, closing the door behind himself.
Chapter Six
Two evenings later, a somewhat refurbished tavern named “The Sea Lion” opened shortly before dusk. Leesil had never lived close to the ocean before, and watching a herd of sea lions swim along the cresting waves heading north had sparked inspiration for a name that suggested location and strength. At first he hadn’t even known what to call the creatures he saw, until he asked one of the sailors down at the docks. Magiere knew she possessed little imagination with words, but Leesil usually expressed enough words and imagination for both of them
Most of their patrons were sailors far from home, or unmarried dockworkers. A few young couples showed up as well. There were also two middle-aged women shopkeepers claiming to love Beth-rae’s fish chowder, who came trundling in behind the main crowd. After eating, the pair took eager interest in the new attraction of Leesil’s faro table and sat chatting comfortably with the nearby sailors as Leesil flipped the cards.
Ironically, the old caretakers, especially Beth-rae, seemed like gifts from the heavens. Before arriving in Miiska, Magiere had never really given thought to serving food, but now realized her shortsightedness. Everyone who sat about talking and drinking and playing cards ordered something to eat, sooner or later. They came for the food almost as much as the ale. One pair of dark-skinned dockworkers even ordered spiced tea. Magiere discovered she didn’t have any such thing in stock, but when she told the two men, they looked at her as if a house special they’d ordered for years had suddenly disappeared from their favorite place. She ran upstairs and blended something from her leftover travel rations, then handed it off to Beth-rae to brew as an “on-the-house” replacement until she could purchase the proper blend. Other than this one free offering, the money was coming in. It was not a fortune, and it might take weeks or more to make as much as she and Leesil had taken from a village or two, but it was certainly a more comfortable way to make a living. Caleb had helped establish the price of served goods, based on what the previous owner had charged, and that was as good a place to start as any.
Magiere returned to her favored post behind the bar and watched as Caleb served out drinks and delivered orders of delectables from Beth-rae’s kitchen. She leaned back against an ale keg on the rear counter and relaxed just a little, feeling clean and comfortable. Beth-rae had washed out her old black breeches the night before, and Magiere wore them now, along with a loose white shirt and unbuttoned russet vest she’d picked up at the open market. She wore her amulets tucked inside the shirt, as was her custom. In spite of the many life changes of late, the dress Aunt Bieja had given her simply didn’t feel right, so she’d decided to stick with habit in her attire.
She looked around the room in satisfaction. Everything appeared almost exactly as she had imagined. Chap sat by the fire, his usual attentive self, watching for trouble. Leesil laughed and joked while dealing cards, taking bets, and managing his trick of putting everyone at ease with his lighthearted nature. She hadn’t seen him drunk in three days, although he looked haggard in the mornings, his eyes more bloodshot than usual, as if he’d needed the wine to get to sleep all those years. She’d slept beside him on the open ground enough times to know about his difficulties with nightmares. The few times they’d run out of wine between towns she’d woken in the night to hear him mumbling and thrashing, sometimes shouting unintelligibly, in his sleep. She never mentioned it to him.
Little Rose sat near the fire behind Chap, who occasionally checked on her while she drew with charcoal on some faded parchment Leesil had bought for her.
Every time the door opened, Magiere couldn’t help anxiously glancing over to see if it might be the intrusive visitor, Welstiel, from their first night here. As the evening wore on with no sign of him, she stopped eyeing every person who walked through the door and relaxed just a little more. If this was the first of many such nights to come, she might actually find the peace she’d imagined.
She did not hear the door open, but rather felt the wind and heard Leesil call out a ritual welcome. When she turned from an ale barrel, her first glance told her something was out of place.
He wasn’t a merchant, not like those she’d seen in town. Nor was he a dockworker or bargeman, though his build would have made such work no strain at all. A sailor or even captain was out of the question, for his skin was so pale it hadn’t seen a full day’s sun in a long while. He stood across from her on the other side of the bar, unusually tall with a heavy bone structure and cropped black hair. A well-tailored burgundy tunic did little to hide the tight muscles in his arms. His eyes caught and held hers. Clear blue, almost transparent, they reminded her of Chap’s. He bore himself like a noble, but if that were true, what was he doing here in a dockside tavern?
A low rumbling sound took a moment to register in Magiere’s awareness beneath the din in the room. It pulled her attention mostly because she wasn’t sure why she could hear it at all amidst the chatter of the patrons. But it was familiar in an unsettling way. Her eyes shifted toward its source.
Chap was on his feet in front of the hearth, lips quivering just short of a snarl. He was growling.
Her gaze clicked back to the man in front of her, then back to the dog—and little Rose, who sat round-eyed in surprise behind the hound. Chap had not reacted once all evening to any other patron.
“Quiet, Chap,” Magiere snapped loud enough for the dog to hear.
He stopped growling but remained rigid, even when Rose began pulling on his tail.
Magiere turned her full attention back to the nobleman. “What can I get for you?”
“Red wine.” His voice was hollow and deep.
This new habit of forming rapid impressions of people was beginning to bother Magiere. Ever since she’d come to Miiska, certain inhabitants had caused her to reach quick assessments, or perhaps she’d never before spent so much time around so many people. She distinctly experienced immediate dislike for Constable Ellinwood, an uncharacteristic goodwill toward Caleb and Beth-rae, an unexplainable fear of Welstiel, and now a new emotion created by this nobleman—caution.
She poured wine from a cask into a tin goblet, then set it on the bar. The man held out three copper coins. He knew the price and so had been here before under the previous owner. For some reason, she wanted him to lay the coins on the bar rather than take them from his hand. Nonetheless she reached out and snatched the coins. The nobleman didn’t touch his wine. His gaze remained on her face, as if he were memorizing each feature.
“A fine place,” he said. “Nothing like the taverns in Bela, but very comfortable for Miiska. I have some friends I’d like to bring sometime.”
“An
y good patron is always welcome,” she answered politely with a courteous nod.
He nodded in return without smiling, and then his expression grew even colder. “You’re the one, aren’t you?” he said. “The one who hunts Noble Dead?”
The buzz of laughter and chatter all around her grew faint as a dull throb pounded in her ears. She couldn’t help letting her gaze slip quickly around the room to see if anyone had heard. Noble Dead—she’d never heard that expression, but his meaning seemed clear.
“I don’t do that anymore.”
“You are a killer,” he said quietly. “I have seen one or two true killers before. They never stop. They can’t.”
“There’s faro in the corner, if you care to play cards, or find a table and order some food. I have customers to attend.”
Magiere turned back to the wine casks, wanting to dismiss him and yet suddenly nervous about exposing her back. She heard Chap’s growl again, but when she looked back this time, the nobleman was gone. Chap was no longer by the hearth but sniffing at the closed tavern door, his lip still curling just short of a snarl. She let out a slow exhale.
“Come away from there,” she called, to the dog.
Chap didn’t move, watching the door until little Rose came between the tables to drag him back to the fire as if he were a giant wooden pull-toy. The dog reluctantly followed her.
Magiere enjoyed no more of the pleasant sounds around her that night and continued drawing ale with numb hands until the last guest left. She had suspected this might happen eventually. It was always a possibility that someone who knew of her previous life would stumble across her. She simply hadn’t expected it to be so soon—and twice within the first week, so perhaps the gossip was already spreading. And both occurrences seemed less a query or recognition than a challenge for denial.
“What a night,” Leesil said, still looking down at the cloth-covered faro table with the thirteen ranks of spades laid out. Copper coins, and one silver, were piled highest on queens, tens, and threes for some reason.
Magiere pulled out of her own thoughts. “How’d we do?”
“Fine,” he answered. “A little less than a fourth above the starting pot, but I was gentle with them. We’ll make enough on food and drink, so best not to scare them off by emptying their pockets too quickly.”
Surprise at his clarity of thought almost cut away her black mood, but not quite.
What had that nobleman wanted? She had never seen him before, and yet he’d seemed to recognize her on sight. He’d done no searching of the room when he entered but came directly to her. Then again, perhaps others in town were talking about her. She tended to stand out some, and there certainly weren’t any other armed women strolling through town on their first day with a half-elf and oversized dog in tow. But what was going on? And an unexplained death the night before her arrival didn’t help matters. It was too close to the pattern of the game she and Leesil had played for years.
“So . . . Magiere?” Leesil said, sounding a little annoyed for being ignored. “What’s your problem? Been sampling the casks too much tonight?”
The large empty room suddenly felt more enclosed than when filled with people. She thought of the dead girl Ellinwood mentioned and Karlin’s reaction. Had there been other murders in this small coastal town?
“Caleb,” she asked, “who is Brenden?”
The old man was wiping out tankards and hesitated as though wondering about her question.
“The blacksmith,” he answered simply. “His shop’s near the market at the north end of town, on the shore side.”
“I need some air,” Magiere said, grabbing her falchion from under the bar and strapping it on, not caring what anyone thought, including Leesil. “Can you clean up by yourselves?”
Her partner blinked. “Do you want company?”
“No.”
She practically fled the tavern, sucking in cool gulps of salt air after closing the front door behind herself. All around, Miiska lay sleeping, but in a few hours some of the fishermen would rise well before dawn to prepare their nets and lines. Not allowing herself to think, Magiere walked down rows of cottages, houses, and shops without really seeing anything. She took no notice of the very few street torches and lanterns still burning or the stragglers stumbling from another tavern or inn as it finally closed well past midnight. She just wanted to clear her head of all the plaguing thoughts running through her mind.
Scents began to register in her smothered thoughts—horse dung, charcoal, and soot. The blacksmith’s shop and stables. Magiere stopped in the middle of the street, uncertain and wavering between directions.
Ellinwood had said the murdered girl, Eliza, was the sister of someone named Brenden. Brenden the blacksmith.
It seemed no one in this town said anything straight out, but there had been more than one mention of citizens disappearing. Karlin the baker had been more than startled by the announced death; he’d tried to keep himself from blurting out something about others. And now at least two people knew exactly what her past profession had been, or thought they knew.
Magiere hadn’t even realized she was walking again until she reached the end of the street and heard horses stirring in the stables. Around the bend was the smith’s work area and behind that a long, chest-high stack of cut wood against a fence. Just beyond she could see a small cottage out back. A thin trail of smoke curled up from its pot chimney in the moonlight.
She slipped quietly around the far end of the fence, careful to check that the front door was closed, and she saw no sign of anyone awake inside. There was only one curtained window to duck under on the cottage side facing the trees. She stepped around back.
There was something of a back porch and a failing flower garden to one side. Another garden patch, likely for vegetables, was farther back behind the stables. A second woodpile lined the cottage side of the fence. It wouldn’t look good to be caught prowling on her first week in her new hometown, so she kept a watch on the back door as she looked about. Of course, the body was long gone, but there might be other telltale signs left behind.
A dark patch on the woodpile caught her attention. At first she thought it was just a space between the cut and split logs, but as she moved closer she could see it was not a hollow. Some of the ends of the stacked firewood were stained darker than the others. In two places, it appeared the dark fluid had dripped and run down. She knelt near the base of the stack.
Earth near a shore was usually damp, but looking carefully now she realized that the coastal earth she had seen while traveling was light colored, close to the gravely sand of the shore itself. On the ground here she found more dark spots, like the stains on the wood. One large one was surrounded by others, smaller and smeared. The ground was a mess of footsteps, likely from Ellinwood and his so-called guards. Beyond that, she could find no other signs of chase or struggle.
She ran her fingertips through one dark patch. Though mostly dried to the semi-damp state of the shore earth, some did stick to her fingertips. She lifted it to her nose, then tasted it lightly with her tongue.
Blood.
Magiere closed her eyes and then opened them quickly as the backs of her lids conjured up images of what the killer may have done to his or her victim to spill so much blood. Yet it was all in one place, as if the girl had not been able to run, struggle, or fight for her life.
“I thought you no longer concerned yourself with such, dhampir?” a voice said from behind her.
She whirled around to her feet in one motion, gripping her sword. At first she could see nothing, and then she spotted a waver of shadow beneath a tree on the yard’s seaward side.
Welstiel stood there, dressed exactly as before in his long, wool cape. He stepped out from the trees to the edge of the yard, and moonlight glinted off the white patches near his temples. She found herself glancing at his hands, and although she couldn’t quite make them out, she remembered the missing end of his finger and wondered how he had lost it.
&
nbsp; “Are you following me?” she asked angrily.
“Yes,” he answered.
That silenced her for a moment. When confronted with that question, most people denied it.
“Why?” she finally asked.
“Because this town is plagued by Noble Dead,” he said, “who survive by feeding upon the living. This girl is not the first, and you know that. And no one in Miiska can stop them but you.”
“And how would you have any idea what I know?”
Her words were more a retort than a question she expected to be answered. And no answer came. Magiere’s stomach knotted sharply with pain from anger and anxiety.
“What does that mean?” she asked. “Noble Dead?”
“The highest order of the dead, or rather, undead,” he answered. “The Noble Dead possess the full presence of self they had in life, their unique essence, so to speak. Vampires are but one type, as well as liches, the more powerful wraiths, and the occasional High Revenant. They are aware of themselves, their own desires, intents and thoughts, and can learn and grow through their immortal existence, unlike the lower-ranking undead, such as ghosts, animated corpses, and the like.”
“You are no foolish peasant,” she said softly. “How can you believe such things? There are no vampires.” She turned back to stare at the stained earth and woodpile. “We have enough monsters of our own kind.”
“Yes,” he said quietly. “Of our own kind.”
She heard him step toward her into the yard, but did not look back at him.
“Undeads who drain life do exist,” he said. “And they have made this place, this town, their own. Such creatures may be more . . . exclusive . . . than most peasants believe, but they exist just the same. You know all this. You are a hunter.”
“Not anymore.”
“You won’t be able to avoid such tasks here.”
“Really?” She turned on him, eyes narrow with anger. “Just watch how well I avoid this, old man.”
He wasn’t quite that old, but he acted like some superstitious village elder. She thought of their first meeting and another question came to her mind, something he’d said tonight.
