by Barb Hendee
Before she could finish, Rashed crossed the distance between them and slammed his weight against the door as she tried to shut it. They both tumbled into the room.
Leesil drew his other stiletto out of his sleeve, feeling a rush of shame at being caught so unaware. Half-crouched, he scuttled between the tables and moved roundabout toward the open window. The skulker had gotten all the way into the room before he’d even noticed. Perhaps he was just caught off guard. It couldn’t have been the drink.
Chap was in midair, lunging, and the intruder tried to kick the table in front of him out of his way. The dog lost his targeted landing spot and hit the teetering table with his front paws. The angled table legs snapped under the sudden weight, and Chap smashed down upon the intruder in a tumble of shattering wood. The crash and enraged snarls from Chap hammered in Leesil’s ears, followed by a pain-filled yelp.
“Chap, back! Get off!” Leesil yelled, pulling aside chairs to reach the skirmish.
The dog did break off, but only because his opponent kicked him, sending the animal spinning across the floor on his back until he toppled two chairs and became entangled in them.
“Stay back!” Leesil ordered the dog, and then he inched toward the window and tried to peer over the slanted top of the table’s remains.
The intruder rose up in an unnatural gliding motion. Enough moonlight spilled in between open window shutters to show dark lines running down the side of his face—Chap’s claw marks. Leesil stopped when he saw the intruder’s features.
It was Ratboy, the dusty beggar from the road outside Miiska. Leesil settled back one step, the stiletto poised and ready.
“Didn’t get enough of us the last time?” Leesil asked.
Ratboy put a hand to his cheek, running his fingers along the wounds as if unsure of them. Then he stared at the blood in his hand.
“My . . . face,” Ratboy whispered. The expression of shock and pain washed over him.
His eyes turned as lifeless as a corpse’s, and Leesil remembered how the last time this beggar boy had seemed an uncanny creature rather than human—and all the more unsettling for his human appearance. Amidst the clatter of toppled chairs, Chap scrambled to his feet, moving forward for another assault.
“No, Chap,” Leesil snapped, trying to keep Ratboy in sight and still turn his head slightly to see if the dog obeyed.
Ratboy lunged at Leesil with a bloody dagger pointed outward.
Leesil dodged the blade and retreated, baiting his opponent into wild swings. Ratboy was obviously no match for him in a knife fight, but he still remembered their last meeting. The little man-thing had pulled a crossbow quarrel from his own stomach as if it were an annoying sliver. He wasn’t going to risk Ratboy getting close enough to grab him. He dodged another wild swing and felt his back rub against the bar’s front edge. With a quick hop, he rolled backward over the bar and dropped behind it.
A crossbow hadn’t worked the first time, but seeing he had little choice, he grabbed the loaded weapon Magiere kept hidden behind the bar. By the time he lifted it, the creature was in midair—not vaulting but leaping over the bar without touching it. Clutching both stiletto and crossbow, Leesil fired.
The quarrel cracked into Ratboy’s forehead above his right eye, and his body flipped backward to smash down on the bar top. The dagger bounced out of his hand on impact, falling to Leesil’s side of the bar, but Ratboy tumbled back the other way, flopping to the floor on the far side, out of Leesil’s sight.
Leesil leaned forward to peer over the bar, but he couldn’t see clearly in the dark. Chap began inching forward from the middle of the room, but Leesil held up a hand to stop him. He was sidling along the bar to move around its end when Chap began to snarl again.
A dirty hand slapped over the bar top from the far side. The bar’s wooden edging creaked in that hard grip. Leesil reflexively leaned back against the wine casks lining the back wall.
Ratboy pulled himself up and jerked the quarrel out of his head. Blood ran down across his right eye.
Planning and thinking wasn’t usually one of Leesil’s strong points, so he did the only thing he could think of.
“Why don’t you die already!” he yelled, and swung the crossbow like a club.
The crossbow’s center stock smashed into Ratboy’s head, and he stumbled a few steps down the bar toward the stairs. Snatching the bar’s edge again, the urchin kept himself from falling. He glared at Leesil and moved slowly back toward the half-elf.
“You’re going to bleed for me,” he spit out hoarsely.
Just then the curtain in the kitchen doorway was flung aside.
Beth-rae stepped into the room at the bar’s far end, behind Ratboy’s back, carrying a bucket that slopped full of something. Leesil yelled at her to run, but there was no time. As Ratboy spun about for this new target, Chap charged in to sink his teeth into Ratboy’s calf, holding him back. Beth-rae threw the bucket’s contents over the struggling intruder in front of her. Before Leesil had time to curse such a futile act, he was halted by Ratboy’s scream piercing his ears.
The creature began to thrash, body banging against the bar and nearby chairs as he slapped and tore at his own clothes and skin. His entire body smoked with hissing tendrils of gray mist that rose from his blackening flesh.
Leesil barely caught the distant ring of steel against steel mixed in with Ratboy’s screeching. It took him a moment to realize it came from the second floor. He looked to the stairs, and that moment’s distraction was too much.
Ratboy took one jerking hop toward Beth-rae, like a hideous smoldering puppet, and struck out at her with one hand. Hooked fingers caught her throat as she tried to back away. Her body spun around, and slammed against the wall behind her. Before she’d even slid to the floor, the howling creature tore through the curtained doorway and into the kitchen. Chap bolted into the kitchen after him.
Leesil hurried to Beth-rae’s side as he heard the kitchen’s back door smashing open. He crouched down. On the floor, a red-black pool was growing, fed by the gash in her throat. Beth-rae lay motionless, eyes wide. From the tilt of her head, Leesil could see her neck had snapped under the blow. There was nothing he could do for her now.
He dropped the crossbow, readied his remaining stiletto, and headed for the stairs.
“Magiere!” Leesil shouted as he started running.
Magiere scrambled across the bedroom floor and snatched the falchion lying on her small desk.
“Get out!” she shouted from instinct, not expecting the nobleman to obey.
He didn’t answer, but lunged and swung hard with his own sword. She dodged, and his blow landed on the desk. Wood shattered into pieces and the blade’s tip embedded in the floor. He jerked it out effortlessly.
No one was that strong. The room felt small with no space for Magiere to maneuver, but then her opponent was also limited. She spun on one knee around the bed’s end and onto her feet, her opponent sliding sideways across the floor to match her. In the low lamplight, his eyes were transparent, gazing calmly into hers. Anger overcame fear. Who was this bastard to think he could invade her home—her room?
“Coward,” she snapped at him. Rage grew inside her until it threatened to overcome reason. Her falchion snapped up until it reached the ceiling, and she aimed for his neck, swinging with all the anger she felt. He blocked, but the blow’s force made him step back and lose his balance. With both blades still locked, she slammed her free fist into his jaw.
More shocked than hurt, he used his free hand to shove her backward. Magiere toppled onto the bed like a moth he’d swiped aside.
“Hunter,” he said simply and struck down with his long blade again.
She rolled off the bed’s far side as the long sword struck her quilt with a flat-sounding swat. There was no room in here to use maneuvers against him. He would kill her by sheer force. That thought would have been enough to terrify anyone, but her rage multiplied so quickly she didn’t even try to understand it.
&nbs
p; Hatred became strength flowing through her body, making her movements quicker than ever before. Instinctively shifting for small openings, she tried to find some way to get behind him or take him off balance. He kept turning to face her. They shifted back and forth around or across the small room, making flailing slashes at each other. But there was never an opening, never an instant where she could rush the door or duck under his swing to come up on his flank or rear.
Once more shifting to the far side of the bed, she threw herself to roll across it. The nobleman made another dash to follow her across the room. When he did, she stopped short, crouched upon the bed, and struck out with the falchion so fast he didn’t have time to block. Boots skidding on the floor, he tried to pull back, his torso leaning away from her swing. The blow missed his collarbone, but sliced a shallow gash down his chest.
“What—”
The rest of his words were lost in a gasping inhale. His wide-eyed gaze shifted to Magiere’s sword. As his brow creased in pain, his teeth snapped together hard and clenched. Shock got the better of him, and his grip on his own sword faltered as its point dragged through the debris of the desk.
Magiere couldn’t answer him, couldn’t remember how to speak. She didn’t want to cut him with the blade anymore. She wanted to rip his throat out. The front of her jaws began to ache and would not close completely, as if her teeth had shifted, or grown. Confusion lost her the advantage she’d gained.
When she finally lunged, he had regained his balance, but not his faltering grip on his sword. He released the weapon from his right hand and snatched her sword arm’s wrist with his left. Using her weight and momentum, he spun around to slam her against the wall between the door and wardrobe. His now empty right hand clamped around her throat.
She instinctively grabbed his wrist with her free hand. He smashed her sword arm against the side of the wardrobe twice, but Magiere’s grip on the weapon wouldn’t release “I don’t need a weapon to kill you,” he whispered at her, real emotion leaking into his voice for the first time. “You need to breathe.”
Her body bucked wildly as she tried to throw him off, but he held like stone, waiting for her to suffocate.
Magiere lost awareness that her breathing had stopped. Loss of air now made room for her to grow, as if the grip on her throat held in her rage, letting it build up inside of her. She stared at him, her eyes unblinking and wide until they began to water.
As the first tear rolled down her cheek, a screaming, wailing cry of pain sounded from below, and the nobleman’s head jerked slightly in surprise. Magiere felt his grip on her throat falter only for a moment. She let go of his wrist and grabbed the back of his head, then drove her own head forward and bit into his throat.
She felt the vibration of his panicked shout tingle across her face, as she pressed harder against his cold skin and blood leaked into her mouth. A knot of hunger twisted up suddenly in her stomach. Both his hands came in to push at her head. She pulled her mouth away before he could find his grip, and struck downward with her falchion. This time the blade connected with a solid crack as steel met with bone in his left shoulder.
“Magiere!”
The voice pulled at her from somewhere out of sight and far away—from downstairs.
The nobleman roared and swung with his right fist, even though the movement caused her blade to cut deeper. The blow caught her jaw.
The pain Magiere felt was as far away as the distant voice she’d just heard. The room spun until she saw the floor rushing up to meet her. She fell halfway on her side, and her breath rushed out. The moment that her head bounced off the floor, she thought she heard the sounds of shattering glass and wood. She struggled to sit, walls tilting haphazardly in her sight. She swung her blade blindly around, unable to focus. By the time the room stopped rocking before her eyes, and the pain in her head began to truly register, the room was empty.
Breathing was difficult. Rage and hatred leaked out of her as each breath, suddenly harder than the last, seemed to expel her strength. Her arms and head felt heavy, and she crumpled back to the floor. As she lay there, trying to gasp in air, realization of what she’d just done crept into her awareness.
Not all the blood in her mouth belonged to that hated nobleman, but she had tasted it, tasted his blood. And that memory caused fear to replace lost rage.
Footsteps on the stairs doubled that anxiety—the nobleman. She tightened her grip on the falchion and struggled to pull herself up.
Leesil appeared above her. He dropped to his knees and pulled her upper body into his lap. Relief caused fear to fade at his presence, but for some reason, she didn’t want him to see her. She pulled away, covering her face with her free hand.
“Magiere, look at me,” he said. “Are you all right?”
“It wasn’t me,” she whispered, finding her voice. “It wasn’t me.”
“Magiere, please,” he said, his tone desperate. “Beth-rae is dead, and Chap’s badly hurt. I have to get back downstairs. Are you all right?”
Shame, horror, and reality hit her all at once. Why was she hiding from Leesil?
She sat up, Leesil pushing her from behind, and turned to look at him. As she pulled her hand from her face, he grimaced at the sight of blood on her jaw. He reached out to inspect the damage to her lower lip where the nobleman’s fist had landed.
Leesil pulled his hand away abruptly and glared at her, as if wary of her presence.
“What?” she asked urgently. “What is it?”
He hesitated before answering. “Fangs.”
Night wind blew in from the shattered window frame across the room and stripped the last of anger’s heat from Magiere’s body.
The scene they found in the common room pressed Leesil down to the point where he was almost unable to perform any more action.
A lit lantern rested on the end of the bar, and Caleb kneeled by Beth-rae’s body. He looked up at Leesil in confusion, wanting someone to explain everything away. Chap also sat by the body, whining and pushing at Beth-rae’s shoulder with his nose. The fur on his chest was matted with blood, but from the way he moved, it seemed he was not as seriously injured as Leesil had feared.
“I went out for fresh water,” Caleb said numbly. “I came back and . . .”
“Caleb, I’m so sorry,” Magiere whispered from the base of the stairs.
Magiere still appeared shaken, but at least fully aware of her surroundings. If not for the blood on her chin and the split lip, Leesil would have thought her no more disarrayed than she was after one of their old mock battles played at the expense of frightened villagers.
Beth-rae’s throat was jaggedly torn from one side to the other. Leesil knew the weapon had been a dirty fingernail.
“It was him,” he said finally, “that filthy beggar boy we fought on the road to Miiska.” He didn’t look at Magiere as he spoke. “He attacked us . . . or, actually Chap attacked him, but he climbed through that front window. Beth-rae threw something over him, and he started to scream, and his skin turned black.”
“Garlic water,” Caleb said softly, touching Beth-rae’s hair.
“What?” Magiere asked.
“We’ve been keeping a cask of it in the kitchen,” he answered flatly. “If you boil garlic for several days in water, it makes a weapon against vampires.”
“Stop it,” Magiere said harshly, stepping closer. “I don’t want to hear it right now. Whatever they wanted, they were just men. Do you understand?”
For the first time since meeting her, Caleb looked at Magiere with something akin to open dislike on his face. He struggled to carefully lift his wife in his arms.
“If you stopped lying to yourself and dealt with the truth, maybe my Beth-rae wouldn’t be dead.”
He carried the body through the curtain to the kitchen. Chap followed, still whining.
Magiere slumped down to sit on the bottom stair and covered her eyes with her hands. Strands of her loose, messy hair caught in the drying blood on her chin.
“The man at the Vudrask River was the same,” she said quietly.
“What are you talking about?”
“He was the same—pale, bones like rock, too strong—surprised my weapon hurt him. He was the same.”
“You mean the same as the beggar boy on the road, the one in here tonight,” Leesil added, growing more angry. “Something else you neglected to tell me, yes?”
He took several deep breaths. Shouting at her would do nothing to help the situation, so he turned away. He wanted a drink and walked to the bar, found his old cup, and filled it.
“I can’t feel them now,” Magiere said, and Leesil looked up to see her hesitantly running one fingertip across the tops of her teeth, slowly, one by one. She pulled her hand away. “Maybe you just imagined—”
“I imagined nothing!” Leesil said, his voice growing louder on each word. He slammed the cup down on the bar and walked back to crouch before her. “This is not just something in your head and certainly not in mine.”
His hand reached up quickly, about to grab her jaw. Magiere started to pull away, but then remained still, staring at him. At first, her features were flat and emotionless at the closeness of his hand, and then they shifted. The look on her face told Leesil she was defying him to find again what he thought he’d seen.
Leesil moved carefully. Magiere did not open her mouth, but she did not resist as he gently pressed his fingers on her lower jaw to open it. He didn’t touch her teeth, because he didn’t need to. There was no sign of the elongation of her eyeteeth. Leesil let his hand drop away from her face, but he did not look away.
“We have to inform the constable about the attack,” he said. “Word is going to spread soon enough about Beth-rae’s death.”
Magiere sank back, eyes closing slowly.
“Leesil?” a tiny voice called from the top of the stairs.
Magiere’s eyes snapped open. “Rose?” she said softly, turning to look up.
