Thief of Lives

Chapter 1

It was the place he'd nearly died, and here he returned every day before dawn.

Leesil stood sweating in the forest clearing’s cold air, surrounded by sparse-limbed, shaggy firs. The sun had crested the high eastern tree line, and winking sparks of sunlight skipped between ocean wave tops below to the west. Along the shallow bay’s coastal edge sat the small port town of Miiska, its rooftops brightened by the dawn.

White-blond hair matted flat to Leesil's neck, shoulders, and his narrow face, letting the blunt tips of his oblong ears peek out. Faded but still visible scars lined his tan-colored throat and the lower right side of his jaw. The thin beige cotton shirt clung to his back, and his feet felt wet with perspiration in the soft leather boots. Breathing hard, he scowled in irritation, wiping away sweat running into his eyes. He shivered briefly. The chill of a late-autumn morning encouraged him to keep moving for warmth.

"Valhachkasej'a!" he muttered, though not completely certain of its meaning.

His mother-Nein'a, Father had called her-would whisper it under her breath when angered or frustrated, or when she cut herself accidentally while sharpening a blade. Her narrow, triangular face of smooth caramel skin would wrinkle slightly, and high, thin wisps of white-blond eyebrows would cinch together in a scowl as she shifted unconsciously into her native Elvish.

She refused to teach Leesil her language, and her large, slanted eyes would narrow whenever he asked. At her occasional slips, he'd listened carefully to the way she spoke and silently mouthed the words in turn, trying to unravel their meaning. Leesil had heard enough foul exclamations in varied tongues to guess at the meaning of this exclamation. Childhood obsession became unconscious habit. A few times, she had spoken his name with strange inflection-Leshil-and more than once referred to him or herself as "anmaglahk" but he never unraveled its meaning.

Shaking off the memory, Leesil returned to training, collapsing low in a buckled crouch. His right leg shot out to the side.

Momentum pulled him into a backward spin toward his outstretched leg, body pivoting quickly on his left foot. When his right heel had traced one-third of a circle, it bit into the clearing's earth.

His torso spun around, and both arms swung over to his right side. Hands slapped flat against the ground to brace his weight, and his left leg whipped upward.

Today he trained later man ever before. There was so much to remember, to relearn, and it was the last morning he could slip out alone before anyone, including his companion, Magiere, arose for the day. Their routine would soon shift to nightlife again, as they fell back into their roles as the owners and proprietors of the Sea Lion tavern. She would handle the bar, while he ran the card games at their faro table.

He looked down the slope to the town again, his gaze settling upon the nearest building with its new roof, new everything, rebuilt from the ground up. The fresh cedar shakes looked too vibrant amidst the other weathered rooftops. The new Sea Lion tavern was finally finished.

Farther up the shoreline before the small docks was a large empty plot of burned earth between surrounding buildings. The vacancy was easily three times the size of any other building in the town. Although the structure's charred remains had been cleared away, months of fall weather hadn't washed the blackened stain from the ground where once stood Miiska's largest warehouse. It had burned to ash and cinders… burned down by Leesil.

He looked back to the Sea Lion once more. It, too, had been a charred patch, but was now reborn from the ashes, a little bigger and certainly brighter than its bleached and wind-worn predecessor. It would be home once again for him and Magiere, and for their dog, Chap, as well.

And somewhere beneath it lay the powdered bones of monsters.

But not the one who'd been here in the forest clearing and nearly crushed the life out of him. Not the one he'd let slip away.

He pictured in his mind the three undeads he and Magiere had faced. Two were destroyed, but the last, Ratboy, had escaped.

Leesil turned to the clearing's east side, where a large, scarred fir tree stood. Each morning he brought a small box wrapped in canvas sailcloth and set it at the tree's base. The fir was old and solid, and wind and rain had carried away soil, exposing lumps of deep roots. One bare patch revealed where bark had been torn away and a lower limb was raggedly broken off. These injuries were not so old.

The undead of Miiska were gone. All three of them, but this brought Leesil no relief.

It wasn't over. He couldn't tell this to Magiere, who wasn't ready to hear it. Not just yet.

Crossing to the scarred fir, Leesil unrolled the sail scrap to reveal the long box of dark wood, its length equal to his forearm. It was flat enough to slip inside a baggy shirt without leaving much of a bulge. A flick of fingertips opened the lid, and his shoulders knotted in apprehension at its contents, gifts from his mother on his seventeenth birthday so many years ago.

Inside lay weapons and tools the like of which could never be bought openly from a weaponer or metalworker. Their origin unknown to him, Leesil could only guess they'd come from his mother's people, though why the elves would make such things he couldn't imagine.

He studied the distasteful items. A garrote, its handles and wire of the same metal as his good stiletto, both a tone brighter than silver. A small curved blade that could be palmed but would easily cut through flesh and bone. And inside the lid behind a foldout cover, a row of a dozen thin struts, wires, and hooks, again of the same metal, and suitable for picking any lock. The final item was a hilt that matched the better of his two sheathed stilettos. Its blade was missing, snapped off a finger's breadth from the guard.

Leesil picked up the bladeless hilt, and a rush of unwanted memories hit him.

Ratboy, the filthy undead street youth, brown eyes shining with hate and triumph. In Leesil's pain-fogged vision that night, the little monster had looked so human.

"Perhaps we could call this a draw?" Leesil had joked, trying to sound confident. "I promise not to hurt you."

Ratboy's sharp features made his smile seem out of place and pasted on.

"Oh, but I want to hurt you."

The dusty undead hopped like a rat leaping at a larger opponent, and kicked Leesil in the chest. Leesil's ribs cracked audibly as he was thrown halfway across the clearing. Before his vision cleared, Ratboy crossed the distance to snatch him by the shirt.

As Leesil was pulled to his feet, he curled his hands up and flicked open the holding straps of the sheaths on his forearms. Stilettos dropped into each hand. He thrust both hilt-deep into Ratboy's sides.

"One good… turn for another," he gasped out, and then wrenched the hilts downward.

Beneath the sound of Ratboy's cracking ribs came a muffled metal clink. The right blade snapped, sending a jar through Leesil's arm and into his battered body. Ratboy's mouth gaped, soundless beneath wide eyes, and he flung Leesil at the trunk of the old fir.

The lowest branch shattered as Leesil fell across it on his way down to the forest floor. Impact with the ground sent so much pain through his body that it became distant and unreal, and he dropped his one whole blade and the hilt of the other. Clutching at the ground, he gripped the severed half of the branch. When Ratboy came again, Leesil let the vampire's own momentum and weight do the work.

Ratboy pulled himself up and stumbled back, face filled with anguish and fear as he clutched at the branch protruding right of center from his chest.

"Leesil! Where are you?"

A voice called out Leesil's name, but Ratboy's gaping mouth had not moved. Half-impaled, the dusty undead bolted into the forest before Magiere broke into the clearing. Leesil lay on the ground trying to stay conscious.

The wiry, filthy little vampire had escaped.

And now, months later, Leesil looked over the instruments in his box. He dropped the bladeless hilt and picked up the garrote, looping it as he gripped the handles. With a quick jerk, he pulled it tight. The wire snapped straight, and a thrumming tone filled the air with a vibration that made Leesil's stomach lurch.

Time to relearn lessons from his mother and father, to reclaim part of a sickening heritage. There had been so many nights when he drank himself to sleep so dreams of a nightmare childhood couldn't wake him. But he would never again be caught so ill prepared.

Because it wasn't over.

Rumors would slip quietly along in one direction or another. He and Magiere had wanted a quiet life in Miiska, but word of her deeds would reach the desperate. They'd freed Miiska, a whole small port town on the main coastal shipping route of the Belaski kingdom. And they'd done it right out in the open.

Magiere, hunter of the undead, would never be allowed any lasting peace.

Leesil dropped the garrote into the box, shut it, and wrapped it in the sail scrap. He gathered his bundle and turned toward town, and the new Sea Lion tavern, where Magiere might now be preparing for their opening night. He wished he could speak to her, tell of his fears for her and how much he wanted to protect her from what he knew was coming. But that was just one more thing she wasn't ready to hear.

"Oh, Magiere…" he whispered sadly, heading down the forest slope toward their new home. "It's never going to be over-not now. And you can't even see, can you?"

After months in this small port town, Magiere never tired of hearing waves lap upon the shore. It puzzled her that she'd lived nearly all of her twenty-five years so far inland, only recently discovering her love of existing on the edge of an ocean. Not given to romantic notions, she now found the sea a mystical wellspring of life. The salt-laden air was cleansing. She walked with long strides along the docks toward a small warehouse.

Black tresses pulled back with a leather thong, she felt the tail swing like a pendulum between her shoulders. She cared little if people stared at the sun-sparked scarlet glints in her hair. Like a birthmark, they were simply part of her now. She rarely wore her leather hauberk anymore, preferring the soft comfort of dark breeches, a loose white shirt, and an oversize leather vest. Her two small amulets hung in plain sight around her neck-one a simple topaz set in pewter, and the other a half oval of bone set against a tin backing.

At her side trotted Chap, tall and wolfish of build with silver fur and translucent blue eyes. Occasionally, the dog's ears perked and his gaze darted quickly about the crowd of dockworkers, bargemen, and local merchants. But nothing seemed important enough for him to bolt off on his own, so she didn't worry about him. She couldn't say the same for Leesil.

Her half-elven partner had taken to disappearing before dawn into the wooded hills above the south end of town. Magiere had no idea why or what he did there alone, but she somehow felt reluctant to ask. She'd taken careful note of his return each morning and, by that measure, he was late. Today of all days, his presence would be useful. At least that was the reason she held on to when she peered between buildings to the tree-coated slope south of town.

Their tavern had been burned little more than two moons past. With the townsfolk's help, the Sea Lion had been rebuilt. She'd ordered two casks of wine, three barrels of ale, and stocks for the kitchen in anticipation of heavy patronage. Tonight would be the grand reopening.

When she'd stopped by the tavern to check on the stores, nothing had been delivered. Not a tankard's worth. Leesil was better-more tactful, he would say-at dealing with such matters, but she'd waited until nearly noon for his return, and then decided to take matters into her own hands.

Chap bounded away to sniff at a stack of crates. An old man nearby, sewing up a net, looked down. The dog lifted his muzzle in reply, and the man reached in his pocket to pull out a tuft of jerky and toss it into the air. Chap caught it, barely chewing before the morsel was down his throat. He barked once, tail switching expectantly across the dock planks.

"Chap," Magiere called out. "Come on."

The old man laughed, holding up empty hands as a sign he had nothing more to offer. Chap's tail stopped, and he let out a groaning whine, hanging his head in pitiful disappointment.

Magiere had the strange notion the hound might well have learned this ploy from watching Leesil wheedle extra cream cakes at their friend Karlin's bakery. She closed her eyes briefly.

"Chap, enough begging!"

At Magiere's insistent tone, the hound loped after her, and she headed down the waterfront. Sometimes Chap displayed startling intelligence.

And sometimes he just acted like a dog.

As she approached the run-down warehouse, the number of dockworkers seemed fewer than normal. Too few. People were everywhere along the docks, more than she'd seen in the past, but it was different. So many new faces made up the surplus, and that made her strangely anxious.

Amidst common waterfront faces were now others. Merchants were present, but not all of them were making arrangements with warehouses, as was standard practice. Instead, they haggled directly with outgoing barge masters and mates of small ships that bothered to stop in this lesser port.

Peddlers actually worked the dockside, and farmers tried to engage merchants and traders directly with wagons full of bundles and bales.

Magiere watched men and a few women haul and stack crates and barrels and bundles. They seemed shabby, thin, and more tired than she'd seen before, or perhaps she'd just never paid attention until today. For some reason she couldn't pin down, she felt responsible.

Before she'd come to Miiska, her life consisted of cheating peasants out of anything valuable they possessed and then moving on. She and Leesil had earned their living by traveling from village to village in the inlands of the northeastern country of Stravina-or anyplace where peasants died of illness or other unexplained cause. She convinced the inhabitants that they were plagued by an undead and that she, the hunter, the dhampir, could save them for a price. At night, Leesil would masquerade as a ghost-white monster, "the vampire," appearing in the village pathway to dart in and out of the darkness between their homes. In a violent battle, Magiere would "stake" him, and the village was saved.

But constant travel and uncertainty became too much. She'd secretly saved enough profit to purchase a tavern sight unseen in this little coastal town. She wanted peace and quiet and to spend the rest of her days simply running a tavern with Leesil. How ironic that turned out to be. A fake and cheat, playing hunter of the dead, she'd bought a tavern in likely the only town in Belaski with a trio of undeads nestled in its midst.

And worse, her rumored reputation followed her to spread slowly through Miiska. Everyone expected her to have the skill and knowledge to fight such creatures, and the vampires themselves believed she'd come to hunt them. Unable to avoid this conflict, she destroyed two of the undeads, including their leader, Rashed.

Now, Magiere looked back down the waterfront. She'd actually walked right past the charred earth today and not even noticed the vacancy. Leesil had burned Miiska's largest warehouse, covering their retreat from the undeads' hiding place in order to save her life. But Leesil's action had other consequences.

Rashed may have been a monster masquerading among the townsfolk, but it seemed he'd also had a head for business. His warehouse had employed many dockworkers as well as being the mainstay of export for the local area.

Magiere finally recognized the source of her seemingly pointless guilt.

"Move it, you lazy grunts!" shouted a foreman in a sleeveless shirt. "There are plenty around to take your place if you can't keep up."

She and Leesil had saved the town from its undead plague, but without Rashed's establishment for competition, the two other smaller warehouse owners could now pay workers substandard wages for longer hours, as well as choke off the prices for abundant goods with less opportunity for storage and export. Anyone who protested was dismissed. There were simply more workers than jobs, and worse, more business than these small warehouses could handle. People watched their livelihood go to waste or be bought out for low return.

Magiere tried to take no further notice. She had a business of her own to manage. She grabbed a ragged worker by the shirtsleeve.

"Where's Master Poyesk?"

The man stared at her in exhaustion, and his eyes narrowed slightly as his back straightened. She realized that he recognized her and met his gaze without flinching. A long moment passed, until the silence was too much.

He pointed toward the warehouse's doors. "Inside."

Magiere nodded, and Chap followed as she entered the dimly lit building. She choked on the dust while her eyes adjusted to the decreased light. Crates of wool, casks of ale, and other packaged goods lined the walls. She spotted a short, weasel-faced man writing on a torn bit of parchment.

"Master Poyesk!" Magiere called out with an edge of anger.

Poyesk turned, slightly surprised by her presence. "Mistress Magiere," he said in an oily tone. "I was expecting your partner."

Although he was dressed like a merchant in a burgundy velvet tunic, Poyesk's teeth were yellowed, his hair greasy, and his nose pockmarked. Magiere was too irritated to be revolted.

"If you're expecting my partner, then you know why I'm here," she stated. "My tavern opens tonight, but my stocks haven't been delivered. I paid in advance, so what is the delay?"

He set the parchment on a nearby crate and rubbed his hands together, smiling apologetically.

"Yes, but as you see, business has been slow in Miiska of late. Fewer ships come to trade and there are so many workers to employ. My overhead is climbing by the day."

Confused, Magiere wondered where this was leading.

"I paid the delivery fee as well," she added.

He paused as if weighing his words, and tapped one finger lightly against his lips.

"Of course, but there are other considerations. With so few handling all of Miiska's trade these days, I have to consider who to serve first based on which customers are most… profitable." He shrugged, as if there were nothing he could do. "Otherwise, I won't have the coin to pay workers to serve the next customer."

Poyesk's meaning settled upon Magiere.

Leesil would handle this differently, but he wasn't here. She reached to her hip for the falchion's hilt, but that wasn't here either. She'd stopped wearing it around town in broad daylight.

"Are you asking for a bribe?" she said. "You want a bribe to deliver goods I've already purchased… with a delivery fee paid in advance?"

She heard Chap growl softly at Poyesk, the low sound rolling up his throat to vibrate through half-exposed teeth. Master Poyesk didn't react, picking up his parchment again to return to business as usual.

"Setting your dog on me won't get you your ale."

Magiere was about to explain what she could do with a bailing hook and his various body cavities, when a familiar voice called out from behind her.

"Ah, there you are, Magiere. Caleb said you'd come down here."

Magiere turned to see two familiar men entering the warehouse, Karlin Boigiesque, the town's baker, and Darien Tomik, constable and head of the guard.

Karlin's presence usually put her at ease. Portly, smooth headed, and always smelling of clove-spiced soap, he was more than just a baker. He now served on the town council and had been her main advocate in getting the town to rebuild her tavern. He was a good man to the core and her friend. She didn't have many friends.

Darien, on the other hand, she didn't know well. He struck her as competent and quiet, though he hadn't held his position long. Tall to the point of being lanky, he stood almost a head above Karlin and gazed seriously at her. She realized her face must be flushed with anger.

"This little weasel just asked me for a bribe to deliver an order I've already paid for," she snapped.

Darien looked at Poyesk and asked softly, "Is this true?"

"Uh, no… I think Mistress Magiere misunderstood." Poyesk became slightly nervous. "I was explaining that her delivery had to be moved into the afternoon schedule. We're running behind today."

"Behind… something, certainly," Magiere snapped, her hand still on her hip.

Karlin settled one thick palm on Magiere's shoulder in a friendly manner. Darien stepped in on her other side. The quiet, dour constable was appropriately outfitted in leather hauberk, sheathed short sword, and a small cudgel tucked in his belt.

"But all is well now?" Karlin asked, polite and jovial. "You'll send her order this afternoon?"

Poyesk smiled with yellowed teeth and backed farther away. "Yes, of course. She'll have everything well before dusk."

Magiere realized Darien's presence made Master Poyesk extremely nervous, more so than seemed appropriate for one attempt at gouging a customer. Darien's attitude stepped beyond mere disapproval from a town constable. She wondered who else Poyesk was attempting to extort and felt less inclined to let the situation drop so easily. Karlin, however, gave a slight tug on her shoulder, and began rushing her toward the doors. Darien hesitated before following. Magiere glanced back at Poyesk.

"I hope there won't be any further misunderstandings to straighten out. And you'd better hope my partner, Leesil, doesn't come in my place."

Master Poyesk only smiled again.

Magiere shielded her eyes from the bright sunlight as they emerged from the warehouse.

"It's fortunate you two happened along," she said, blinking as she lowered her hand.

Karlin didn't answer and walked slowly down the waterfront. She and Darien fell into step beside the baker.

"All right, you going to tell me what's going on?" she asked.

Darien remained silent, and Karlin rolled his shoulders as if shifting an irritating shirt seam to a more comfortable position.

"We went to speak with you at the Sea Lion," Karlin began slowly. "When Caleb said you'd gone to the docks, we thought we'd take a walk and see if we could find you."

"And you did," Magiere added. "Is anything wrong?"

"Yes and no," he answered. "You must be aware that things have changed in Miiska of late. When you and Leesil… when Rashed's warehouse was burned, the town's economy was altered."

She took a slow breath. Again, everything came back to Rashed's warehouse.

"Where we once had a surplus of money," Darien cut in, his voice even but hard, "is now a nearly empty purse. The small warehouses like Poyesk's are claiming they earn no profit, and months ago, town funds were drained in helping those who lost livelihoods after the fire. We have almost no community surplus left from taxes."

Magiere kept stride, but she was uncertain why they wanted to chat with her about problems with the town's treasury.

"What is it you think I can do about this?" she asked.

"Pay your back taxes," Karlin said plainly.

Magiere came to a sudden stop, looking in confusion between the corpulent baker and the lanky town constable. "Back taxes?"

"There's a tax for trade and business, which in turn is split between community funds and what's owed to the kingdom. Fortunately, we're a free township and don't pay a percentage to a local fief. Of course, you would know that. It's just that you've been so helpful to Miiska that the council never thought it right to insist. But we're in a crisis, and everyone must do their share. Now that you're reopening, we can expect a payment from the Sea Lion as well."

Among all the reasons Karlin would need to speak with her, this was the last thing Magiere expected. Why had no one ever mentioned this before?

For ridding Miiska of undeads, she and Leesil had been gifted some payment, but nearly all of that had gone into rebuilding the Sea Lion. She'd used up the remainder restocking to open for business. She couldn't tell this to Karlin and Darien, though.

"Leesil handles our account sheets," she lied, clearing her throat. "I'll need to speak with him."

"Of course." Karlin nodded. "We know you're just reopening and things might be a bit scattered. I must be off now, at any rate. A town council meeting was called this afternoon over a letter from Bela. Apparently, the news it contains warrants an immediate discussion, but I'll stop by the tavern tonight."

Darien gave a nod of acknowledgment and farewell and headed into town. Karlin patted her on the shoulder before following him.

Magiere watched her own feet step along the waterfront planks. Where was Leesil, indeed, now that she needed him?

She passed beyond the commotion of the docks and turned inward to the closest street paralleling the shore. Shops around her grew dense and more closely connected, side streets occasionally reaching inward to the heart of town. Her stomach was in knots. She had until evening to come up with taxes on the Sea Lion. Miiska was in trouble, and she and Leesil were partially responsible. The least they could do was pay their fair share. But how?

She passed the stable down the road from the tavern and saw Lila, the cobbler's wife, walking toward her. A large woman with a mass of burnished auburn hair, she carried a basket of bread loaves and fruit. It was a cheerful sight, as if some part of the world were calm enough to simply worry about pies and apple butter. Lila smiled when she spotted Magiere. Not everyone blamed her and Leesil for Miiska's troubles.

As Lila passed an open alleyway, two teenage boys burst out, as if they'd been lying in wait for a passerby. For a heartbeat Magiere froze in disbelief.

The first swung his fist and caught Lila across the jaw. She dropped instantly in a heap on the dry, dusty street. The second grabbed the basket and turned to flee. All the day's frustrations found welcome release in Magiere's anger.

"Chap, get him!" she shouted as she took off after the first boy.

He was fast but didn't notice Magiere until too late. She snatched him by the shirt collar, spun him around, and flung him up against the cobbler shop's wall.

The boy turned as if ready to fight, but he looked terrified, breath coming in ragged gasps and eyes wild with panic. His collarbone poked sharply out of a ripped shirt. His raised fists were bony at the ends of thin arms. At most, he was fifteen years old.

Magiere's anger drained instantly, and she heard Lila calling out her name.

Hesitant to take her eyes off the first boy, Magiere glanced quickly toward the stout woman, who was pulling at Chap.

"Magiere, help me. Call him off," Lila shouted.

Magiere stepped back, watching the first boy until she was at a safe distance. She had little choice but to let her quarry go and run back to Lila.

Chap snarled and barked at the other thief pinned against a pile of empty crates blocking an alley. Magiere saw that the dog wasn't trying to harm the boy but merely make enough of a show that the young thief would cower down and be still. Lila, on the other hand, didn't know Chap well enough to understand what was happening.

"Call him off," Lila repeated. "They're just hungry boys."

"Chap, that's enough," Magiere said. "Leave him be."

The dog snarled once more and pulled back next to Magiere. The boy whimpered softly, rolled to his feet, and started running.

"Wait, take this," Lila called out. She held out a loaf of bread from the fallen basket.

The boy never looked back and disappeared down a side street.

Magiere stared at Lila's swollen jaw. It would be black and purple tomorrow. "You're trying to feed the thief who attacked you?"

Lila's expression grew sad, so sad that Magiere fell silent.

"They're just children, and they're hungry," Lila said softly. "There's not even enough work for their parents, if they have any, so how can they feed themselves?"

Magiere had no response. The knot in her stomach tightened as she escorted Lila safely home. Turning away, she headed back toward the south end of town, Chap beside her.

The Sea Lion was nestled at the base of a small, forested peninsula forming the southern side of the bay. Stout and cleanly cut plank walls, freshly whitewashed shutters, and an ornate sign depicting a sea lion riding an ocean wave greeted her as she stood outside her reborn establishment. The front door was shaped from solid oak this time, with iron bars and locks that Leesil had requested. Enough fair-grade glass panes had been found for the upper-floor windows, and shutters were in place on the ground floor. The whole of the place was at least half again as long as its previous incarnation and shone like a new copper coin in the sunlight. Even in hard times, people spent what little they could afford for the comfort of ale in good company by a warm hearth. The Sea Lion fairly burst with promise of laughter and profit. But at the moment, Magiere did not feel like laughing.

Chap scurried to the front door and sat waiting, but Magiere held back.

Somewhere inside, old Caleb, the caretaker they'd inherited, was likely putting things in order. Little Rose, his granddaughter, would be playing in her new bedroom, probably waiting for Chap, her favorite "pull-toy."

This day already weighed too heavily upon Magiere. She could imagine the activity that would grow through the afternoon, until the place opened for business.

The last time she'd taken on the role of bartender, both Miiska's desperate townsfolk and the vampires they feared had found her too easily. The memory, as well as the revelations about herself that had emerged, still haunted her. In facing the truth behind her life of deception and lies, Magiere had also faced more of herself than she'd ever wanted to know. In the presence of vampires, rage and strength filled her until she began to change, manifesting attributes only vampires themselves possessed… canines elongating to fangs amid sharpening teeth… healing herself by drinking mortal blood. It terrified her, even though it became necessary both to her own survival and to protect Leesil. And they had grown closer during the crisis.

Magiere felt suddenly cold and exposed.

In the aftermath, Leesil was so badly injured that all she could do was care for him until he could walk again. During that time, they didn't speak much of their experience together, because she decided it was best to put it all behind them.

He began slipping away by himself each morning. Perhaps that was best. Her cool manner was obviously troubling him, but his life had been endangered because of his connection to her, and a certain distance was for his own good. A lonely thought, but true.

Magiere looked southward across the coastal road out of town and up to the forested hills that lay inland. Leesil was late.

"Advance," Chane instructed, trying not to yawn from tedium, "and again. No, master, keep your blade level and then settle your weight back. Do not lean into your front leg." He lazily parried but did not take advantage of the blatant opening his opponent had left again-and again.

Toret, his pupil in swordplay and his master in all else, halted in frustration.

"My sword is straight!" he snapped. His voice echoed off the walls of the enlarged cellar cleared for their use in training and other clandestine pursuits. "Why do you keep repeating that?"

Their three-story stone house resided in the upper-class quarters of Bela, the kingdom capital of Belaski and its major port of call. Acceptable and perhaps extravagant by middle-class standards, it was not what Chane had been used to in life. The city's population was-so diverse almost anyone could fit in. However, since he'd risen from death, Chane felt nothing but out of place in his master's company.

A recent Noble Dead, or vampire specifically, Chane still understood the walls between classes. In mortal life, he had been a minor noble of an outlying barony, familiar with the politics and social strategies customary among the gentry. And now-as in most of his conscious moments-he assisted his creator, his master, in elevating himself. That contradiction, as well as the contrast between them, was so beyond comic it struck Chane as absurd rather than amusing.

Chane was tall, with thick auburn hair cut just below his ears. Dark ginger breeches and a midnight-blue tunic were tailor-cut for him, framing broad shoulders over a long torso. Fluent in four languages, with a noble's education and self-schooled in less acknowledged arts, he handled a long sword as if born to it.

Herein lay the contemptible irony of this new existence with his master.

Toret was thin-armed, seeming a youth no more than seventeen years, and small for the age. Even scrubbed clean, his skin was tinted as though covered in a constant layer of filth. His dirt-brown hair stuck out in tufts and cowlicks. He bore scars on one wrist and his cheek. He conversed well enough in Belaskian, the common language throughout most of the region, and seemed to speak the vulgar tongue of the Suman Empire across the ocean and far to the south. But despite this, so far, he could barely read or write any language, regardless of tutelage. His expensive burgundy brocade tunic made him look like a houseboy playing dress-up while the manor lord was away.

But Toret had trapped and turned Chane, pulled him from death into servitude. Now Chane could not refuse the smaller undead's most menial whim. Once created, a vampire could not refuse its master. Chane was a slave.

"No, master," he said with forced politeness. "Your blade is not straight, and you throw your weight too far. Observe me."

Chane stepped precisely through three connected advances but did not believe for a moment that Toret would catch the finer details.

"Well, I think you're doing… splendidly!" came a high-pitched voice from across the cellar.

Both Toret's and Chane's attention shifted toward the voice. Chane suppressed a sneer of disgust as their household's third member forced her presence into his awareness. Toret smiled, exposing straight but lightly stained teeth.

"My sweet," Toret said with relish. "Have you been shopping?"

Flouncing toward them was another painful reality of Chane's new existence: Sapphire.

Some would find her alluring or desirable, in a vulgar way, but to Chane she was the most repulsive creature to invade his existence, before or after his death.

Sapphire wore a low-cut satin gown so startlingly pink it might be called magenta, and dark blond curls sculpted into sausage ringlets framed her round and often pouting face. Red-stained lips stood out between her smooth, pale cheeks, while gaudy ruby earrings that could feed a large village dangled from her earlobes. No matter how much money Toret heaped upon her for clothing and jewelry, she retained the appearance of a well-paid but tasteless prostitute. Her only untainted feature was a set of bright sapphire eyes, and hence the name Toret had given her.

To think of this creature as a Noble Dead was a constant source of disquieting irony. But when Toret looked at her, Chane saw in his master's hungry eyes that she might as well have been the queen of the Fay. It was nauseating, and reminded Chane of a childhood time when his family's cook served a salmon left unprepared too long in the summer heat. Chane had spent three days kneeling over a bucket.

"Splendidly?" Chane said, masking the sarcasm in his voice. "Did you learn a new word today?"

Both Toret and Sapphire blinked once, and she pretended he hadn't spoken. Chane knew his companions often had difficulty distinguishing whether he was being polite or insulting.

"Not shopping," she said to Toret, smiling coyly with a tilt of her head as she fingered the front of his tunic. "To my dressmaker. Charlotte got in some lovely mustard-yellow silk, and I've had a new gown made. Of course, her ideas for the cut were dull, so I've insisted on alterations."

No doubt, Chane thought, trying not to imagine what overtly provocative choices passed for style in such a creature's thoughts.

Chane had managed to find bankers, merchants, and dressmakers who remained open for business far into the evening. Appropriately handled, such requests weren't suspicious in a city the size of Bela. Half the gentry he'd known slept all day and spent all night in social politics or discreet debauchery. Toret and his companions were simply "eccentric" for their late business hours. They paid well, and no one complained.

"Have you fed yet, my dear?" Toret asked Sapphire. Clasping her hand, he pressed its palm firmly against his mouth, closing his eyes halfway.

"No, I was waiting for you." She smiled at Chane and added, "For both of you."

Chane nodded as coldly as possible without appearing rude. No matter how badly he treated her, she played the coquette with him, though never openly enough to annoy Toret. She believed all men found her charms irresistible and constantly played up to this self-image.

"I want to go to the Rowanwood," she announced quite happily.

Toret shook his head. "It's too soon."

Sapphire had a penchant for elite prey, a dangerous indulgence, from Chane's perspective. She fed on the rich as often as Toret allowed. The Rowanwood hosted wealthy patrons, if not the most sophisticated. Chane did appreciate its lush atmosphere, suitable for upper classes looking for a less stuffy night's entertainment. But frequent hunting near a prestigious establishment gained unwanted attention.

Sapphire's smile faded, replaced by a pout, and Chane steeled himself. It was time to repeat the ritual of manipulation.

"Well, where do you want to go?" she asked Toret, her voice pitched so high it hurt Chane's ears. "Some dockside tavern to feed on stinky fishermen? Do you want to smell ale and sweat all night? I don't. I don't! I want to go someplace nice!"

Toret sighed, walking to the cellar's far wall to place his sword back in the rack.

"Did you hear me?" Sapphire called, astonished at being ignored. "Ratboy! Did you hear me?"

Toret froze in midstep. When he turned, his face was a tight mask of rage, and his dust-colored skin appeared to turn hoarfrost white.

Ratboy? Chane had no idea why she called him that. Perhaps some peasant's insult? Indeed, it had an unimaginative sound. During frequent fits of temper, Sapphire called Toret all sorts of names and threw herself into sorrowful pouts until he relented to her whims.

Toret snatched a parrying dagger from the rack and closed the distance to Sapphire. Before she could dart away, he gripped her by the throat and pressed the blade's point under her chin.

Chane felt something near to astonishment. It was quite pleasing. He'd never once seen Toret lay a hand on Sapphire in anything besides affection or desire.

"We discussed this," Toret hissed. "I made you, and I can unmake you. You will never call me that again. Understand?"

Sapphire's eyes widened as one tiny drop of dark fluid ran down the blade from under her chin.

Chane felt a moment of pure pleasure at the open terror on Sapphire's face. The evening was not a complete waste after all. The little bitch had given up something new to consider.

Ratboy.

Whatever the meaning, it displeased Toret more than anything Chane could recall, and this was worth remembering.

"I'm sorry… Toret," Sapphire stammered. "We can go anywhere… anyplace you like… I'm sorry… anywhere."

Toret lowered the blade and slowly released his grip on her throat. He then looked troubled, of course, perhaps realizing he would later pay for his actions. And pay he would.

Chane kept his sigh of boredom silent. So tediously predictable.

"It's all right, my dear," Toret said, his abrupt calm a counterpoint to his rage from a moment ago. "We can't go to the Rowanwood again so soon… but we haven't been to the Damask Throne in a while."

Daggers and threats forgotten, Sapphire's face lit up. "Oh, yes, the Damask Throne? That would be… splendid."

Chane inwardly groaned. She had learned a new word. After changing into suitable attire, complete with evening cloak and gloves, he went to fetch a covered carriage for hire.

In the far-past time of the first king, Bela had consisted of a castle stronghold. Over time, villages close by spread into towns and then into a surrounding city. The castle itself grew. As the city spread outward, new fortification walls were erected for its defense. The king's city of Bela now consisted of three walls that ringed the city at nearly equal distances from its center castle grounds. Most banks, municipal buildings, wealthy homes, and upscale establishments existed within the inner ring wall, where they were best protected. Though there were main avenues of commerce and city life running from the center of Bela to the waterfront docks, such as Harbor Street, as one moved outward from the city's center, one moved downward in society.

The night air was crisp with a rare seaward breeze that pushed back the odors of wood, rope, fish, salt mill, and other harbor smells. It was a short ride from their home until the carriage stopped near the Damask Throne. Toret assisted Sapphire from the carriage while Chane paid the driver.

Even with large, burning street lamps positioned every thirty paces, the night felt comfortingly dark. Chane looked his part of protector in a long wool cloak with the point of his sheathed sword just visible at the bottom. Toret and Sapphire appeared a wealthy couple.

The carriage moved off down the street, and Sapphire walked toward the luxurious inn while Toret and Chane waited outside-a typical game played many times over. Chane crossed his arms and stood in the shadows. He rarely spoke to Toret unless spoken to first. Toret sighed, watching Sapphire disappear inside the Damask Throne.

"She is lovely, isn't she?" he asked.

"Yes, master," Chane answered flatly.

In a short time, Sapphire emerged from the inn with a young couple. A female victim in the mix surprised Chane, as Sapphire usually brought out only drunken men, all ne'er-do-wells and blueblood want-to-bes. But aside from the woman, the couple was no different from a typical set of well-off merchants.

"Oh," Sapphire exclaimed to her new companions as they crossed the street. "Here are my friends now. I told you they'd be along soon."

She introduced the couple as Simask and Luiza. Toret shook the man's hand and politely greeted the woman.

"Simask is the son of a Stravinan winemaker, and he's in Bela on business," Sapphire continued. "They don't know anyone in town, so I offered to show them a few of our evening attractions. But now that you're here, you can help me entertain them."

Chane focused upon the woman: in her early twenties, with pale skin and dark hair swept up under a little red velvet hat. He was suddenly struck by the growing tingle of hunger. His normal disdainful thoughts were replaced by images of Luiza's soft, warm throat drawn close to his mouth as paralyzing fear stained her face. Even now, he could feel the slight and slow shift of his teeth, canines elongating as saliva built up until he quietly swallowed it down.

One of the few times Chane forgot his unfortunate state of servitude was while he hunted.

Toret smiled at Simask. "Come, come. There's a much better inn down the street called the Rowanwood. The food is excellent, and they have the best wine cellar in this part of the country." He paused a moment, then feigned a surprised epiphany. "Perhaps you can do business with the proprietor."

Toret's relaxed and friendly manner put the young couple at ease. They strolled down the street, occasionally passing another late evening citizen enjoying a walk, and once, a city guard who returned them a polite nod.

Chane remained silent while Sapphire and Toret chatted away with Simask and Luiza. They turned onto a sloping road toward a merchant district outside the inner wall. The area had grown unfashionable over the years, and after hours was all but deserted. Chane was almost bored by the time Simask suddenly stopped and looked around, realizing the street lamps had grown scarce, the buildings were dark, and there were no other people about.

"Did we miss the Rowanwood?" he asked. "Perhaps we went too far."

Without warning, Toret grabbed him. He slammed Simask hard against the clay-plaster wall of a closed shop.

Chane had long since ceased being surprised by his small master's speed and strength. Toret's lips curled back to reveal elongated canines. He exhaled into Simask's face once before releasing him.

"Run," he whispered.

Toret rarely toyed with his food. Chane preferred such pretense and foreplay himself, but understood Toret's concern for secrecy. Most Noble Dead could muddle or smother their victim's memories, so normally they left their prey alive but disoriented. Some developed more pronounced abilities, but neither Chane nor Sapphire could do more than simply blur a victim's recollection.

There was a difference in Toret's attitude tonight. Chane silently rejoiced, anticipating a brief respite, and the release of all the frustration of his slavery spread through him like warmth.

Simask tried to dodge around Toret and reach Luiza, but Sapphire stepped in his way, laughing.

"Not that way," she said, and pointed down an alley. "That way." Another low-voiced laugh exposed her fangs.

Simask ran. Luiza screamed in shock as her husband's form receded into the dark. She backed into the middle of the street.

Sapphire started after the husband. Toret hesitated long enough to look to Chane.

"No one knows them here. Do what you want, but leave no trace when you're finished."

Then he was gone down the alley after Sapphire.

Chane saw Luiza staring at him in a mix of terror and… pleading hope? He knew his appearance suggested a vassal lord or liegeman who protected women like Luiza, the fair and fragile.

"Sir," she said. "Please…"

He walked quietly toward her, backing her up until they reached the alley's other half across the street. He tilted his head toward the opening.

"Go," Chane said.

Luiza sobbed once and tripped over her skirt as she turned to flee. She managed to catch herself and keep moving.

Chane let her run. He waited just a little longer and then followed.

Her head turned once as he trotted steadily after her, not caring for silence any longer. She sobbed loudly again and screamed for help at the footfalls closing quickly behind her in the alley's darkness. No one would hear her. Or if they did, they wouldn't care.

He caught Luiza effortlessly, and as he grasped the little red hat and a handful of her hair, he felt a slight disappointment.

There were appropriate times for a quick and poignant kill. But not now. This was too easy.

To his surprise, she twisted away and with both hands grabbed an empty vegetable crate on the ground. With all her strength, she struck him across the side of the head. The crate shattered around him.

The impact almost hurt, and elation returned.

Chane snatched her wrists and bound them in one grip. He grabbed the front of her clothes with his other hand. He slammed her body up against the alley wall, pinning her arms above her head.

He forgot Toret. He forgot Sapphire. He forgot his lost mortal family and his mother and all the trappings of life that he still missed. This mattered. This moment.

Luiza struggled, and for a short while Chane allowed her to. It was fascinating how easily he could push his dead form to accomplish anything he demanded of it, and what little the living could do to oppose him. He felt her useless squirming in his grip begin to weaken. Looking down, he took in the horror on her face and watched as her cheek brushed against him and her tears disappeared, soaking into his black cloak.

Chane let himself feel the shiver and heat of her skin against his fingertips, and then he concentrated until his fingernails hardened under his will and ever so slightly elongated. He pulled his hand back, slashing away her coat, blouse, and all fabric from around her throat. His mouth closed down on flesh.

He rarely tasted blood until a short while after feeding, and then there was only a salt-laden, coppery residue. During the act, he only felt warmth and strength filling him, as if blood were only a medium carrying the power of life into his possession. Nothing in his memory compared to this. It was the only aspect of his undead existence that brought him joy. Chane knew it was time to stop only when he could no longer sense any life pouring into him, and the mix of oblivion and euphoria faded.

He returned to his current existence-a slave.

Toret expected him to drop the woman's empty husk down a sewer grate, where it would not be found immediately. Such a grate was only twenty paces away. He remained still in contemplation.

After a moment he dragged Luiza's body with one hand down the alley closer to the main street and dropped her. He then ripped her dress further open, shredding it and the undergarments. She must look savaged and mutilated by something unnatural.

The night Toret turned Chane, he'd ordered, "You will stay in Bela and serve me."

Chane could not disobey, but there were loopholes to consider. If the bodies of lovely young women were found with throats ripped and clothing shredded, would the constabularies or city guards begin an active hunt? Chane could take care of himself, but if fate were kind, Toret could lose his head.

He crouched down for one last look at Luiza's still open eyes. His body coursed with life's energies now, but he felt sad as he wiped the blood from his mouth. The hunt had been so short and staged. Straightening his cloak and pulling his gloves on, he walked back toward the Damask Throne.