Somehow, this seemed an odd place for a conversation with Welstiel, standing among pots, pans, and dried onions hanging on the walls. Though they had spoken in Brenden's yard, in her mind, she now saw him always as part of his eccentric room at The Velvet Rose, surrounded by his books and orbs. Only two small candles and one lamp illuminated the kitchen. The white patches at his temples stood out vividly.
"I'm wondering if you're truly as much of a fool as all the other simpletons in this town," he answered, voice deep and hard. "I expected that you would be planning your next steps, yet you served ale all night, celebrating some illusory victory."
"What are you talking about?" she asked. "I'm tired of your little half-mysteries and concealing observations."
"How could you possibly assume the vampires here have been destroyed? Have you seen bodies? Have you counted those destroyed?"
A cold trickle of fear ran down her spine.
"Leesil burned the warehouse, and it caved in. Nothing could survive that."
"You are a dhampir!" he said angrily. "You received a fatal wound last night, but now you stand here, whole again. Their bodies heal even faster than yours. They are like the black roaches beneath these floorboards." He stepped closer. "Imagine what they can endure."
Magiere leaned over and gripped the aging oak table that Beth-rae had once chopped vegetables on. She felt fatigue weigh her down until she had to sit on the stool. This could not be happening. It should all be over with.
"I may not have seen any bodies, but you haven't seen any undeads roaming the streets either. Have you?"
The flesh of his cheekbones pulled back. "Look to your friends."
He turned and quickly disappeared out the door into the darkness.
"Wait!" Magiere shouted.
She ran after him through the kitchen door, but the backside of the tavern that faced the forest between the building and the sea was empty. In a moment of crystal clarity, only one thought registered.
"Leesil."
Magiere bolted back through the kitchen to the bar and grabbed her falchion.
As Brenden and Leesil walked down the streets of Miiska in silence, Brenden marveled at what a mass of contradictions this half-elf was: one moment a cold-hearted fighter and the next a mother hen. Leesil wore a green scarf tied around his head which covered the slight points of his ears. He now resembled a slender human with slightly slanted, amber-brown eyes. Brenden wondered about the scarf.
"Why do you sometimes wear that?" he asked, motioning toward Leesil's head.
"Wear what?" the half-elf said. Then he touched his forehead. "Oh, that. I used to wear it all the time. When Magiere and I were on the ga… when we were hunting, we didn't like calling attention to ourselves. She thought it best to blend in until we'd decided to take on a job. There aren't too many of my kind in or around Stravina, so I kept my ears covered. It doesn't matter here, but old habits die hard. Besides, it keeps my hair out of my face."
They talked of such simple, small things along the way. Except for a few drunken sailors, and a guard here and there openly patrolling the streets, no one else was about. Soon enough, the two of them approached Brenden's home.
Leesil finally asked, "Are you all right?"
Answering such a question was difficult for Brenden, but he had no wish to hurt his friend.
"After my sister's death, I was so enraged by Ellinwood's conduct that anger consumed me. Then you came. While we were searching, fighting, seeking revenge, I had a sense of purpose. Now that it's all over, I feel like I should bury Eliza… begin to mourn. But she's already in her grave. I don't know what to do."
Leesil nodded. "I know. I think I've known all day." He paused. "Listen to me. Tomorrow, you'll get up and go visit Eliza and say good-bye. Then you'll come here, open the smith's shop and work all day. At night, you'll come to The Sea Lion, have supper, and talk to friends. I swear that after a few such days, the world will begin to make sense again."
Brenden choked once and looked away.
"Thank you," he said, needing to say something, anything. "I'll see you tomorrow night."
The half-elf was already walking away down the street, as if he too felt a loss of appropriate words.
"If you run out of horses to shoe, you can help me fix that damned roof."
Brenden watched his friend's long-legged strides until Leesil turned a corner, and then he went inside his small empty cottage. Only sparse furniture and decor remained, as he had bundled all of Eliza's things and stored them away. Such items were too painful to see every day. A candle she made last summer rested on the table, but he didn't light it, preferring to undress in the dark. As he began untucking his shirt, beautiful strains of a wordless song drifted in the window and filled his ears.
Was someone outside singing?
He walked to the back window and looked out. Standing next to the woodpile was a young woman in a torn, velvet dress. Soft curls the color of deep Portsmith coffee hung to her small waist. She seemed vaguely familiar. Such sweet music floated from her tiny mouth. Something told him to stay, in the house, but an irresistible urgency and longing pulled at him. He stepped out the back door and off the porch into the yard.
Slowly approaching this serene visage, he saw her white hands were those of a child. Yet the tight-laced bodice of her gown and rounded breasts proved her a woman. He could not tell how old she was with her doll-like face.
"Are you lost?" he asked. "Do you need help?"
She stopped singing and smiled. "I am lost and alone. See the sadness in my eyes."
He looked into her dark, oval eyes and forgot where he was. He forgot his name.
"Come sit with me," she pleaded.
He crouched down beside her and leaned against the woodpile. Her delicate bone structure made him afraid to touch her, but she laid her head against his shoulder in contentment.
"So gentle," she whispered. "You would never hurt me, would you?"
"No," he answered. "I would never hurt you."
Her face turned up toward his, and her hand touched the back of his hair.
"Yes, you would."
A grip of solid bone restrained him, and she bit down hard on his throat.
No, she wasn't biting him, but kissing him, and he wanted her to go on. He relaxed in her arms, letting her do as she wished.
Then he closed his eyelids and sank down into her embrace.
Ratboy had not stopped thinking about the slim, tan-armed girl for days. He remembered standing outside her window, watching her sleep, drinking in her scent when Teesha had pulled him away. Now, he found himself standing outside her window again.
Rashed would want him to feed, heal, and grow strong again before attacking the half-elf and the dog. He was certain of it. This time there could be no failure, so he should be at his peak of strength and reeking of fresh blood.
The girl had long, tan hair to match her arms. When she rolled over in her sleep, he caught a whiff of clean muslin mixed with lavender soap, and he could wait no longer.
He rarely exercised any of his mental ability beyond making some of his mortal victims forgetful. Why should he? They were killers, not tricksters, but at times he admired, even quietly envied, Teesha's ease of hunting. And weren't they going to rid themselves of this hunter and begin traveling again? Perhaps he should practice his abilities and improve them. Teesha's concern for Rashed was beginning to outweigh her concern for him. Maybe it always had and he'd simply never realized. Ratboy would never be Rashed. But he had other gifts, other skills. He should develop them and impress her along the road. The thought made him smile.
At the same time, he felt an uncontrollable desire to possess this tan-haired girl, to touch her skin, to feed on her life. And he needed to be at full strength. "Come," he whispered.