Avador Book 2, Night Shadows (14 page)

She waved her hand. "As important as this matter is, we will let it go for now. You know I want only what is best for you. I fear you are trusting too much to chance or good fortune, but I fear I can't dissuade you from your purpose. I don't want you to get hurt. Now, another matter--what shall we do about the bandregas?"

"Just as important, what shall we do about Orrick?" Absently, Gaderian glanced in the window of a shoe shop as he and Moreen trod along the cobblestones and reached Vernunna's Alley. Bitterness crept into his voice. "How I'd like to replace Orrick as leader of the undead. The man is useless, does nothing for us. He remains aware of the danger from the bandregas, but I swear the threat means nothing to him. How in the world did he become our leader?" Overhead, clouds formed again, the breeze picking up. Heaps of garbage were piled up outside buildings, waiting for collection in the morning. A rat skittered across the cobblestones, then another . . . and another.

Moreen smirked, sidestepping a loose branch on the street. "I'll tell you how Orrick became our leader. Threats, bribes. He basks in the prestige that comes with the position, the luxurious apartment. He doesn't do anything to earn his keep, as the mortals would say. All of which brings us back to the bandregas." She laid a hand on his arm and spoke with determination. "If you were to discover their secret, how they can make themselves look human, what enables them to practice black magic–if you could turn them over to the government, you could easily replace Orrick as our leader."

"This same thing has occurred to me–to discover the puzzle of the bandregas. I'd give anything to learn how they've gained their special powers." He ran his fingers through his hair. "It seems an impossible task. I don't know where to begin." His jaw tightened. "But I intend to do everything possible to defeat the demons." Silently, he cursed himself for his words of futility. It wasn't like him to be so pessimistic. A plan formed in his mind. He would search from village to village in the
kingdom of Avador, to the places where the bandregas used to live at the time of their banishment. Would Fianna be safe from Stilo Mongan while he was away? Doubts lodged in his mind. He could not stay away for long, would need to hurry back to Moytura, to protect Fianna.

Moreen faced him. "Let's see if I can help you. Since I'm not attached to anyone," she said with a knowing smile, "my time is my own. I come and go as I please. I'll do anything I can to learn more about these demons."

A sense of optimism lifted his spirits. "Ah, then, Moreen, we will both defeat the monsters."

* * *

Done fortune-telling for the night, Fianna left the scrying room and walked down the hallway, into the dining room. Her mind on Gaderian and his deception, her gaze fell on Stilo. She had managed to avoid him since his previous ensnarement that Gaderian had interrupted–thank the Goddess. Catching Stilo's eyes on her, she felt a magnetic pull, conscious that he was attempting to lure her again. This time, he would fail; she would fight him with every breath in her body. She must move cautiously, pretend that he succeeded with his bewitchment.

Wanting to avoid him now, she knew that was a hollow wish. She should have stayed in her room but as usual, wanted to get a bit of fresh air after scrying for so many hours. Besides, she hadn't seen Stilo for a long time and had assumed he would stay away from the tavern. But she was wrong. She hesitated for only a moment before making her way to his table and smiling brightly, as if nothing extraordinary had happened between them.

Stilo eased out a chair for her. "Angharad," he said with a slight bow, "always a pleasure to see you. You enliven my evening."

His gaze, focused and sensuous, remained fixed on her, his eyes beckoning, luring. For only a moment, she turned away, aware she must fight his magic, must never let him ensnare him again. Could she pretend? she agonized.  Could she act as if she had fallen under his spell? She saw no other course, but even as she vowed to resist his magic, a haziness fuzzed her brain, a sensation of floating above the table and looking down at herself. She stared at her fingers on the table, resolved to fight him.

"–a drink?"

She blinked her eyes and looked his way. "Sorry, I didn't hear what you said." Talmora, she had to defeat his efforts.

His voice carried a note of assumed patience. "I asked if you wanted a drink."

"No thank you." A drink would only weaken her further, and she needed all her faculties to persevere. She turned her head as one of the patrons a few tables away plucked on his lute and softly sank a plaintive melody, one that was popular in Avador and often sung by the minstrels.

She smiled at Stilo, acting as if all was normal, as though she wanted nothing more than to remain in his company. She breathed hard as she dug deep her soul, her very self, for an inner strength to resist him.

"You look lovely tonight." He raised his tankard to his mouth, the full force of his gaze on her.

"You look rather handsome yourself." And he did look handsome, she thought, afraid she was succumbing to his charm. The noise and laughter of the room faded away, replaced by a disorientation that undermined her every sense and left her groping for reality. Countless moments passed between them, a time she could tell he was projecting all his charm magic to win her over, so that she would want no one but him. But he would not, must not, succeed.

Best to divert him. "I've never scried for you. Don't you want your fortune told? I'll do it for free." She offered him a teasing smile even while a miasma of confusion pulled her down.

"I already know my fortune," he said with absolute assurance.

His answer surprised her. "You do?"

A few tables remained occupied as talk drifted around but she sensed a constant tug on her mind. She felt as though she was floating in the corridors of perception, unsure what was real and what was make-believe, as she searched for an anchor of actuality.

Stilo's words wrenched her back. "I'll fall in love with the most beautiful woman in Avador, and she'll fall in love with me. And then . . ."

"And then?" she prompted, swimming against the tide of his blandishments but resolved to reach the shore of sensibility, the here and now.

"It remains to be seen if she'll marry me, but that is my most fervent wish." He drained his tankard and set it down, his look heavy with beguilement.

She forced herself to hesitate, aiming for her goal to think that she fell for his bewitchment. "Who is this woman? Someone I know?"

He leaned closer on the table, speaking in low tones. A lock of blond hair fell across his forehead, and he shoved the hair back with his blunt fingers. "Fianna, when is the last time you looked into a mirror, a looking glass?"

"My mother once said the same thing, but my lips are too full." A wave of nostalgia for her home, her mother, further debilitated her.

"Your lips are just as I like them, the better to kiss."

"And my nose turns up."

"You have a lovely nose.  And beautiful eyes I can never forget." His expression changed from deep intensity to calm detachment. "Gaderian Wade . . .," he began.

"A casual acquaintance, nothing more." What was Stilo's game now? Why had he introduced Gaderian into the conversation? She injected conviction into her voice. She could not let Stilo guess her feelings for Gaderian, even while she realized there could be no future between her and Gaderian, nothing at all.

"He's a fickle man," Stilo said, "flitting from one woman to another. He never remains faithful to one woman."

Yes, she recognized the truth of Stilo's comment, one more reason why she had to avoid Gaderian. Goddess, how it hurt. She swallowed a painful lump in her throat.

She drew herself up straight in her chair, striking a balance in her struggle to shrug off Stilo's allurement and at the same time, pretend she had succumbed. "Well, Gaderian means nothing to me. At one time, yes. But the man I love must love only me, be faithful to me." That much, at least, was true.

He placed his hand on his heart. "And surely you know the woman I claim as my own will have my sole allegiance, my faithfulness for all time. I'm a one-woman man, Fianna, please believe this."

Believe him? Never!

She threw him a loving glance and placed her hand atop his. Almost, he made her believe every word he said, almost, but not quite. A battle still raged within her, a struggle for her heart and mind, for her very self. But something told her she was winning this struggle, that if she tried hard enough and projected everything within her–everything that made her Fianna Murtaugh–she would conquer this weakness and emerge stronger for her victory. And never let him guess his failure.

She glanced around and found that all the tables stood empty now, the rest of the patrons gone. She turned back to him, her eyes meeting his, her mind and soul fighting, fighting, fighting, his bewitchment.

And winning.

Chapter Twelve

Stilo stepped out into the dark night, unsure about his seduction of Fianna. Had he succeeded? He'd seen the loving look in her eyes, felt the warmth of her skin in her touch. Granno's balls, how he wanted her in his bed. But when he did bed her, ah, when he had her lying beneath him, she would be his sex slave, his to give him pleasure in every way he could imagine. Just thinking about whipping her excited him almost beyond endurance. He liked to see two women making love, and he knew the very woman to pair with Fianna, one with full breasts and buxom hips. Ah, what a pair they would make!

His thoughts switched to Gaderian Wade. Stilo knew his own powers had increased since his last visit to the sacred well at Magh Eamhainn. And if Wade dared to go after him to kill him, one bite from the vampire would render him–Stilo—invisible. Let Wade try to capture him then!

Could Wade save Fianna again? The question taunted him, a reminder that Fianna was not yet his. He clenched his jaw, wanting to kill the vampire now, stab him over and over and burn him to ashes. Torn between fear that Gaderian might rescue Fianna again and the knowledge that he must move slowly with the mortal woman, he vowed he would bide his time but never falter in his pursuit.

Stilo ignored the night sounds, the footfalls of the tramps who roamed the streets, his every thought on Fianna. He wondered if she even suspected that Wade was a vampire. But what reason would she have for her suspicion? Clever creatures, the undead, but not as powerful as the bandregas. An idea popped in his head; why hadn't it occurred to him before? Next time he saw Fianna–soon!–he'd plant the idea in her mind that Wade was a vampire. Well, it was the truth. Goddess damn all the vampires, the bastards!

Never mind that Stilo himself was part vampire; Fianna would never guess. More and more, he found his bandrega half growing stronger, giving him ascendancy over any of the undead that might challenge him. Soon, he hoped to gain the ability to endure the sunlight and not need to live only by night. Before long, he wouldn't need blood for sustenance but would prefer great quantities of red meat, like the other bandregas.

A hint of hunger teased him, and although he had fed recently, another desire tormented him–he needed to kill, kill, kill! But not here. Far better to go where he would find his victim alone. He strode on, his boot heels clicking on the cobblestones. He passed other taverns until he reached Vernunna's Alley, where the cheaper shops resided, a section of the city where rats ruled the night, and stray cats fought over garbage. Queen Keriam wanted to clean up this part of the city by taxing absentee landlords to pay for improvements. Hah! Fat chance! Anyway, the city's appearance meant nothing to him.

Relief poured into Stilo as he saw a lone vagrant trudging the stinking alley, the tramp in tattered clothes, a look of apprehension on his face when he spied Stilo. He gloated as the man's steps slowed. I'm going to suck him dry, drain all the life from him.

Stilo approached the vagrant. "Say, friend, it looks as if I'm lost. New to the city, trying to learn my way around. An acquaintance wanted me to visit him tonight, keeps late hours, don't you know. Lives on Granno's Way. Can you tell me where that is?"

The tramp reeked of alcohol.  "Ah, Granno's Way," he said, pointing off to the south. "That's where all the rich folks–"

Quick as lightning, Stilo grabbed the man and jerked his head back.

"Ah!" A look of terror seized the tramp's face. Despite his struggles, Stilo held him tight. He bit into the fellow's throat, sucking, sucking the blood, that rich, restorative liquid that flowed through his veins and increased his strength. Even after he'd drunk more than enough and the man languished in his arms, as helpless as a blade of grass in a windstorm, Stilo continued to suck, heady with desire. His loins tightened, his body desperate for a woman. After he sucked the man dry and ended his foolish mortal life, Stilo dropped him to the ground, like a sack of chicken feed.

He needed a woman, and he knew just the place where he could find the one he wanted, the girl who knew how to please him. Engorged with blood and lust, he headed for Pleasure Alley. Looking down at his protruding tunic, he forced himself to dampen his passion. Plenty of time for fornication in a short while.

A few minutes later, he reached his destination where pleasure houses lined the street, some fancy, some plain. Scantily clad women advertised their charms outside the houses, calling to the men who passed by, pulling their dresses lower at their bosoms and higher at their thighs. Ignoring them, Stilo entered the most splendid house on the street, where red velvet curtains graced one wide window, and gold-plated oil lamps hung from the ceiling, casting shadows on the purple walls. Several girls in transparent dresses sat on a red velvet sofa, looking at him expectantly, but he didn't see the one he wanted.