Avador Book 2, Night Shadows (7 page)

But what if she guessed what he was? When she had scried for him, she'd spoken of rivers of blood and asked him if he'd had a recent wound. He should have lied to her, told her, that yes, he had received a severe wound that had caused much bleeding. Her very essence, her loveliness had interfered with his thinking, causing him to miss the chance to mislead her.

As he headed for the main city stable at the southern entrance to the city, he tried to think of other matters, to drive Fianna from his thoughts. The bandregas remained an ever-present and deadly danger, a threat he must defeat. But how? Possibly he would talk to Queen Keriam, he considered on a wild flight of imagination. Could he convince the queen that it was the bandregas and not the vampires who posed a danger to the country? For sure, Orrick, the current leader of the undead, was feckless, unable to mount a challenge to these fiends. The dilemma cried out for leadership, but Orrick had done nothing about the threat, as if he didn't care. And maybe he doesn't, Gaderian agonized.

For once in his life, Gaderian yearned for fortitude, to prove himself a leader. In his mortal years, centuries ago, he had considered himself a failure, one who could never attain his goals. As if it were yesterday, he recalled how he'd longed to practice medicine, to heal others. He swallowed, the pain still fresh in his mind and heart. His father had refused him permission to study medicine, telling him he needed help in his apothecary shop.

"You are my only son," his father had said, "and for years, I have waited for you to grow to manhood, to help me here in the shop and carry on after I leave for the Otherworld. Best that you don't attempt to rise above your station, for I fear you will suffer nothing but disappointment if you do. My father was an apothecary and his father before him. You will gain enough useful medicinal information working with me." His father nodded. "And at sixteen, 'tis time you assisted me in my work. Forget about studying medicine."

Returned to the present, Gaderian absently glanced in the window of a jewelry shop as his mind switched back to Fianna, she of the lustrous auburn hair and green eyes. He spied an emerald pendant in the window, an adornment that would surely enhance Fianna's beauty. If only she cared for him, too, he would buy the gem for her. Foolish thought. As if he would wed a mortal! Or she would marry a vampire!

What if her father came after her, or if the man she was to marry pursued her to Moytura? What would happen to her then? No need to ask. She'd be dragged back to Ros Creda, forced to marry a man she didn't love, nay, didn't even respect. Gritting his teeth, he determined he would not permit that to happen. Even had he cared nothing for her–and he did, no use denying his attraction–he would hate to see an innocent lady dragged back home and forced to marry a man she loathed.

He stopped walking, his mind in turmoil. He would not permit any harm to come to her. In the short time since he'd met her in the cave, she had worked her way into his heart. He must protect her, even if nothing ever came of his fascination for her. And nothing would come of this sweet temptation, for he and Fianna could never have a future together.

* * *

"Madam."

Outside the Snow Leopard, Fianna glanced around, her heart jumping, but she quickly realized the voice didn't belong to Gaderian, although the greeting was the same. Fierce disappointment tightened her throat, and she chided herself for the foolish attraction she felt for the man she'd first met inside the cave, a man of whom she knew so little.

A blonde man approached from the dark shadows, one she recognized as a frequent patron of the Snow Leopard. She had just finished for the night and was looking forward to sitting on a nearby bench. Alone.

He inclined his head. "Permit me to introduce myself," he said. "My name is Stilo, and no doubt you've seen me in the tavern." He paused. "May I walk with you? Did you have a particular destination in mind?" He spoke with a deep, gravelly voice. Slightly taller than she, he had a brawny build, his linen tunic stretched across his broad chest. 

Desperate thoughts raced through her head. By now, she knew she could trust Gaderian, but she knew nothing of this man, one she recognized only by his appearance at the tavern.

"Sir–"

"Stilo is my name, madam. And I know yours as Angharad Cullain, from hearing the other patrons sing your praises. You're quite a skilled fortune teller, I understand."

"Scryer," she corrected. "And just because you told me your name doesn't mean I know you." She tried not to wrinkle her nose at his heavy musk fragrance. And let him think her name was really Angharad, for she must never reveal her real name to this stranger.

Stilo smiled. "If you could spend a little time with me, we could become better acquainted." He held up a hand. "I promise you I mean you no harm. A man gets lonely at times. It's pleasant to have someone to talk to, a pretty woman like you."

Your compliments will get you nowhere, she wanted to say. A strong warning vibrated in her head, quickening her heartbeat. How did she know she could trust him? Yet he'd given her no reason not to. She sought a compromise: she certainly would not allow him to walk with her to the river, a distance of several blocks. Only vagrants wandered the streets at this hour of the night, hardly dependable rescuers should this man pose a threat. She was a fast runner; she could escape the tramps, should any of them come after her. But she might not be able to evade this stranger's proximity.

Fianna nodded toward a bench several yards away that rested under the canopy of a stately oak. "Let's sit there for a while, not long, mind you, for I should go to bed soon."

"Of course."

They headed for the wooden bench, Fianna's new leather shoes squeaking with each step. Her new shoes would take some getting used to, she thought on a note of uncomfortable endurance. A warm breeze ruffled the oak leaves and carried the sweet-spicy scent of night-blooming jasmine. Stilo walked with a swagger, shoulders thrown back, a brisk step in his high boots.

After she sank onto the bench, he followed, a look of mild curiosity on his face. "You are new to Moytura, are you not? Your accent sounds a bit different. From one of the southern provinces?"

"Yes." Aware she trod on risky ground, she refused to divulge any more information.

"You're living with your parents?" He flicked a lock of hair from his forehead, and she noticed his blunt hands, his stubby fingers.

Resentment stirred inside her. "Sir, if you've seen me at the tavern–which you have–you know I live alone."

He shrugged. "Only desiring to become better acquainted with you, an endeavor that surely requires no explanation."

"But I don't know a thing about you except your name, and only your first name, at that."

"Easily corrected. My last name is Mongan." He slid a bit closer, a movement that sent her easing away from him. 

"So, Stilo Mongan, where are you from?"

"Lived in Moytura all my life." He grinned. "And I must say I'm happy to be here now, to have met you. Ah, I see by the expression on your face that you doubt my good intentions. If I may, let me tell you a little about myself. I'm an architect, live in an apartment by myself. My parents are dead, and an older brother lives on the outskirts of the city." He gave her a quick smile.

As he spoke, she thought she saw a feral gleam to his eyes and sharp ears. Images drifted in and out of her eyesight, but just as quickly, his face reverted to what it had been. She wondered if fatigue was distorting her vision, or was it her imagination. She shook her head to clear it and told herself she should get more sleep.

Time flew past as casual conversation followed, and her doubts about him gradually dissipated, replaced by a renewed confidence, and an appreciation of his appreciation. For the first time that evening, she felt a lift to her despondent spirits, the hope that things would work out for her. She now had two male friends, and had already gained the confidence and friendship of the tavern waitresses; she didn't feel so alone anymore. Besides that, she knew she could make it on her own, because so far she had earned enough coppers to total three silver pieces. Up to now, no pursuers from Ros Creda had found her, if indeed, her father or Angus had sent anyone to search for her.

His voice intruded on her reverie. "There is a fair one nineday from today on the meadow by the Nantosuelta. Permit me the honor of escorting you there. There will be jugglers and other acts, music and dancing, even after dark." He threw her an appealing look. "Would you care to accompany me? In the evening? I fear I will be busy during the day."

Her mind worked. She still didn't know if she could trust him, nor would she give him her real name. Let him think of her as Angharad, for that was how she was known at the Snow Leopard.

"I'll meet you there," she suggested, still unsure if he was reliable. "There's a sprawling oak tree on the east side of the river. See you there at sundown. If for some reason, you don't see me, I'll be at the fair grounds." She knew from past experience with fairs at Ros Creda that everyone left at the same time at the end of the fair, so there would be plenty heading back this way. She would be safe.

A look of disappointment–or anger?--crossed his face, quickly suppressed. "Very good. I look forward to our encounter."

She rose from the bench, brushing off the back of her dress. "But now, it's late and I must return. Busy day tomorrow."

He stood, too. "Allow me to walk you back," he said, offering his arm. Yet even now, Gaderian haunted her thoughts, and she wondered why she should care.

* * *

Stilo watched Fianna step inside the tavern, her hips slightly swaying with each step, her firm buttocks an allurement that heightened his passion. A glow of satisfaction enclosed him, the certainty that he could entice her away from Gaderian. Oh, yes, he'd seen the woman walk off with Gaderian, seen the soulful looks they'd exchanged. But this was one time Gaderian would not win, for Stilo had a plan to capture the woman so that Gaderian would never see her again. Goddess, how he hated that vampire, one who could lure any woman into his bed. A spurt of jealous anger erupted inside him, a pounding in his head.

And he had a secret, one that none of the vampires even suspected. He was part bandrega, for his mother had been a vampire, his father a bandrega--a demon. The bandregas knew of his duality and accepted him, for they realized how he hated the vampires, but the vampires themselves remained ignorant. Clever how he fooled the undead, for he never went near them unless he was at his full power. He lived in both worlds, but his allegiance was to the bandregas, for his vampire mother had been cold and cruel, ignoring her son. He recalled times as a child when he'd wanted her to spend time with him, read him a bedtime story or play a game with him. But no, she always left early in the evening to feed and mingle with the other vampires, returning early in the morning, then to go to bed and sleep all day long. Against every inclination, Stilo had more easily adjusted to his mother's hours, so that he, too, slept during the day and stayed awake at night. But his mother had never had time for him, and even on the rare occasions when she paid him any attention, it was to find fault or chastise him. She was cruel and caustic in her criticism, forever belittling him. And his father had done nothing to counteract her spite. Goddess damn them both.

He'd learned to tolerate dim light but could not endure the glare of a bright sun. And so, from childhood to adulthood, he'd adjusted to both the bandrega way of life and that of the vampire, but despite his vampire half, he still had not gained immortality. Like the other bandregas, he would live a normal life span and then die of old age, if an illness or accident didn't claim him first. Granno's balls! How it hurt to see the vampires live forever, a gift denied him. All his life, he was forced to move from one city to the next so that the vampires never suspected that he didn't share their gift.

Mindful of the reward offered by the government for any information leading to the arrest of the vampires, he thought of the money he could win by turning over the whole Goddess-damned association of vampires to the authorities. And he would soon, damn them all. But first, he must win the scryer away from Gaderian, and thus get even with that vampire. Ah, he thought of the humiliations he had suffered over the years because of Wade, the women he had wanted and lost. Well, this was one time he–Stilo–would win. And then watch Gaderian Wade suffer.

An alarming weakness enfeebled him; time to drink the sacred well water. On the first day of every moonphase, the bandregas always drank from the sacred well in the village of Magh Eamhainn, for the water there held special properties that gave them their powers, and also enabled them to look human. Difficult to believe that a few bandregas chose not to drink from the sacred well, preferring to remain as demons who haunted the night. More fool they, for disregarding the powers gained from the sacred well. Many years ago, their leader, Mabon, had sanctified this well, ensuring that the race of bandregas would in time dominate the humans. Stilo smiled to himself, for Mabon had first ridden the village of Magh Eamhainn of all human inhabitants by poisoning their well water, so that all who drank from the well sickened and died. Within no time, the few humans remaining left the village, convinced that their gods had forsaken them, and that the village was cursed. What was poison for the humans was life-giving for the bandregas. Every few moonphases, the current leader of the bandregas renewed the sanctification, so that the well water continually regenerated the bandregas.