Barb Hendee - Thief of Lives

"Majay-hi" he whispered in disbelief.

Toret sat alone in the parlor, waiting for Chane to return with a mortal for him to feed on. His ruptured eye socket had closed up. He'd shut out any pain from his chest wound but loss of fluid had drained him, and he felt empty in more ways than simple hunger. In each passing moment he found the illusion of "Toret" more and more a ridiculous joke, and the reality of "Ratboy" welled up inside him.

The previous night's fight played out in Toret's mind, again and again, as disquiet crept into his thoughts. He was stronger than the half-blood, yet for all Chane's sword training, the mongrel had still outclassed him.

Tibor walked into the parlor, his appearance severing Toret's thoughts.

"Pardon, master, but there's a man here to see you."

The sailor's throat wound had closed, but the flesh around the hole was still seared. His undead existence made his gaunt, hawklike features stand out. His skin looked weathered and tight but was losing its dark, ruddy tan in his undead state. His brown eyes seemed distant and sad.

"Sestmir was your friend for a long time?" Toret asked.

"My brother." Tibor paused. "I suppose he was my friend too."

A brother? Toret should have realized. The two looked so much alike.

"Who is at the door?" he asked. He wasn't in the proper condition to conduct any type of business.

"Fancy gentleman," Tibor answered.

Toret tensed slightly. "Dark hair with white patches at his temples?"

"Yes, master, that's the one."

The last person Toret wanted to see now was this stranger who kept appearing from nowhere with warnings about the dhampir.

"Tell him I'm not here."

Tibor turned to go back to the door, and a cold voice rose audibly from the foyer.

"I think you should see me."

The stranger entered, impeccably dressed in a long black cloak and well-fitting gloves. Toret felt a small flare of righteous resentment.

"This is my home," he said. "I'm not well and wish to be alone."

"Yes," the stranger responded in the same cold tone. "From what I understand, you were wounded by the half-elf. That is hardly befitting someone of your station."

His station? A sickly, humorous comment. Toret looked at Tibor.

"Wait in the dining room. This won't take long."

Tibor nodded and left, and Toret stood up.

"Where are the dhampir and her half-elf now?" the stranger asked. "Even with my resources, I cannot locate them."

Toret wondered about the man's age, though he looked to be in his mid-forties. He also appeared a bit haggard and tired, perhaps from a lack of sleep-quite different from his last visit. Why was he so interested in the dhampir, and why did he expend all this effort with warnings? Suddenly the answers didn't matter.

"I've no idea, and I don't care. I am taking my family away from here tomorrow."

"Away?" The stranger appeared stunned. "Where? Destroying her is the only way to ensure your survival."

Toret almost smiled, but not quite. "I once knew someone who thought like that. His bones are dust under the dhampir’s tavern. Vengeance is expensive."

Open anger slipped into the stranger's voice. "The guards now lock up the city at dusk. No one gets in or out. Even the sewer gates into the bay are sealed both day and night. And scaling all the city's walls would be difficult at best."

Toret turned away, and the hollow hunger of his existence became acidic.

"If you think I can't find my way around a few mortal guards, you have no idea what I am. Get out. You're no longer welcome here."

He heard footsteps coming toward him and spun about. The stranger stood close. His expression was intense, watchful, an unknown decision being made.

"Should I call Tibor to escort you?" Toret added.

The stranger's lips parted and then closed quickly. His mask of composure returned as he stepped back.

"As you wish."

He turned and left. Toret followed and bolted the door behind him.

"Tibor!"

The undead sailor came to the foyer. "Yes, master?"

"When Chane returns, let him in, but no one else. If that man appears, send him away. Understand?"

"Yes."

Toret climbed the stairs to the top floor. He was tired and drained, and badly needed to feed, but he was finally seeing his world clearly. At the top floor, he walked into Sapphire's room without knocking. She was dressing in front of her oval mirror.

"Oh, Toret," she said, as if surprised at his presence. She looked him up and down.

He knew he appeared paler than usual, and his one eye was crushed closed, but in his fresh tunic, no one could tell his body was damaged. She was lacing herself into a red velvet gown, and the sight of it touched him. Teesha had worn red velvet at times, though not as brilliant a shade. Sapphire's round face shifted between pouty and indignant. In a flash, she smiled and came to put her arms around his neck.

"You look better," she said, petting his shoulder. "I simply couldn't abide all those wounds and mess last night. I'm much too delicate."

Yes, perhaps she was, and he drank in the sight of her. She might not be Teesha, but she was his.

"You must feed," she said. "I'll finish dressing, and we'll go find you a treat. You should have anything you want." She smiled again, perhaps thinking herself quite generous to consider his desires.

"Chane is out," he said. "He will bring something back for me."

"So we're staying home?" she asked, a pout returning. "I've been trapped in here since that horrible hunter attacked me."

"You're going to be busy all night-packing," he said softly. "We leave Bela at dusk tomorrow. I'll make the arrangements tonight."

It took a moment for his words to sink in, and then she laughed.

"You can't be serious. I'm not leaving Bela. This place is paradise. There's nowhere in the country with better inns."

"We're leaving," he repeated. "If we don't, the dhampir will track us down, douse the place with oil as we sleep, and light it on fire in broad daylight. Still sound like paradise?"

His seriousness slowly dawned on her, and for a moment she didn't even speak. Then a scream burst from her ripe, snarling mouth, and she grabbed a porcelain vase off the wardrobe and threw it.

Toret ducked as it shattered on the wall behind him.

Welstiel sat in Calabar's inn, waiting for Lanjov. The last dream had been suffocating, and he felt weary. His carefully woven web was being cut apart thread by thread. He had lost track of Magiere after the fire at the Burdock, and now Rat-boy planned to flee. He sipped at his tankard of wine and willed calm into his thoughts. Lanjov would come soon, as requested by messenger. If anyone knew where Magiere now hid, it would be Lanjov.

Possibilities remained, if he could only delay Ratboy and unobtrusively assist Magiere in her hunt-but not too much assistance. If she found Ratboy's home before nightfall, she would have the advantage of daylight and not be forced to engage multiple opponents and the conjuror as well. Her training must proceed.

A stout woman with graying hair came up to his table.

"Are you Master Welstiel?" she asked. "A boy just delivered a message."

When he nodded, she held out a small folded paper, and he took it. His own name was addressed upon it. The woman glanced at his missing finger.

"Thank you," he said, not taking his eyes off of her as he waited.

She grunted and left.

Welstiel turned over the paper. A wax seal held it closed, and he split it, opening the letter.

To my dear friend:

I regret not joining you tonight at our favorite inn. Events in Bela demanding my attention grow ever more pressing. I fear my own time has become so limited I will have the leisure to meet you at neither the Knight's House nor Calabar's inn.