Barb Hendee - Dhampir

"Help me," Ratboy called out weakly.

The driver's head raised up, awake. In his well-worn, purple cloak, he looked to be a half-successful merchant, probably one who traveled a great deal and wouldn't be missed for a full moon. Ratboy fought the urge to lunge.

"Here, please. I think my leg is broken," he called in mournful agony. "Help me."

His face awash with nauseating concern, the merchant began climbing down instantly. Ratboy did so enjoy this.

"Where are you?" the merchant asked. "I can't see you."

"Here, over here." Ratboy kept his voice soft, plaintive, as he stretched himself out on the ground.

Heavy footsteps brought the smell of warm life running to Ratboy's side. The merchant knelt down.

"Did you fall?" he said. "Don't worry. Miiska is not far, and there we can get you some help."

Ratboy snatched the man's cloak collar and jerked downward while rolling, until the two had switched places. Staring down into the surprised face, Ratboy could not help mouthing the word, "Fool." Hands like bone manacles pinned the merchant to the ground. In panic, the man pitched wildly, trying to throw off his attacker. It did no good.

Pain stopped humans from exerting their bodies too far. Ratboy felt no pain, not as mortals did, and had no such limitations. The struggles of his victim amused him. A flash of pleasure coursed through him as he saw surprise turn to fear in the merchant's eyes.

"I'll let you go if you can answer a riddle," Ratboy whispered. "What am I?"

"My wife died last summer," the man said, panting, fighting harder to free himself. "I have two young sons. I must get home."

"If you're not going to play, then neither am I," Ratboy scolded, pinning the merchant harder against the ground. "Just make one guess. What am I?"

His victim stopped struggling and simply stared up at him in what appeared to be a mix of disbelief and confusion.

"Sorry… too late."

Ratboy bit down quickly in the soft hollow below the merchant's jawline.

The blood in his mouth was nothing compared to the life warmth filling his body as he fed. Sometimes he liked to rip and tear while his prey was still alive. Tonight the hunger was too strong for such playfulness. The heartbeat slowed in his ears, the taste of adrenaline and fear rose in the merchant's flesh, then both faded.

Whenever it was over, there always followed a moment of melancholy for Ratboy, like a child's last moment at a carnival, when lamps were snuffed out, the acrobats retired, and tents closed for the last time-until next year. He lifted his gaze to the road north. The hunter was out there, traveling toward him. It was just a matter of time.

Just within sight of the coastline road, Ratboy traveled swiftly, slipping through the trees and constantly smelling the air for any hint of his prey, even though he knew she was still hours away. Just what did a charlatan vampire hunter smell like? Taste like? In an endless existence, anything new, any new experience was a rare and savory thing.

As night slipped away and the first streaks of dawn appeared over the ocean, he grew concerned, but not about where he'd sleep that day. Sea caves were easy enough to find, and in desperation he could always burrow under the forest mulch beneath the canvas tarp roped to his back. But what if she passed him while he slept? Indeed, she would pass him. He'd hoped to come across her camp while she slept, but the scent of few travelers drifted to him and none with the fragrance of a woman. What should he do?

He realized he may have underestimated normal human speed. So how far away was she? And when she awoke, how far could she travel in a day? He frowned, knowing the need for cover was becoming imminent. The road next to the tree line lay empty in both directions.

Ratboy crossed through the trees to the shoreline and looked around for a deep-looking cave or pocket in the cliff wall. Dropping over the side of the cliff, he scaled downward like a spider and disappeared into an ancient hole, crawling back and away from the light with no fear of darkness or whatever might already be living inside. He laid the pouch of coffin earth on the cave floor and curled around it on his side in the scant space. Then he pulled the loosened canvas over himself against any stray lance of sunlight that might somehow find him.

Logic told him that although he'd only traveled for half the night, she would not be able to cover the distance to Miiska left to her in one day. He'd sleep and then back track. One way or another, he'd intercept her and then bring her head back to Rashed as a taunting gift. Every time anyone in Miiska disappeared, Rashed blamed him. In truth, sometimes he was to blame, but not always, and certainly not for the tavern owner. Some grizzly old drunk offered little temptation to a killer like himself.

His eyelids grew heavy, and he lost his train of thought.

By late afternoon that day, Leesil's narrow feet hurt, and his partial excitement about seeing their tavern began to wane. Even the beauty of the coastline and the sea running out to the horizon no longer filled him with awe. Such frantic hurrying seemed unnecessary. The tavern would certainly still be there no matter when they arrived. Magiere never pushed them like this when they were on the game. No, the three of them had simply traveled at a comfortable pace until reaching their intended target. He was getting sick of her constant nagging: "Leesil, hurry. Leesil, not far now. If we keep going, we'll make it tonight."

Even Chap looked tired of his cart ride and whined softly, eyes tragic with boredom, but Magiere wouldn't allow the dog to walk yet. The old donkey looked near death. What was Magiere thinking? This sudden desire to be an honest businesswoman had changed her in unpleasant ways. Close to exhaustion-or at the moment what he decided would count enough for exhaustion-Leesil noticed the sun's bottom edge meet the ocean horizon.

"Enough's enough," he announced loudly.

When Magiere, walking ahead of the donkey and cart, showed no sign of hearing him, Leesil stumbled theatrically to the roadside and dropped on the grass.

"Come here, Chap," he called. "Time for a break."

The elegant, gray-blue head of his dog jerked upward in hope, ears poised, eyes intently fastened on his master.

"You heard me. Come on," Leesil repeated loudly.

Magiere heard Leesil's shout this time and turned her head just in time to see Chap bounding out of the cart and back down the road to where Leesil sat. Her normally stoic jaw dropped slightly as she stopped in the road. The donkey and cart moved on without pausing.

"What in… not again," she stammered, then caught sight of the escaping cart. She grabbed the escaping beast's halter and pulled it to a stop. "You elven half-wit," she called back to Leesil, dragging donkey and cart back to where he sat. "What are you doing?"

"Resting?" he said, as if asking for confirmation. He looked down at his legs stretched out comfortably on the ground, then nodded his head firmly. "Yes, most assuredly. Resting."

Instead of lying down, Chap sniffed around the rough sea grass, stretching his limbs, then bounded off into the brush nearby. Leesil took his wineskin and slipped its carrying strap off his shoulder. He popped its stopper, then tilted it up and over his open mouth for a long, satisfying drink. The dark D'areeling wine always tasted slightly of winter chestnuts. It comforted him in ways he couldn't describe, and that was likely all the comfort he'd get, unless Magiere stopped driving all of them with her stubbornness. But two could play that game.

Magiere stood dumbfounded, glaring at him, covered in road dust and in need of a wash.

"We don't have time to rest. I've practically dragged you since midday as it is."