Barb Hendee: Dhampir

"And what good would it do the next village if I left here unable to prepare for their defense?" she returned.

This exchange was customary for Magiere, though Zupan Petre appeared to be more intelligent than other village leaders she'd dealt with in the past. She kept her expression sympathetic but firm. Villagers almost always had some little treasure hidden away where tax collectors couldn't find it. It might be a family heirloom, possibly a small gem or some silver taken off a dead mercenary, but it was here.

"You've come all this way, and you'll do nothing?" The flesh beneath his eyes was turning gray.

Anna reached out and touched her husband's shirt. "Give her the seed money, Petre." Her voice was quiet, but quivered with fear.

"No," he answered sharply.

Anna turned to the others, who so far had watched in silence. "What good is seed if we are all dead before spring?"

Petre breathed in sharply. "How long will we live with nothing to eat next year? How long will we live in the lord's dungeons when we cannot pay the tax?"

Magiere stayed out of this predictable bickering. They would go back and forth, for and against, until their fears began to win over. Then would follow the hope that if they could just overcome this terror, something would come later to see them through the next year. She knew these peasants too well. They were all the same.

A short flurry of arguments ensued, but Magiere busied herself inspecting the contents of her pack and ignored the discussion, as if the outcome was obvious. Those in favor of keeping the seed coins and taking a chance with the vampire were soon squelched. The argument faded so quickly it would have been startling, had Magiere not heard it so many times before.

At first no one spoke. Then a lanky, middle-aged man stepped from the corner of the room to face the zupan squarely. From the char smudges on his leather apron, he was likely what passed for a blacksmith in a village of this size.

"Give her the coins, Petre. We have no choice."

Petre left the hovel and shortly returned, panting. He stared at Magiere with burning eyes, as if she were now the source of their suffering and not the one summoned to save them.

"Here is what's left after this year's taxes." He threw the bag to her, and she caught it. "Next year there may be no crop."

"You are free to watch," she replied, and several villagers cringed back into the room's shadows. "I will control the undead. Stay in your homes and look through the shutters to see how well your seed coins are spent."

The hatred in Petre's eyes faded to be replaced by defeat. "Yes, we will watch you destroy the monster."

The rain had subsided slightly. Magiere knelt in the center of the village path, illuminated by two torches, hafts stuck in the ground to either side of the path. She placed the brass urn firmly on the wet soil and twisted it a few times until satisfied it was securely settled and would not tip over. Beside it she set a small wooden mallet.

Anna and two village men were watching from narrow openings in the common cottage's shutters. A few other eyes peered from window shutters in hovels and huts around the village. But the zupan would not be satisfied with a voyeur's view. He stood within shouting distance, just outside the door where he'd surrendered the future of his village to a killer of the undead.

Magiere took a bottle from her pack and poured a fine white powder into one palm. She then sifted it back and forth between her hands. With a sudden flourish, she threw the handful high in the air and waited. The tiny particles didn't fall but hung in the air like a vaporous cloud, creating a wondrous glow all around her as the particles caught the torch light. Gasps from the peasants reached her ears.

From another bottle, she poured red power into her hand and threw that aloft as well, with a wilder flourish of her arm. It danced between the white particles, contrasting and moving like sand-grain fireflies.

Magiere stood in silence, eyes closed for a moment. She opened them again without looking at anything particular. Amid the hovering powders, her pale skin and dark hair made her seem a wraith of light, unliving, as if she were transformed to something kin to the night creatures she hunted. Each time a swirl of red power in the air drifted by her head, its sparkling reflection of the torchlight echoed in her tresses with streaks of crimson. She reached down and picked up the stake, holding the leather grip tightly.

"The red calls the beast, like blood," she shouted. "It can't resist." She lowered herself to a crouch, braid falling forward over her left shoulder, and stared up the path where she knew the creature would come.

A pale flicker darted between the buildings.

Her finger pointed to a decrepit hovel ten paces down the path ahead of her. "There! See, it comes!"

With the fingertips of her free hand, she flipped the lid off the brass urn and grabbed another bottle of red powder, flinging the contents into the air around her.

Without warning, something solid collided with her back, knocking her forward with enough force to daze her. Behind her, Anna screamed. Magiere spit out mud and spun on the ground out of the attacker's way. She scrambled back to a crouch, turning in all directions to see what had hit her. The path lay empty.

For long moments she turned from side to side, watching between the huts of the village for any sign of movement. The zupan had backed up against the common cottage door, eyes wide, but he remained outside, watching.

"What in-"

It hit again from the side, pitching her back down. Water soaked through her leggings and washed over her armor as she skidded across the mud, until her shoulder struck the haft of one torch stuck in the ground. The torch toppled and sizzled out.

Magiere was up again, searching. The shadows around her deepened with only one torch still burning.

She could hear window shutters slamming closed amid shouts and wails as the villagers panicked. A passing glimpse as she spun about showed that even Petre had now stepped inside the door, ready to slam it shut if need be. The zupan shouted, "There, to your left!"

A blur appeared in the corner of her sight, and she ducked a swinging arm. She made a grab for it as it passed. "No more games," she hissed under her breath.

Her hand closed over woolen material, and she jerked back.

There came a sharp tear as her own force strained against that of her attacker, but the fabric held. Unable to keep her balance, her body twisted to the side as she and her opponent both spun about when she refused to let go of its garment. They hit the ground together, each scrambling in the mud for a foothold. She turned on one knee to face it and readied the stake. Its head lifted in the torchlight.

Thin and filthy, its flesh glowed as white as the first of her floating powders. Silver-blond hair swung in muddied tendrils around a narrow, dirt-splattered face with slanted amber eyes and slightly pointed ears. The cape she had managed to grasp hung in rotted tatters around its shoulders.

Magiere scuttled back two steps, still gripping the leather-handled stake, and tried to find better footing without taking her eyes off the white figure.

It charged again, moving fast. A claw hand slipped inside her guard and snatched the tail of her braid. They were both soaked in rain and mud, making all movements slick and desperate. She fell to the ground, on purpose this time, and rolled. When their tumble finished, Magiere came up on top and rammed downward with her stake, holding it as tightly as possible.

Blood sprayed upward from its chest as it thrashed on the ground, screaming in a keening wail. Magiere bit down on her own tongue by accident in an effort to hold the thing down, stake securely in its heart.