Night Shadows Read online

"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.r />
  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.

  Since then, no other mortals lived in Magh Eamhainn, these people who had fled to other villages, whispering about the blighted water and how they must have sinned to make their gods abandon them. Now Magh Eamhainn stood deserted of human inhabitants. Since then, too, the bandregas had multiplied so that they numbered in the thousands here in Moytura, choosing the capital as their home, since it lay close to Magh Eamhainn.

  For centuries, the bandregas had dreamed of becoming immortal, as were the vampires. Nor could the bandregas make themselves invisible, like the undead. Ah, yes, his people still had much to do; they could not let those creatures overcome them.

  Stilo's thoughts switched back to Fianna, a woman who had captured his mind. To think

  that she believed his tale about being an architect! After the fair next week, she would believe

  anything he told her, because she would be under his spell. She would be his!

  Chapter Six

  Hundreds of blazing torches brightened the fair grounds as Stilo led Angharad through the crowds. Angharad. He wondered if that was the tavern scryer's real name, for he suspected she harbored secrets she would never reveal to him … yet. Was she a criminal, running away from the law? An abused wife, escaping a cruel husband? He'd give anything to know the mystery that surrounded this beautiful woman with her auburn hair and green eyes, this woman he ached to possess. In her emerald green dress with gold threads running through it, her gold hoop ear rings and necklace, she had never looked so lovely. He breathed in deeply of her lilac scent, a fragrance that tantalized and lured him, but he fought the ensnarement. Tonight he would do the luring.

  The first few stars glimmered in a sapphire sky, tree branches swaying in the wind. Moonlight sparkled on the rippling river. A perfect night for seduction.

  Thankful he had ridden with the other bandregas to the sacred well recently, he knew his powers were greater than they had ever been, that nothing was impossible this night. Ah, the sacred well, whose waters had revived him, empowered him, given him such mastery so that he could accomplish anything he wanted.

  Throngs of people crowded the fair grounds, hundreds of men, women, and children from all the outlying villages. Lovers strolled hand-in-hand, and fathers carried young children on their shoulders. Vendors hawked souvenirs, statuettes of the Goddess Talmora or ribbons and buttons commemorating the fair. Others sold meat pies, spiced apples, and ale. A myriad of smells carried his way, some of them pleasing but many of them carried a strong, spicy stench that sickened him. All the fair goers were dressed in their brightest colors, hues Stilo could see as vividly as if it were daytime. Voices filled the air, young children yelling in excitement, friends calling to one another, or performers shouting that their acts were about to begin.

  From childhood on, Stilo had learned that he could tolerate the food of mortals, as long as he didn't consume anything too rich or spicy, and as long as he ate a quantity of red meat, an ability garnered from his father's bandrega side. But no human food could compare to the superb, enticing taste of human blood, and here, he recognized his vampire half, the part he'd inherited from his loathsome mother. Thank all the gods and goddesses he never saw that woman anymore; she was gone from his life forever, and where she dwelled now, he didn't know and cared less.

  Music drifted their way from the far end of the meadow, a wooden platform that bordered the Nantosuelta River. From where he stood, Stilo craned his neck and saw a three-piece band on the stage, a guitarist and a fiddler tuning their instruments, a bell-ringer adjusting his bells.

  Angharad clutched his arm, her eyes wide with excitement. "Stilo! It's been so long since I've danced." She pointed in the direction of the music. "Let's go there."

  He inclined his head. "Anything you want." Passion stirred inside him, and he knew what he wanted, to have her under his spell, so that she would desire no one but him.

  With Angharad in tow, Stilo wended his way through the multitudes and headed for the dancing area, past a booth where a juggler entertained the crowd, and a puppet show in the adjoining booth, where dozens of wide-eyed children had gathered with their parents to watch the antics of Etain and Cabell, two whimsical characters popular with the children of Avador.

  They reached the dancing area as the groups began to form, four couples in each set, and Stilo led her to the far end, where three couples waited for another to join them. The men and women were all clad in their holiday apparel, the men in fine linen tunics, the women in cotton frocks with a silk sash around their waists. A loud chord from the guitarist announced the start of the dancing as the musicians played a well-known melody, The Love of Alanna, a slow, plaintive song whose lyrics told of a village maiden who lost her lover, killed in battle. The dancing began as the men and women swayed and dipped, moving from one partner to the next person in their circle, clapping their hands at the completion of the round. Then they stepped in the opposite direction, following the same pattern, their footsteps echoing on the wood.

  Stilo kept his gaze on Angharad with each movement, his every sense focused on drawing her under his beguilement, so that she would want only him, but more than that, oh, so much more. After tonight, she would belong to him, her body to use for his pleasure, her mind to bend to his will. He noted her eyes sparkling with delight, her luscious smile, those full lips he longed to kiss, the sensuous swing of her body. Angharad. He wondered again if that was her real name, but for now, he wouldn't dwell on that quandary, but rather work his magic on her. Soon, she would be his alone, to keep or discard, or share with another man. Two men and one woman–Angharad–in bed. Ah, what a frolic that would be. Passionate images bombarded him, his arousal at a peak. Breathing deeply, he struggled to suppress his excitement.

  Angharad would never want anyone but him, and certainly not Gaderian. A spurt of anger knotted his stomach, and he resolved to forget about that vampire, one who could no longer threaten his plans.

  Angharad blinked her eyes and shook her head, as if she sensed he was casting a spell on her. He deepened his concentration and reveled at the look of longing when her eyes met his. His loins tightened, his body on fire until he could think of nothing or no one but Angharad. Before the sun rose on the morrow, she would be lying in his arms, satiated with passion, on fire to join with him again and again.

  No one else in their gathering perceived that he was bewitching his prey, for throughout the years, he'd learned to perfect his magic, create the illusion that all remained normal.

  Two more slow dances followed, then the tempo of the music increased as the band segued into another popular song, this one about a shipload of sailors with one woman on board their vessel. The men and women clapped their hands and stamped their feet, the women swaying their hips so provocatively that Stilo was well-nigh driven to madness. His every thought centered on Angharad, on lying with her body beneath his. He imagined her shed of her clothes, as if he could see her full bre
asts, those rose-tipped nipples, the tuft of hair at the junction between her legs. His passion increased, and he forced himself to think of other matters, other people, especially how he would get the best of Gaderian. He clasped Angharad's hand as they met once more in their rhythmic circuit, satisfied that her gaze was only for him. A sexual hunger for her flooded his body, a desire too great to ignore. He couldn't last much longer without taking her over to the bushes and making love to her then and there. He wanted her–now, now, now!

  * * *

  While the music played and the dancers stepped to the beat, Fianna met Stilo's gaze, his expression ardent and focused, as if she were the only woman in the world . How handsome he was in his dark blue tunic, a red leather belt studded with gold around his waist, his musk scent rather appealing. Gratified she'd gotten such a good bargain on her new green dress, the fake gold necklace , she knew she looked her best.

  A disorientation dizzied her, and she almost lost her step, but Stilo tightened his hold on her to prevent her from falling. She glanced around, at first not sure where she was. Ah, she was dancing with Stilo and other men and women, here at the fair grounds. Of course! Bright lights shimmered in front of her eyes, and the music of a thousand violins played in her head. She felt a pull, a dislocation of her senses, then a warm languor washed over her. She was sinking, sinking, sinking into a maelstrom of desire, a longing that rendered her helpless to think of anyone but this man who never took his gaze from her. She teased and taunted him, giving him her most beguiling smile, certain she could lure him into her web of enthrallment.