Secrets of the Night Special Edition (20 page)

Stilo raised the mug of ale to his lips, all the energy drained from him, afraid that his demon features would soon surface, afraid the mortals would see him for what he was. He couldn't even wear his ring now, the one that made him invisible, his fingers were so swollen. Chastising himself for coming to the tavern, he couldn't deny the reason. He yearned for Fianna, needed her as he needed air to breathe, blood to suck. Upon his arrival this night, he'd checked her scrying room but found the place empty, the oil lamps doused. He pondered the meaning of her absence. Had she left the tavern or gone to bed early? Tomorrow night stretched ahead, if he could wait the long hours before seeing her.

His thoughts reverted to his own dilemma, an overwhelming fear that he couldn't bide his time until the beginning of the next moonphase. What if he arrived at the well a day or two early? No fooling Kane, Stilo acknowledged. The leader would surely recognize if Stilo didn't arrive at the appointed time since he–Stilo–held much influence among their people. If he did arrive early, what could Kane do about it? Ostracize him? Punish him? He snickered, for he recognized his own importance among his kind, his keen mind and oftimes quick thinking. Did he owe his sharp mind to his vampire half?  The reason didn't matter; the other bandregas looked up to him. He tapped his fingers on the table, shocked to see a patch of fur on the back of his hand. Hiding his hand under the table, he took a swig of ale with the other and cast a furtive glance around the room. No one had seen him, he felt sure. He sank back in his chair, only then aware of his tight muscles, glancing one more time around the room. A couple tables remained occupied, the rest of the patrons gone home.

"Say, friend, mind if I join you?"

By all the demons, yes, I mind. Stilo sullenly nodded toward an empty chair. With all the empty tables in the place, why had the fellow chosen this one?

The stranger pulled the chair out and sat down. In a fine black linen tunic woven with gold metallic threads, he had the look of an important man, a merchant, perhaps. His brown hair was neatly combed and reached almost to his shoulders.

He gestured toward Stilo's empty mug. "Allow me to buy you another mug of ale."

Stilo waved his hand, speaking with reluctance. Granno's balls! He just wanted to be left alone.  "I've had enough."

The man raised his fingers to get the barmaid's attention. "Well, I think I'll have an ale, if you don't mind," he said as the barmaid headed in their direction. After she took the newcomer's order, Stilo looked him over, tempted to get up and leave now, return to his lonely apartment.

The man smiled his way. "Ah, but I haven't introduced myself. Angus Kendall, from the
village
of
Ros Creda
."

Angus Kendall! The mine owner. For reasons he couldn't identify, Stilo didn't want him to know his identity, or that he was a bandrega. "Gildas Keir," Stilo said, thinking quickly.

He placed his hand on the other man's shoulders, and Stilo did likewise in the traditional Avadoran greeting.

"Ros Creda. That's from the southern part of the country, isn't it?" No longer bored, Stilo gave him a close look.

"Why, yes." He placed a couple coppers on the table as the barmaid set his ale down. "Ever been there?"

"No," Stilo lied, "but your accent sounds familiar." Like Fianna's, that clipped speech, the well-enunciated syllables. As for Ros Creda, he'd traveled there recently to pick up the rings, made from the gems that came from
Kendall
's mine. Ah, sweet irony!

The newcomer's voice jarred Stilo back. "–a long way from home. Arrived three days ago, staying at one of the inns. Been looking for someone ever since." He leaned forward to speak in a conspiratorial manner, even though no one else could hear him. "You see, I had a slight disagreement with the lady I was to marry. I'm sure you realize how, uh, temperamental young women can be at such a crucial time of their lives. So to make a long story short, she ran away. I've been searching the city for her–"

"Wait! How do you know she came to the capital? Does she have relatives here?" A vague suspicion teased Stilo's mind, offset by the fear the young lady might not be Fianna. Too much to expect.

Kendall
quaffed his ale, then set the mug down with a soft thud, wiping his hand across his mouth.  "No relatives that I know of. Just figured she'd come to the largest city in Avador, where it is easy to lose oneself." He barked a short laugh. "Although I don't see how a lady as pretty as she could remain anonymous. She is a real beauty, a woman any man would hate to lose. I intend to post a reward for her if I don't find her on my own." He frowned. "Somehow, she got the impression that I don't love her."

A rush of exuberance erupted inside Stilo, but doubts bridled his euphoria. It couldn't be Fianna, just couldn't be. Yet if it was, here was his chance to get even with her, and yes, with Wade, too. Goddess damn them both. Granno's balls, how he'd love to see her dragged back to Ros Creda. And force Wade to witness her humiliation. A sexual hunger burgeoned inside him.

He gave
Kendall
a wary look. "How about describing her?"

Kendall
rolled his eyes. "Ah, you'd know her if you saw her. Fianna–"

"Fianna!"

Kendall
looked at him sharply. "You know something." A statement, not a question.

"We'll see." He set his face in nonchalance, reluctant to reveal his emotions. "Describe her," he repeated.

"Easy to describe. Chestnut hair, beautiful face and body."
Kendall
grinned. "Gives a man ideas, if you know what I mean.  Last name is Murtaugh." He narrowed his eyes. "You do know her." 

Stilo grinned slyly. "Odd how coincidences occur. She works right here, in this tavern."

"What!"
Kendall
slammed his hand down and looked around frantically. The other patrons had left, the barmaid, too. The night barkeeper, Noel, walked around the room, dousing the oil lamps, giving them meaningful looks. "Where is she?"
Kendall
asked.  "Is she one of the waitresses who works here earlier in the day?"

Stilo shook his head, trying his best not to gloat, ignoring the barkeeper's hint. "She is a scryer." But where is she now? Gone to bed?

"A–what?"

"Scryer, looks in a mirror to tell your fortune, for a fee, of course. Goes by the name of Angharad Cullain. If you ask anyone else about her, I'd advise you to use that name."

The man's face fell.  "Then it's not the same woman. Never heard of Fianna scrying, and Murtaugh is a common name." He looked around again, as if expecting her to suddenly materialize. "Where is she, do you know? Once I see her–"

"That's the strange thing. She lives here, has a room in back." He jerked his head in that direction and tried to hide his own keen disappointment.
Kendall
would wonder why Fianna mattered to him. "But I haven't seen her this night. Been away myself for a few days, so I don't know where she went, or if she went anywhere." He scratched his chin, then quickly lowered his hand, fearing the tuft of hair remained. He glanced at his hand, relieved the hair had disappeared. "Can't imagine where she went. Not like her to just go off."

Kendall
gave him a suspicious look. "Sounds as if you know her very well."

Stilo laughed with false cheerfulness. "Well, there was a time when I fancied her myself. Changed my mind, decided she was too flighty." His gaze covered the room, his mind playing for time. "Tell you what. Let me know where you're staying. I'll get word to you as soon as she returns."

"As good a plan as any."
Kendall
gave him the information, and after draining his mug, departed the tavern.

Vindictive delight grappled with puzzlement. Stilo asked himself yet again, where had Fianna gone? Now that he thought about it, he hadn't seen Wade, either, not for days. His heart lurched.  Was their a connection between Fianna's absence and Wade's?

* * *

Within the dim recesses of the cave, Moreen led Fianna by the hand, making their tortuous way to the place where Gaderian rested. In her other hand, Fianna carried the linen cloth with her snack, making movement difficult. Either Moreen has excellent night vision, she mused, or she knows the cave by heart. Probably both, she decided as they veered to the right, entering another chamber. Outside, Moreen had tied the horses and left them munching on the grass. She had created a magic spell around the mares, protecting them from harm or thievery.

Shortly before reaching the cave, Moreen had apprized her of the sacred well the bandregas drank from and how they renewed their vigor at the beginning of every moonphase, enabling them to appear human, giving them magical powers.

"You must believe me when I tell you this," the vampiress added. "It is the bandregas who are killing the mortals and making it look as if the vampires are doing the killing. Gaderian has been aware of this problem for a long time, but so far a solution has eluded us."

What could they do about this situation? Fianna agonized. How must the vampires

defeat the bandregas? What a turnaround she'd made in her mind, for now she was on the side of the vampires. The damned bandregas were the threat.

"Something tells me I can trust you not to speak to anyone about this, except Gaderian and me, of course. I've already told Gaderian about the well," Moreen had said, almost as an afterthought. Shuddering with cold and worry, Fianna tried to tighten her cloak around her shoulders but her grip on Moreen's hand made movement difficult.

After an eternity, they reached Gaderian. By the torchlight that flickered from the cave wall, Fianna saw with a sinking heart that he looked so much worse than on her last visit.  He'd lost much weight, his tunic way too large for his emaciated frame. A wave of sorrow and regret clutched her heart.. Goddess, please don't let him die. Please make him well again.

Feeling around in the dim light, she settled herself on the cold floor and set the linen cloth with her food beside her. She forced a cheerful smile as her eyes rested on his haggard face, his emaciated body. Despair knifed through her, an unrelenting torment.

Moreen tapped her on the shoulder. "I'll leave the two of you alone while I tend to the horses, take them down to the stream."

Gaderian held up a scrawny hand. "No, stay here for a few minutes." He spoke in a rasping voice, scarcely above a whisper. "I have much to discuss and not much time."

Not much time? Fianna's heart was breaking. What did he mean? She bit her lower lip, trying not to cry.  She wanted to lie down next to him, cradle his head on her shoulder and tell him she couldn't live without him. Now, when it was too late, she realized how much she loved him. Too late? Oh, please don't let it be so.

He held Fianna's gaze, then switched his attention to Moreen. "About the well at Magh Eamhainn and how the bandregas journey there for sustenance every moonphase-- I don't need to tell you what this means to me–to all of the undead."

"Yes, but what are we going to do?" Moreen sank down beside Fianna, her silvery hair falling to her shoulders. She frowned. The torchlight cast shadows on the wall, creating an eerie ambience. "We must poison the water, but how?"

Fianna caught the desperation in Moreen's voice, a distress that found response inside her. She twisted her fingers in her lap, her mind working while she prayed frantically for Gaderian's recovery and a solution to their problem.

Gaderian spoke so faintly, Fianna and Moreen had to lean closer to hear him. "I've given the matter much thought while I've been lying here." He laughed without humor. "Not much else to do but think. Now, the well . . ." He shifted his position, wincing with pain. "Since I was an apothecary in my mortal life, I know more than a little about poisons. So here's what we must do. We will poison the well. Let's start with foxglove, but since it has a bitter taste. . . "

Fianna watched his face while he spoke, every line, every muscle, as she listened to his muted voice, a voice that sounded as if it would give out any minute. The torchlight cast shadows on his face, at times darkening it, at others making it light. Goddess, how she loved him, but she agonized that it was too late for them. Afraid she'd made her worry too evident, she sat back and tried to impart the impression of merely concerned interest. His voice faded away, forcing her to lean forward again. She was crying inside; this might be the last she'd see him. She ran her fingers through her hair, then stopped when she caught his gaze on her.

"...and so," Gaderian finished, "a mixture of these ingredients should kill the bandregas within hours after drinking from the well. Silver nitrate, too." He sighed and closed his eyes, as if speaking was too much of an effort. He looked at Moreen closely. "You can obtain these poisons from a local apothecary. There is one on
Medros Lane
." He shot her a glance. "Are you familiar with this apothecary?" At her nod, he went on. "Go there in the middle of the night, tomorrow, to get this mixture and leave ample payment. Don't forget a flask and a funnel. The poisons should be clearly marked."

"That should not present a problem." Moreen paused, as though she had more to say.

Gaderian shot her a troubled look. "What?" His hands moved restlessly across his chest.