Leesil reversed the stiletto, grasping the blade as he swung his hand wide, ready to throw. The door opened, and the common room's low light spilled outward to reveal a pale face in the dark.

"Put that away," Magiere said.

She stepped in, closing the door. Her black hair hung loose across the shoulders of her hauberk, which was buckled down and fitted for combat. Her falchion was unsheathed in her grip.

Leesil felt an unexplained chill at the sight of her. "What were you doing out there?"

"I don't trust that man," she said. Her irises turned dark at the sight of the blade stuck in the tabletop. "What happened here that I didn't see?"

"You were listening?" Leesil replied. "I told you to stay away. I'll handle Byrd my-"

"Your judgment has been…" Magiere snapped, but never finished. "I told you, you're not leaving my side. And don't fight me about it again."

Leesil looked away. Magiere tried to play bodyguard, yet couldn't see that she was the one who needed protecting. She didn't understand this world. Leesil's hand shook as he slid the stiletto back into its sheath.

"Go to bed," he told her, trying to sound calm. When she was about to argue, he added, "I'll be along once I've gathered the drawings and put out the lanterns."

Her gaze shifted sharply to the wrist where he'd just sheathed his blade. She sheathed her own sword and headed up the stairs.

Leesil sat back, and his hands trembled.

Magiere had been outside the whole time.

He'd come here prepared to kill an old acquaintance. That was just the way of things, and there was nothing to feel about it. When it happened… if it had happened… at any sound of struggle, Magiere would've rushed in to protect him.

Only to see him murder a man in front of her.

"You fool!"

Welstiel had no trouble following Chane, and waited until he was certain that Chane was alone in an alley before closing on him. As Chane spun about, Welstiel grabbed him and slammed him against a stone wall to the alley's side.

Chane did not resist. His neck still oozed black fluid from the garrote line just above the scar of his beheading. His eyes were vacant and desolate, as if he did not know where he was or did not care.

Welstiel released his grip and stepped back. Common sense told him it was time to get rid of Chane one way or another, but he did not wish to. Not yet.

"Now you do need to feed," he said. "We will go to the east side, far from the main gates and our inn. Some market area where refugee peasants try to hide."

Chane looked down at the black stains on his shirt where the stiletto had struck. "They plan to assassinate Darmouth. That was an elf that attacked me."

Welstiel stepped in close. "What? Who is planning this?"

With halting words and rasping voice, Chane recounted what he had seen and heard between the noblewoman and a man called "Byrd." Particularly that a homecoming half-breed stayed at the man's inn, which meant Magiere was there as well.

Welstiel listened carefully, anger fading. "It's not safe for you at the Bronze Bell. Those guards or the woman might recognize you. But I need to go back quickly, before the panic subsides. We passed an inn nearer the gate, the Ivy Vine. Do you remember it?"

Chane's composure returned, and he pulled his cloak over his wounded chest. "Yes, I saw it."

''Go and feed, but be cautious. Then get to the Ivy Vine and stay out of sight."

"What are you doing?"

"Go! I will gather our things and join you in a while."

Welstiel trotted down the alleyway, not bothering to watch which direction Chane took. He hurried back through the winding alleys, but stepped out to the main streets before approaching the Bronze Bell. He smoothed his hair, brushed at his cloak, and pulled on his black leather gloves before entering the front doors, like any wealthy patron with a purpose.

He was relieved at the sight of the yellow-surcoated guards still in a commotion. In the back foyer, the noblewoman sat upon the edge of a hardwood bench with red cushions a bit too worn. She held a white handkerchief to her neck. A slender man with reddish hair, perhaps ten or fifteen years her senior, sat protectively at her side, barking angry questions at the guards around them.

"What do you mean, 'he just ran away'? Why didn't you run him down?"

Welstiel pushed between two guards and stepped directly before the noble couple.

"Forgive me. Is the lady all right? I tried pursuing the villain myself but lost him in the alleys."

The woman and her protector displayed mild surprise at his sudden intrusion. One guard even stepped in to push him back. Welstiel held up his open hands and proffered a curt but respectful bow of his head to the couple.

"Pardon me. I am Viscount Andraso. I was returning to my room when I heard the lady cry out. When I entered the alley, your men were already at her side, and I saw the creature flee."

"Creature?" The red-haired nobleman blinked and stood up, offering the short nod of a superior to a lesser or unknown noble. "I am Baron Emel Milea. This is the Lady Hedi Progae. You said a 'creature' attacked her?"

"It was a man," Lady Progae said calmly, shifting the cloth at her throat. "Some madman."

Lady Progae's shoulder-length hair curled like black silk around her pale face. Her nose was so small and narrow that Welstiel wondered how she could breathe through it. She grew lost in thought, and the longer she lingered there, the more doubt filled her refined features.

"He… his teeth were…" she began. "He was so strong."

Another guard, too young and obviously unsettled, nodded to the baron. "It's true. I saw him just before he kicked Tolka into me. He wasn't right, with teeth like an animal, not a man."

A stocky and scruffy guard snorted and pushed the young one back.

"Don't start again, Alexi, or you'll frighten Lady Progae," he warned, then carefully appraised Welstiel. "Your attempt at help is appreciated, sir, but we'll handle this."

"I do not think so," Welstiel replied, noting that Lady Progae hardly seemed frightened. "And I pity any of your men who catch up with this thing. Have you ever hunted an undead… a vampire?"

"What…?" the stocky guard sputtered angrily.

"What nonsense are you suggesting?" Baron Milea interrupted. He looked down at his lady, but her eyes were fixed on Welstiel.

"You know I am correct," Welstiel said. "They saw its face. They can attest to its strength, as well as the lady. And how else would you explain her throat? Tell me, Lady Progae, how did his touch feel? Cold, perhaps?"

"It's a winter's night," Tolka insisted, but behind him young Alexi looked more and more unsettled.

Hedi Progae remained silent a moment. "I will not jump to conclusions, but I admit he was unnatural."

"What about the other?" Tolka asked. "The tall one fighting with him who scampered off first?"

"He was trying to help me," Lady Progae said quickly. "Just a passerby who became frightened by so many guards. Focus your efforts on the… this madman before he harms anyone else."

"They will not find him," Welstiel said with a slow shake of his head. "No one will find him except a hunter of the dead, a dhampir."

Silence followed. Folklore and superstitions of the undead were not uncommon. Some of Welstiel's listeners might infer his meaning, if any of them had heard tales of such a hunter, let alone a dhampir. Welstiel kept quiet, letting his words sink in. A third guard listening from the archway sighed and stepped nearer.

"Much as I hate agreeing with the whelp," he said, cocking his head toward young Alexi, "I saw those teeth, too. It wasn't a man."

Baron Emel Milea settled down beside Lady Hedi Progae and gently took the cloth she held, lifting it from her throat. Welstiel noted that the white handkerchief was only slightly stained. Chane must have just broken her skin when he was assaulted from above.