She had almost reached the door when, abruptly, it banged open. Indigo yowled, his fur standing up, and dove for the shadows. Reacting instinctively, Rhynn pushed Trevys behind her and reached for the sword buckled on her hip. Trevys needed no further urging and fled like a young hare for the bar and Uncle Pogg.
From behind, a hand closed on Rhynn's upper arm with a cold, steely grip. 'Stay quiet and pray they don't notice you.' She didn't need to see the man holding her to know it was Jander. He pulled her backward toward a shadowy corner of the taproom.
A young man entered. He was a beautiful youth, with a full, thick head of copper-colored hair and a high, pale brow. Sensuous lips curved in a grin that housed a world of malice. The cut of his clothing bespoke wealth, although his shirt and breeches had seen better days and appeared rather antiquated in style.
Following him were two young women, a blond and a brunette, both human. They were as beautiful as he was handsome, but, as with the youth, an air of malevolence hung about them like a poisonous perfume. The two entered without the stranger's flamboyance and purposefully moved toward the back of the room. Keeping his eyes fixed on the crowd, which had grown silent and tense, the stranger shrugged out of his cloak, tossing the garment carelessly toward one of the wooden pegs in the wall. It caught, held, and swung slowly like a hanged man for a few seconds.
There were rust-colored patches on the fine linen shirt, and a few spots that were still freshly scarlet with newer blood. Again the Rider reached reflexively for her blade, and again, the gold elf prevented the movement with a painful pressure.
Gasps arose. Jander heard the grating sounds of benches being hastily kicked back and the frustrated yelps of those who, too late, remembered they had handed their weapons over to the Riders upon entering Mistledale. The elf glanced toward the bard and the mage.
The cleric of Lathander, fear and determination mingled on his face, had placed his harp down and was slowly starting to his feet. Pakar had flung his cloak aside and now rose to defend himself against one of the brutally beautiful women.
Jander narrowed his eyes and concentrated on sending the mage a mental command. If he could control him, prevent him from attacking, he might save his life.
Jander's concentration shattered as Rhynn tried to squirm out of his grasp. He was distracted only for an instant, but it sufficed. Ignoring the unformed command from the gold elf, Pakar stuck his hands out, thumbs together. Flame erupted from his fingertips to singe his assailant, filling the inn with the scent of charred flesh. The fair-haired intruder yowled in pain, but she did not slow her attack. Delicate hands with inhumanly sharp nails ripped bloody furrows across Pakar's face and throat. The mage cried out and toppled to the floor, sending two of the chairs crashing down beside him.
The woman cried out, and her form shimmered, becoming nearly transparent, then reshaped itself into the likeness of a deep-chested gray wolf. She leaped onto the still-thrashing body of the mage and stopped his screaming with her sharp teeth. A pool of liquid crimson welled beneath the dying man's body, and the wolf-thing lapped thirstily, tail wagging slowly back and forth.
Jander was about to call the dark-haired woman's attention to the priest when he noticed that the young bard had resumed his seat. His right hand crept up to gingerly pat his breast, to reassure himself that the holy symbol of Lathander was safely hidden. Coward, thought Jander at first, then revised his opinion when he saw the determination in the bard's blue eyes. Not cowardice-wisdom. The priest was waiting until he had a better chance.
Jander allowed himself a thin smile. He should have expected no less from a priest of Lathander Morninglord.
In the time it had taken her colleague to slay the wizard, the other woman had already dispatched two of the biggest men in the Black Boar. As she sucked at the blood that pumped from the severed head of one of them, Jander realized that the room had fallen silent. Shock and terror had momentarily paralyzed the horrified crowd. That didn't last long, though.
One young man panicked and bolted for the door. The youth with the blood-spattered shirt caught him with unnatural ease, snapping the man's neck effortlessly. The body fell to the floor with a thud.
'Oh, you don't want to leave just yet.' The newcomer smiled. 'The party's just beginning.'
At that moment, Theorn appeared in the doorway. Cries of relief rippled through the crowd, and Jander felt Rhynn twitch with a sudden spurt of hope. Swiftly, the gold elf clapped a hand over her mouth to prevent her crying out to her ally. The big captain of the Riders strode up to the stranger, who was watching the slaughter with amusement, and bowed. 'What next, my lord Cassiar?'
'Can you smell them?' was the youth's response. Theorn swallowed hard, nodding eagerly. 'A sweet, sweet scent,' Cassiar continued. He reached up a hand and patted Theorn's bearded cheek in an oddly affectionate, yet utterly patronizing gesture. 'Smile for me. There's a good fellow.'
The captain's lips drew back in a horrible grin. Theorn's incisors had lengthened to almost three times their natural length. Whimpers and cries arose from members of the crowd, who cringed back. Jander felt a wave of pity. These were farmers and musicians, not wandering sorcerers or sell-swords. He, Cassiar, Erith, and Marys were like wolves in a rabbit hutch.
'You must be famished,' Cassiar continued. Again Theorn nodded. 'Well, for your very first meal as one of us, you may take your pick.' He waved a thin, pale hand expansively, brown eyes twinkling with malicious humor. Theorn's undead gaze, blazing now with an unnatural fire, settled on Rhynn.
Fear leaped in Jander's unbeating heart. 'No, Cassiar. She's mine.'
The master vampire pouted. 'But Theorn wants her, and he's been
'And I haven't? You and I have been together for over a century now. I've scouted out every town for you, found the best time and place for feeding, and covered your tracks when the slaughter was over.' He paused, holding Cassiar's gaze. 'Have I ever asked for a particular victim before?'
The petulant frown deepened. 'No,' Cassiar admitted.
'Give me this one, then.'
Brown eyes narrowing, Cassiar asked, 'Why her? Why now?'
Hoping he sounded convincing, Jander replied, 'Because she's my kind. An elf.' He brushed his chin across her dark hair. Rhynn cringed, fear rolling off her in a rank scent that the vampire could smell. 'I find her attractive.'
Cassiar continued to stare speculatively for a moment, then nodded once, curtly. 'Very well. Enjoy her. In the meantime,' Cassiar announced, raising his voice, 'I understand there was a bardic competition taking place. By all means, let us continue with the festivities.'
But the people were too terrified to comply. Members of the formerly happy gathering now stared stupidly, silently, while the blood of their dead soaked into the floorboards of the Black Boar. Cassiar frowned, annoyed at their lack of obedience, and gestured to Theorn.
The Rider tangled his gloved hands in the long, flowing hair of the unfortunate woman nearest him-one of Fogg's barmaids-and yanked her head back. Jander felt Rhynn twist in his arms, but he kept his hold on her. With a guttural moan, Theorn bit clumsily at the exposed white throat, his teeth ripping, not piercing. Blood exploded, covering his face and the dying woman's chest and bodice. Theorn gulped hungrily, and Erith, the vampiress who had retained her human form, applauded.
Jander licked dry lips. He could smell the hot scent, and it pierced him painfully, reminding him that he hadn't feasted in a long time.
'Unless I get some music very soon,' Cassiar warned, 'everyone here will end up like her.' He strode to the front of the room. The patrons moved back, frightened, clearing a place for him to sit. He did so. 'You,' Cassiar said to a half-elf who clutched her flute like a staff. 'I think I'd like to
Trembling, the woman rose and made her way to the front. The priest made way for her. Jander opened his mouth to warn Cassiar about the young man's profession, but something made him hold his tongue. An idea, so daring it would have made him catch his breath had he still breathed, was beginning to form in the gold elf's brain.
The flutist's slim fingers shook badly, and her breathing was too shallow for performing. The sweet notes of the flute were fragile, hesitant, and Jander knew with a sick certainty what would happen next.
