1

He moved as one of the shadows beneath the overhung roofs, along the twisting, narrow streets. He detested the fact that he was here, walking among them. Some passed so near he could have touched them, simply by raising a hand. He felt the heat of their bodies, saw the steam of their warm breaths in the chill night air. He felt the blood pulsing beneath their skin, and heard the rapid, healthy patter of their hearts. He felt like a wolf slinking silently among timid rabbits. With his preternatural strength he could kill any of them without taxing himself. It frightened him to know he was capable of doing just that, if pushed.

For an instant, murky images of the distant past clouded his vision. Air heavy with dust and the scents of sweat and blood. Fallen men, like autumn leaves upon the damp, brown earth. Hooves thundering as the riderless horses fled in a hundred directions. One man, a boy, in truth, remained breathing. The lowly squire in ill-fitting armor sat high upon a magnificent, sooty destrier. The horse pawed the ground with a forefoot and blew, eager for more. Only silence came in answer. The silence of death, for it surrounded them.

The young Roland saw the blood-coated broadsword, the crimson tears, dripping slowly from its tip. As the red haze of fury began to fade, he let the weapon fall from his grasp. Stomach lurching, he tugged the steel helmet from his head, then the mail coif, and tossed both to the ground. Aghast, he stared at the carnage, too sickened just then to be thankful their faces were hidden by helmets, their wounds covered by their armor.

The boy felt no elation at what he'd done. No, not even later, when he was personally knighted by King Louis VII, for heroism and valor. He felt nothing but a grim and disgusting new self-knowledge.

For he had enjoyed the killing.

Roland shook himself. Now was no time for remembrances, or regrets. He reminded himself that despite his likening of them to rabbits, some humans were capable of ultimate deceit and treachery. Past experience had taught him that. And if the report he'd just had from the States were true, one of those humans, more treacherous than any, might even be a few yards from him. It was that possibility that had drawn Roland into the village tonight, in spite of his self-imposed solitude.

His plan was simple. He would slip unnoticed through the medieval-style streets of L'Ombre, and into the inn called Le Requin. He would listen, and he would watch. He'd scan their thinly veiled minds and he'd find the interloper, if, indeed, there was one to be found. And then he'd deal with it.

The night wind stiffened, bringing with it the scents of late-blooming roses, and dying ones, of freshly clipped grass and of the liquor and smoke just beyond the door he now approached. He paused as the door swung wide, and the odor sharpened. A cluster of inebriated tourists stumbled out and passed him. Roland drew back, averting his face, but it was an unnecessary precaution. They paid him no mind.

Roland squared his shoulders. He did not fear humans, nor did many of his kind. More that he feared for them, should he be forced into an unwanted encounter. Besides that, it made good sense to avoid contact. Should humans ever learn that the existence of vampires was more than just the stuff of legends and folklore, the damage done would be irreversible. There would be no peace. It was best to remain apart, to remain forever a myth to those endlessly prying mortals.

As the door swung once more, Roland caught it and slipped quickly through. He stepped to one side and took a moment to survey his surroundings. Low, round tables were scattered without order. People clustered around them, sitting, or standing, leaning over and speaking of nothing in particular. The smoke-laden air hung at face level, stinging his eyes and causing his nostrils to burn. The voices were a drone, punctuated often by the splashing of liquor and the clinking sounds of ice against glass.

Her laughter rose then, above all else. Low, husky and completely without reserve, it rode the smoky air to surround him, and caress his eardrums. His gaze shot toward the source of the sound, but he saw only a huddle of men vying for position near the bar. He could only guess she must be at the center of that huddle.

To push his way through the throng of admirers was out of the question. Roland had no desire to draw undue attention. No, nor indeed, any desire to renew his timeless acquaintance with her. To resume the slow torture. He ignored the surge of anger he felt at the idea that any of the humans might be close enough to touch her. He would not wish to witness the clumsy gropings of some drunken mortal. He didn't really believe he might break the fool's neck for such an offense, but there was no need pressing his temper to its limits.

He could learn as much by listening, and he did so now, attuning his mind as well as his hearing, and wondering what she was calling herself these days. For although he sought confirmation, he had no doubt about the identity of that seductive laugh's owner. No doubt at all.

"Do another one, Rhiannon!"

"Oui, chérie. 'Ow about zome rock and roll?"

A chorus of pleas followed, as the willowy, dark form extricated herself from the mass. She shook her head, not quite smiling in that way she had. She moved with such grace that she seemed to float over the hardwood rather than walk on it. The slightly flared hemline of black velvet swaying a fraction of an inch above the floor added to the illusion. Roland had no clue how she managed to move her legs at all, given the way the full-length skirt clung to them from midshin on up. She might as well have paraded naked before her gaping admirers for what the garment hid. The velvet seemed to have melded itself to her form, curving as her hips did, nipping inward at the waist, cupping her small, high breasts like possessive hands. Her long, slender arms were bare, save the bangles and bracelets adorning them. Her fingers were beringed, and tipped in lengthy, dagger-sharp nails of blood red.

Copyright © 1994 by Margaret Benson.