Part 1 (2/2)

He laughed. The sound took her by surprise, deep and truly amused, but somehow awkward, as though he hadn't laughed in a long time.

”And you thought aspear would help against a demon?”

”I don't know. I'm not a Fighter yet. But I will be. And a spear has to be better than nothing.”

His laughter died as abruptly as it had started. Mierna could feel his eyes on her, heavy, piercing, measuring her from her braided hair to the toe of her boots. When he shook his head, a wave of cold ran over her; she was sure she had failed whatever test he had run her through, and she had to fight her need to move back, away from the judgment about to fall from his lips. He didn't say anything however. All he did was grimace, look down at his middle and at his blood stained hand, and then he turned away toward the stone building fifty yards behind him. Mierna had been so focused on him, she hadn't noticed it until now.

”Go home, Mierna,” he said without looking back. ”Children have no business fighting demons.”

Outrage bubbled inside her at his words. She didn't think twice. She strode after him.

”I'm not a child! I will be nineteen on my next birthday! And the Fighters have accepted boys three years younger than I am in the past. They only made me wait so long because I'm a girl.”

He stopped so abruptly that she very nearly b.u.mped into him. She took a step back, expecting him to turn to her again, but he only glanced at her over his shoulder. ”Your ... Fighters take children younger than sixteen to fight demons?”

It wasn't simple curiosity in his voice. It vibrated with something that, to Mierna, sounded like an accusation, and she found herself taking a defensive stance.

”Someone has to do it.”

He shook his head once more and started for the building without another word. It was a house, Mierna supposed, though the windows were both smaller and higher on the walls than she had ever seen. She doubted much light entered the building through them-which might have been just the goal, she realized.

Stories said vampires were afraid of sunlight. He had reached the door and laid a hand on the latch. She couldn't let him dismiss her like this, not after she had come all this way.

”We have to protect ourselves,” she called out after him. ”You vampires haven't protected us for a long time.”

He stilled again. This time, he didn't look back, but bowed his head.

”We do,” he said, so quietly that Mierna barely heard him. ”There just aren't enough of us anymore.”

He pushed the door open and disappeared inside. It was a clear dismissal, or so Mierna thought until she noticed he had left the door open. She took a step toward it, then stopped, suddenly hesitant. She couldn't see inside, it was too dark, and her instincts were saying that it might not be such a good idea to enter a vampire's lair, just like she would have been wary to intrude on a wild animal's territory, especially a wounded one.

Still undecided, she looked back toward the trail. She had walked for more than an hour to arrive to this point. If she left now, it would have been for nothing. The Fighters wouldn't believe her if she returned without proof. She didn't want to steal from someone she had already wounded without cause, but she might have a chance to convince him. If he gave her a weapon, it wouldn't be stealing. Her decision made, she entered the house.

She had expected total darkness, but as soon as she entered, light caught her attention, making her turn to the right. She walked slowly toward what turned out to be a large room lined with three torches, hung high on the stone walls and burning brightly. In the center of the fourth wall, a fire was dying, ashes and embers piled high in the hearth. Ten carved chairs surrounded an oval wooden table in the middle of the room. The chairs seemed dusty. Only when the vampire moved did Mierna notice him, sitting on a low bench on the right of the fireplace, a large, fuming pot at his side. He had removed both his cloak and tunic, and was pressing a rag to his b.l.o.o.d.y side, rinsing it periodically in the pot. She approached slowly, feeling a little uncomfortable at his state of undress. He was slimmer than she had guessed with the long cloak disguising his body, but there was no mistaking the play of strong muscles beneath the pale skin of his arms and torso.

”You said there's not enough vampires,” she said, averting her gaze to look at the table and chairs. ”Why don't you make more?”

For a long moment, he remained quiet, to the point that Mierna wondered if he was going to answer.

She finally turned her eyes back toward him, and found him staring at the b.l.o.o.d.y rag in his hand with a dark, absent look. He gave a small shrug before blinking and glancing up at her.

”Only a crazy human would want to become a vampire and risk dying suddenly and without reason.” Mierna had heard of the Great Death, of course. It was only one more tale old folks used to scare children. Stay away from vampires, they said, for if they turn you into one of them, you will die on Souls Night as surely as though they had killed you out right. Like for so many other tales, Mierna wasn't sure she still believed it.

”You didn't die,” she pointed out.

”No, I did not,” he replied on a flat tone. ”I merely saw my seven Childer die in front of me without a scratch on their bodies, or a demon anywhere in sight.”

She understood then what the tombs outside were. It had been more than two hundred years, the stories said, since the Great Death had come. How often had he held a vigil over these graves?

She remained silent for a while, watching him finish cleaning his wound. Next, he reached on the bench next to him for a piece of cloth folded in a square no larger than her hand, and he pressed it to the spear wound. Holding it in place with one hand, he picked up a long, narrow piece of cloth and started winding it around his chest.

”Can I help?” Mierna offered, remembering with another jolt of guilt that she had hurt him.

”No need.” Already, he was tying up the extremities of the cloth length together, with such ease that it was clear he had had a lot of practice.

”It's a rather deep wound,” she said, still uneasy. ”My grandmother ... she taught me how to make a poultice-”

”No need for that either.”

He stood and warily stretched his arms over his head. Mierna averted her eyes again, biting her bottom lip and blus.h.i.+ng. She hadn't seen a man without s.h.i.+rt since she had stopped swimming in the river upon becoming a young woman, and back then her swimming mates had been boys, not grown men. She could not remember their muscles being so defined, and couldn't remember either having ever wondered what their skin would feel like beneath her fingers. Like all girls her age, she had had crushes on boys before, she had even let Devon kiss her cheek during the last Spring Festival, but none of them had ever made her throat so dry. None of them had ever had imprecise images of kissing by moonlight bounce through her mind. None of them had made b.u.t.terflies dance wildly in her belly.

”Come.”

The strong word, almost a command, caught Mierna off guard and she started. She looked back toward the vampire, and found that he had crossed the room toward one of the torches. He picked it up from the wall and carried it through a doorless, arched opening into the next room. After hesitating for a few seconds, like she had in front of the open door, she finally followed. She tried to convince herself she wasn't going after him because she was attracted to him. Rather, it was for the same reason she had entered the house. She had to ask him for a weapon. She wasn't sure how to ask, but she needed to do it. She wasn't even sure he had weapons, but surely the Fighters had not sent her on a fool's errand.

Her fears disappeared as soon as she entered the second room. On the wall in front of her, metal gleamed, reflecting the flames of the torch. There were a couple of barbed spears leaning against the wall, three axes, all with handles thicker than her arm, but it was the swords that caught her eye. Resting onhooks on the wall, they all shone bright, from the long, thick sword with the intricately carved handle to the shortest one, no longer than two of her hands put together, more a long dagger than a sword.

”Choose.”

Certain that she had heard him wrong, she looked at the vampire. His face was very grim, and it made his eyes look darker. He nodded toward the weapons even as he slipped the torch through a metal loop on the wall.

”Go ahead. It's what you came here for, isn't it?”

She blinked. ”Do you ... do you mean it?”

”Right now, I do, but choose quickly before I change my mind. I still think you're too young.”

She didn't argue with him about being old enough. Let him think what he wanted as long as he didn't change his mind before she left. She stepped closer to the wall, detailing the swords there. Once, a blacksmith in Riverside had known how to make fine blades such as these. A demon attack had left him and his two apprentices dead, and the town had never recovered the precious lost skills. That was why Mierna was here. All who wanted to join the Fighters needed a weapon. If their family did not own one, they needed to travel to a town and buy one, or find another way to procure one.

”I don't know which one to pick,” she murmured when she had reached for three swords but done little more than brush her fingers to their hilts.

The vampire chuckled behind her, but more than amused, he sounded sad. ”Ah, women and s.h.i.+ny things.”

He stepped forward, coming to a halt so close behind her that Mierna shuddered. Before she could move away, he took her right wrist and guided her hand to a slim blade, four hands long, she hadn't considered until now. His hand slid until his fingers covered Mierna's, and he gently closed them on the hilt of the sword. He lifted her hand to free the blade from the hooks on the wall, then took two steps back, pulling Mierna along with him. She could feel his chest, pressed against her back, solid and strong, and it made her s.h.i.+ver. She had to fight herself not to jump away-or lean against him, she wasn't sure which.

”The woman who owned this blade was as pet.i.te as you are.” Still gripping her hand, he guided her arm into slas.h.i.+ng the blade in front of her, back and forth. ”She complained it was too small, the first time she saw it. Said she would never be able to kill a demon with it, that it would break the first time she tried.”

His voice had taken accents of fond remembrance. It dropped in volume until he was murmuring, more to himself than for Mierna, it seemed. ”She killed three, her first night with this sword, and she danced of happiness when she did. Her name was Deborah.”

He let go of her hand and moved away. Mierna took a few deep breaths to try and calm her racing heart before she turned toward him, but already he had left the room. Taken aback, she followed him outside the house. When she caught up with him, he was standing in front of the graves again, dressed as earlier with a tunic and cloak.

”Thank you,” she said, raising the sword to show what she was thanking him for. ”I will think of Deborah, when I fight. And of you, too.” He nodded, almost absently, and she had the feeling that he was barely paying her any mind.

”So ... I will go back to my village, now.”

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