Dhampir

"No . . . no more dead, but the zupan's son is close," the second man gasped then beckoned with his hand. "Come quickly."

The peasants turned and fled back up the muddy center path, having abandoned their original mission to check the grave lanterns. Magiere shook her head. It probably didn't matter to them anymore. The hunter was here to save them.

She followed, stopping when they did at a door with a small sign above that had worn unreadable long ago. She hadn't spotted the sign before. This rough building had to be their common house, since the village was far too remote to have an inn catering to travelers. "Zupan" was their name for a village chief. He, along with some of the villagers, would be waiting inside for her.

An expectant sigh slipped through her lips as she wondered what this zupan would be like-a cold, hard sell she hoped. The ones who fawned over her, in hope that she wouldn't suck the village dry, were the most repulsive. It was easier when they resisted, until she made them realize there was no other reasonable prospect than to pay her price or wait to die. The quietly agreeable ones were the most dangerous. Once the job was finished, she would have to watch for unexpected company in the shadows on her way out of town, ready to reclaim their payment with a harvest blade or shearing knife through her back.

"Open up!" one of her escorts shouted. "We have the hunter with us."

The door creaked inward. The orange-red glow of firelight spilled out along with an overwhelming stench of garlic and sweat. Magiere glanced down into the eyes of an aged-stunted woman clutching a stained shawl, face drawn and sallow as though she hadn't slept in days. At the sight of Magiere, the woman's expression altered to one of desperate hope. Magiere had seen it too many times.

"Thank the guardian spirits!" the woman whispered. "We heard you would come, but I didn't . . ." she trailed off for a moment. "Please come in. I'll get you a hot drink."

Magiere stepped into the thick heat of the small common house. One thing she hated most about her vocation was all of the traveling in the cold. Eight men and three women were crowded into the tiny room. On a table to one side lay an unconscious boy. At least two people at any given moment hovered close to the boy in case he died.

A superstitious lot, these peasants believed that evil spirits sought out the bodies of the newly dead, using the corpses to prey upon and feed off of the blood of the living. The first thirty-six hours was the most critical time for a malevolent spirit to enter a corpse. Magiere had heard all the other legends and folk stories; this was just one of the more popular. Some thought vampirism spread like a disease or that such creatures were simply evil people cursed by fate to an undead existence. The details varied; the results were the same-long nights shivering from fear more than the cold as they waited for a champion to save them.

A huge, dark-haired man with a gray stubble beard like an ancient grizzly stood at the table's head watching the boy's closed eyes. It was a long moment before he lifted his gaze to Magiere and acknowledged her presence. His clothing looked similar to everyone else's, perhaps with one or two less layers of grime, but his bearing marked him as the zupan. He pushed through the overcrowded room to face her.