Her partner blinked. "Do you want company?"

"No."

She practically fled the tavern, sucking in cool gulps of salt air after closing the front door behind herself. All around, Miiska lay sleeping, but in a few hours some of the fishermen would rise well before dawn to prepare their nets and lines. Not allowing herself to think, Magiere walked down rows of cottages, houses, and shops without really seeing anything. She took no notice of the very few street torches and lanterns still burning or the stragglers stumbling from another tavern or inn as it finally closed well past midnight. She just wanted to clear her head of all the plaguing thoughts running through her mind.

Scents began to register in her smothered thoughts-horse dung, charcoal, and soot. The blacksmith's shop and stables. Magiere stopped in the middle of the street, uncertain and wavering between directions.

Ellinwood had said the murdered girl, Eliza, was the sister of someone named Brenden. Brenden the blacksmith.

It seemed no one in this town said anything straight out, but there had been more than one mention of citizens disappearing. Karlin the baker had been more than startled by the announced death; he'd tried to keep himself from blurting out something about others. And now at least two people knew exactly what her past profession had been, or thought they knew.

Magiere hadn't even realized she was walking again until she reached the end of the street and heard horses stirring in the stables. Around the bend was the smith's work area and behind that a long, chest-high stack of cut wood against a fence. Just beyond she could see a small cottage out back. A thin trail of smoke curled up from its pot chimney in the moonlight.

She slipped quietly around the far end of the fence, careful to check that the front door was closed, and she saw no sign of anyone awake inside. There was only one curtained window to duck under on the cottage side facing the trees. She stepped around back.

There was something of a back porch and a failing flower garden to one side. Another garden patch, likely for vegetables, was farther back behind the stables. A second woodpile lined the cottage side of the fence. It wouldn't look good to be caught prowling on her first week in her new hometown, so she kept a watch on the back door as she looked about. Of course, the body was long gone, but there might be other telltale signs left behind.

A dark patch on the woodpile caught her attention. At first she thought it was just a space between the cut and split logs, but as she moved closer she could see it was not a hollow. Some of the ends of the stacked firewood were stained darker than the others. In two places, it appeared the dark fluid had dripped and run down. She knelt near the base of the stack.

Earth near a shore was usually damp, but looking carefully now she realized that the coastal earth she had seen while traveling was light colored, close to the gravely sand of the shore itself. On the ground here she found more dark spots, like the stains on the wood. One large one was surrounded by others, smaller and smeared. The ground was a mess of footsteps, likely from Ellinwood and his so-called guards. Beyond that, she could find no other signs of chase or struggle.

She ran her fingertips through one dark patch. Though mostly dried to the semi-damp state of the shore earth, some did stick to her fingertips. She lifted it to her nose, then tasted it lightly with her tongue.

Blood.

Magiere closed her eyes and then opened them quickly as the backs of her lids conjured up images of what the killer may have done to his or her victim to spill so much blood.

Yet it was all in one place, as if the girl had not been able to ran, struggle, or fight for her life.

"I thought you no longer concerned yourself with such, dhampir?" a voice said from behind her.

She whirled around to her feet in one motion, gripping her sword. At first she could see nothing, and then she spotted a waver of shadow beneath a tree on the yard's seaward side.

Welstiel stood there, dressed exactly as before in his long, wool cape. He stepped out from the trees to the edge of the yard, and moonlight glinted off the white patches near his temples. She found herself glancing at his hands, and although she couldn't quite make them out, she remembered the missing end of his finger and wondered how he had lost it.

"Are you following me?" she asked angrily.

"Yes," he answered.

That silenced her for a moment. When confronted with that question, most people denied it.

"Why?" she finally asked.

"Because this town is plagued by Noble Dead," he said, "who survive by feeding upon the living. This girl is not the first, and you know that. And no one in Miiska can stop them but you."

"And how would you have any idea what I know?"

Her words were more a retort than a question she expected to be answered. And no answer came. Magiere's stomach knotted sharply with pain from anger and anxiety.

"What does that mean?" she asked. "Noble Dead?"

"The highest order of the dead, or rather, undead," he answered. "The Noble Dead possess the full presence of self they had in life, their unique essence, so to speak. Vampires are but one type, as well as liches, the more powerful wraiths, and the occasional High Revenant. They are aware of themselves, their own desires, intents and thoughts, and can learn and grow through their immortal existence, unlike the lower-ranking undead, such as ghosts, animated corpses, and the like."

"You are no foolish peasant," she said softly. "How can you believe such things? There are no vampires." She turned back to stare at the stained earth and woodpile. "We have enough monsters of our own kind."

"Yes," he said quietly. "Of our own kind."

She heard him step toward her into the yard, but did not look back at him.

"Undeads who drain life do exist," he said. "And they have made this place, this town, their own. Such creatures may be more… exclusive… than most peasants believe, but they exist just the same. You know all this. You are a hunter."

"Not anymore."

"You won't be able to avoid such tasks here."

"Really?" She turned on him, eyes narrow with anger. "Just watch how well I avoid this, old man."

He wasn't quite that old, but he acted like some superstitious village elder. She thought of their first meeting and another question came to her mind, something he'd said tonight.

"What did you call me… dhampir?"

"It is nothing." He turned to leave. "An ancient and little-known word in my homeland for one specially gifted and born to hunt the undead."

She did not stop his departure. She watched him fade between the trees, heading toward the shore.

In spite of his possible intent to rattle her, his wild statements made her feel better, not worse. A few nights ago, she feared he wanted something from her that she was unwilling to give, but now he seemed like just another superstitious fool, albeit a well-dressed one. Yes, there was a murderer loose in town, a sick and twisted one at that, but Ellinwood and his cronies were paid to deal with such things. She was a barkeep now, not a hunter, even if a few townsfolk had heard about her past. In a year, maybe two, that reputation would wash away with the tide until she was only Magiere, owner of The Sea Lion tavern.

She wiped her fingers off in the sandy soil, then brushed off the dirt against the thigh of her breeches, feeling her breathing slow and the tightness in her stomach relax. She walked away from the backyard, the woodpile, and the stains on the ground without looking back.

Only a handful of steps down the street, she spotted Caleb walking toward her.

"What are you doing out here?" she asked in confusion.

"Streets at night aren't always safe. I came to find you."