Leesil crouched down, examining Chap in confusion. He knew dogs were capable of mourning in a fashion for people they had lost, but Chap had come to him with a specific piece of a dead woman's clothing.

"What is it? What do you want?"

It seemed ridiculous to ask a question of an animal. Then he realized that he didn't need to ask. He knew what the dog wanted. Chap wanted to hunt down Beth-rae's killer.

Footsteps on the stairs made both dog and half-elf look up.

"What's wrong with him?" Magiere asked, stepping off the stairs into the hallway, looking clean, calm, and in charge again.

Leesil ignored the question. "Where have you been?"

"Getting some answers." Then she noticed the scrap of cloth in Chap's jaws. Her brow wrinkled in confusion and revulsion. "Is that Beth-rae's shawl?"

"Yes." Leesil nodded. "He carried it up from the kitchen."

"Did the creature that killed Beth-rae touch it?"

"I don't know, but…"

Leesil hesitated. For whatever reason, Magiere was thinking along the same path that had occurred to him. Perhaps it was time to try what he'd had in the back of his mind since he'd first hidden away Ratboy's dagger, deciding not to turn it over to Ellinwood. He returned to his chest and picked up the blade Beth-rae's killer had left behind, careful not to touch the handle and foul any lingering scent.

"Here Chap, try this."

"Where did you find that?" Magiere snapped at him, reaching out for the blade. "And why didn't you show it to Ellinwood?"

Leesil pushed her hand away, shaking his head. "We know that little beggar boy certainly touched this, and Ellinwood doesn't have anyone like Chap."

"You should have told me," Magiere said. Following Leesil, she crouched down next to the dog.

"It was a gamble-my gamble," Leesil answered. "And what you didn't know, you couldn't be held accountable for."

He held out the dagger's handle, and Chap eagerly sniffed every inch of it.

"Do you think he can track for us?" Magiere asked.

"I don't know for certain," Leesil answered. "But, yes, I think he can."

She breathed in once. "Let's get ready as well. We don't have much time."

Leesil looked at her, puzzled.

"The sun will be setting soon," was the answer she gave to his unasked question.

Neither one of them said the word "vampire." While Magiere went to get her sword, Leesil broke his bedroom chair and fashioned the legs into makeshift stakes. He put them in the sack with his box and headed downstairs to gather further necessities for battle.

For quite a while after Magiere had left him, Welstiel remained sitting in his chair, searching mentally to pinpoint an uninvited presence. He had slowly studied every inch of the room, but so far only books and shelves and his table registered in his sharp eyes.

"I know you are here," he murmured, more to himself than the presence.

He sensed it. Why was it here, and what did it want? The three sparks of his orb cast a satisfactory amount of illumination. Perhaps more than that was needed.

"Darkness," Welstiel said, and the orb's sparks immediately extinguished.

With all light gone from the room, he immediately spotted a yellowish glow hovering in the far corner, but only for a moment. It vanished, leaving behind the faint emotional residue of fear and anger.

The possibilities were too varied for comfort in Welstiel's mind. It could have been anything from a spirit to an astral consciousness. But why? He closed his eyes and tried to feel for any kind of trail, any path in the residue of this unseen presence. The traces of fear and anger were gone. The presence had evaporated. He could follow nothing.

Welstiel frowned.

Chapter Twelve

Magiere crouched outside the huge shorefront warehouse, Leesil and Brenden beside her. The place appeared almost new, constructed of expensive, solid pine boards.

"Why not just burn it?" Leesil whispered.

"I already told you," Brenden answered. "Hundreds of townsfolk make their living from this place in one way or another."

"Yes, but if we kill the owner, won't that bring about a similar result?" Leesil shifted his weight to get a better hold on the squirming dog. "Chap, will you stop that?"

Conversing at all was difficult as Leesil was busy holding onto Chap's muzzle and his wildly struggling body.

"Maybe…" Brenden hesitated. "Maybe not. At least their livelihoods might stay intact for a while, if someone else can step in to keep the place running."

On their way through town, Chap had led them on a wandering course down alleys and side streets, searching the ground with his nose. At the crossing of two roads, he'd lurched back, sneezing as if he'd caught a whiff of something that agitated his senses. He broke into a half-trot, then a full run. All of them were forced to hurry after him, making themselves ridiculously conspicuous. Magiere had cursed herself for not tying a rope around his neck.

Chap ran straight for this warehouse, sniffing the outside floorboards and growling. Welstiel had said to use the dog.

If he was correct, then this indeed was the right place. Heavily armed, they now hid behind a stack of crates, deciding on their next course of action and trying to avoid being seen by dockworkers. The sun was low in the sky.

Magiere listened quietly, wishing Leesil and Brenden would stop arguing and let her think. The warehouse seemed a logical place to begin, especially since it matched Brenden's claim that its owner was the one who attacked her. Chap's reaction seemed to confirm their suspicions.

Part of her agreed with Leesil. They ought to just wait until closing time when the workers went home, then pour oil all over the base and set it on fire. Brenden's concern made sense as well. And what if the nobleman and the dirty urchin weren't even inside? What if Chap were only reacting to old or faint residue from either of them passing this way? She had no idea how the dog was able to track these creatures or what was the extent of his abilities.

Yes, finding their prey was the first obstacle to surpass, but once that was accomplished, she and her small group were prepared for fighting undeads, although none of them had used the word. Welstiel had mentioned Brenden's strength. She assumed he meant physical strength, but now she wasn't so sure. Her red-bearded companion crouched calmly, without fear, holding a crossbow in one hand and balancing himself on the packed ground with the other. He'd soaked all his quarrels in garlic water and tucked six roughly sharpened wooden stakes into his belt alongside dangling skins of water. One stake at the center of his back was longer, more like a half-length spear. She didn't know him at all, but was beginning to believe there was more to him than met the eye.

Leesil was now fairly weighted down by a bag tied to his back across his left shoulder. She'd watched him pack and repack it a few times. He had brought a crossbow, several garlic-soaked quarrels, and a long, wooden box. He also filled four small wine flasks with oil, tightly sealed their stoppers, and placed them in the bag, along with a flint. Then he had fashioned two short torches, which he tied to his back as well. She knew he typically carried various stilettos and other bladed weapons somewhere inside his clothes.

She, on the other hand, traveled light, carrying nothing besides her falchion. Her role in this macabre play was to fight Rashed, while the others dealt with the smaller creature called Ratboy, should both their targets be discovered together.

"How are we going to get in?" she asked finally, surveying the warehouse wall up and down. "We can't exactly walk in the front doors and ask the workers, 'By the way, where do your masters sleep? And I don't fancy trying to enter after dark."