"I'm fine," Leesil rambled on. "Where's the damn ghost! I thought he was real… but he couldn't be… head was cut off."

Magiere looked back at Brenden. "We have to turn back. He's hallucinating."

"No!" Leesil snapped. "I'm not hallucinating. Oh, forget that. It's too late. If we quit now, they'll know we've been here. How safe will we be at home tonight? How safe will Rose and Caleb be? We have to finish this."

He was right, and Magiere knew it, but her first instinct was still to get him out of this place. She untucked her shirt-tail, ripped a piece off, and then poured water from the flask to clean his face and eyes. At first he protested, pushing her hands away, but when she refused to give up, he sat there and let her finish. Small cuts and abrasions marred his tan skin, but none of them looked serious.

"You were lucky," she said.

"The gods watch over fools," he answered, trying to smile.

"Oh, shut up," Magiere snapped, all her panic released in irritation at one of his typically inappropriate remarks.

Brenden shook his head. Magiere knew he thought them both quite odd. She didn't blame him.

"All right, now what?" she asked her partner.

Leesil looked back over his shoulder at the mound of debris choking off half the tunnel's space.

"We'll have to crawl; drag our equipment through," he answered. "I think we are getting very close. That ghost must be some sort of guardian."

He began checking his bag for any broken or ruined equipment. One of the flasks of oil had burst, making the others and his odd box of weapons slippery to handle. Only a small amount soiled his crossbow. He wiped the bow and other items off as best he could with the scrap of Magiere's shirt.

"I lost the torch," he said. "We'll have to make do with just one."

For someone who had almost died, his calm, competent manner both reassured and annoyed Magiere.

"You crawl through and Brenden can hand it to you," he added. "But don't move down the tunnel until I'm there ahead of you."

"Wait," Brenden said. "Stand still, Magiere. I brought something for you." He removed a small flask from the belt at his waist. "Hold out your arms."

"What is that?" she asked.

"Garlic water," he answered. "I took it from your kitchen. At close quarters, it might help protect you, or at least make those creatures think twice about grappling with you."

He poured the garlic water all over her arms, shoulders, and back. She found his foresight impressive, but said nothing until he finished.

"Ready?" she asked.

He nodded.

One by one, they crawled through the open space over the cave-in and again began their trek down the tunnel. Perhaps it was her imagination, but Magiere believed Leesil picked up the pace, and although he did check for traps, his examinations were brief.

"I can see an opening," he said.

A second wave of relief passed through Magiere as they stepped from the tunnel into an underground cavern and once again could stand side by side.

"Over there," Leesil said, pointing across the cavern.

"What?" Brenden asked.

Leesil moved forward, holding the torch out. He glanced back.

"Coffins."

Edwan hovered invisibly over Rashed's coffin, torn between joy and frustration. He'd failed in his one chance to make the hunters kill themselves, and now he believed that appearing to them again would only decrease his chance at future shock tactics.

But they had seen the warrior and Ratboy's coffins first, not Teesha's. Let the two of them fight these hunters; he cared nothing for them. For the moment, his Teesha was safe.

He focused on his own form again and transported to his beloved's tiny cavern.

"Wake up, my sweet," he whispered. "Please."

This time, she stirred.

Chapter Thirteen

Some vampires rest more deeply than others in their dormant state. Rashed never admitted it to anyone, even Teesha, but he always struggled not to collapse immediately after sunrise, and he remembered little until dusk. Perhaps it was a condition singular to him, having nothing to do with all undeads. He considered this tendency a weakness, but as yet had discovered no remedy.

This time, still lost in sleep, something not unlike a mortal dream touched the edge of his awareness. He felt as if something unseen watched him in the dark. He could see at night better than a mortal, but sight still required some form of light. This was blackness even his gaze couldn't pierce. But he felt that presence in the dark just the same, always moving and shifting, trying to catch him from behind.

So many years had passed since he had thought of dreams. Such visions and concerns were for the living, not the undead. What pulled at him? With a sudden rush of anxiety, the presence in the dark moved inward toward him, and his eyes opened.

Before he could act, his coffin's lid was jerked open from the outside.

Torchlight illuminated the chamber behind a shadowed figure above him, but he could see easily in such light. The hunter stood over him holding a sharpened stake. Her eyes widened slightly. Both of them froze in surprise, and then she thrust downward with the stake.

Snarling more in rage than fear, he grabbed her wrist, the stake's point halting above his chest. Her sleeve and arm were wet, and his hand began to smoke.

Half shouting in pain, Rashed released his grip as he kicked out. His foot struck her lower chest, and she stumbled back. He instantly rolled over the coffin's side to his feet. What had she done?

A pungent smell reached his nose and stung his eyes. Garlic.

He remembered Ratboy's whining about what the old woman in the tavern had done to him. The hunter had doused herself in garlic water.

He could move his left arm a bit, but not enough to use it in fighting, and now his right hand was badly burned as well. The hunter flipped the stake to her left hand and drew her falchion with her right. Rashed reacted immediately, teeth clenching as he pulled his own sword with his burned hand.

She was dusty and grimy, with strands of loose hair sticking to her pale face as if she'd been crawling through dirt, but her expression was hard and angry. She was a hunter, indeed-cold and pitiless, an invader who'd entered his home to kill him and those he cared for. He had not felt true and full hatred since the night he'd taken Corische's head, but it filled him now.

A silver-furred dog howled and snarled wildly from across the cavern, where a red-bearded man held it at bay. Beside them knelt the light-haired half-elf, loading a crossbow.

"Ratboy," Rashed called. "Get up!"

The hunter rushed him, swinging the falchion. To his own surprise, he dodged instead of parrying, instinct acting for him. He could not allow that blade to touch him. If he were seriously injured again, he was finished, and there would be no one to protect Teesha. Disarming the hunter was his first and only real priority. He needed to back her into the tunnel where she couldn't swing and his strength might give him an advantage. But the wound in his shoulder from their last battle still burned. Feeling slightly off-balance by his near useless left arm, he gained good footing and charged back at her.

"Yes, my dear," Edwan said, peering down at Teesha's fluttering eyelids, his head merged through the coffin lid. "Wake up. We have to flee."

She wore her velvet gown of deepest red, like rich wine, and her thick curls of chocolate brown spread about the coffin's bed, framing her lovely oval face. He still remembered the first time she had smiled at him. It was one of the few old memories that stayed with him after death.

Like Rashed, Teesha refused to sleep in dirt and spread a white satin comforter over the earth of her homeland. As she sat up and pushed open the coffin's lid, Edwan pulled back out of her way. She blinked at him, and he noted how the pale quilt lining of her resting place made the color of her dress more vivid.