Was someone outside singing?

He walked to the back window and looked out. Standing next to the woodpile was a young woman in a torn, velvet dress. Soft curls the color of deep Portsmith coffee hung to her small waist. She seemed vaguely familiar. Such sweet music floated from her tiny mouth. Something told him to stay, in the house, but an irresistible urgency and longing pulled at him. He stepped out the back door and off the porch into the yard.

Slowly approaching this serene visage, he saw her white hands were those of a child. Yet the tight-laced bodice of her gown and rounded breasts proved her a woman. He could not tell how old she was with her doll-like face.

"Are you lost?" he asked. "Do you need help?"

She stopped singing and smiled. "I am lost and alone. See the sadness in my eyes."

He looked into her dark, oval eyes and forgot where he was. He forgot his name.

"Come sit with me," she pleaded.

He crouched down beside her and leaned against the woodpile. Her delicate bone structure made him afraid to touch her, but she laid her head against his shoulder in contentment.

"So gentle," she whispered. "You would never hurt me, would you?"

"No," he answered. "I would never hurt you."

Her face turned up toward his, and her hand touched the back of his hair.

"Yes, you would."

A grip of solid bone restrained him, and she bit down hard on his throat.

No, she wasn't biting him, but kissing him, and he wanted her to go on. He relaxed in her arms, letting her do as she wished.

Then he closed his eyelids and sank down into her embrace.

Ratboy had not stopped thinking about the slim, tan-armed girl for days. He remembered standing outside her window, watching her sleep, drinking in her scent when Teesha had pulled him away. Now, he found himself standing outside her window again.

Rashed would want him to feed, heal, and grow strong again before attacking the half-elf and the dog. He was certain of it. This time there could be no failure, so he should be at his peak of strength and reeking of fresh blood.

The girl had long, tan hair to match her arms. When she rolled over in her sleep, he caught a whiff of clean muslin mixed with lavender soap, and he could wait no longer.

He rarely exercised any of his mental ability beyond making some of his mortal victims forgetful. Why should he? They were killers, not tricksters, but at times he admired, even quietly envied, Teesha's ease of hunting. And weren't they going to rid themselves of this hunter and begin traveling again? Perhaps he should practice his abilities and improve them. Teesha's concern for Rashed was beginning to outweigh her concern for him. Maybe it always had and he'd simply never realized. Ratboy would never be Rashed. But he had other gifts, other skills. He should develop them and impress her along the road. The thought made him smile.

At the same time, he felt an uncontrollable desire to possess this tan-haired girl, to touch her skin, to feed on her life. And he needed to be at full strength. "Come," he whispered.

She opened her eyes, and he projected a thought into her mind. There was something important outside. She must get up and find it. Perhaps she was dreaming? But in the dream she still needed to see what waited.

Rising, she hurried to the window and looked out. Upon seeing nothing, she leaned the upper half of her body over the edge.

Ratboy grabbed her shoulders protruding through the window and pulled her outside. She did not scream, but blinked at him in mild surprise.

He did not want to frighten her, so he kept projecting the idea that she was lost in a dream. She didn't struggle in his arms, but rather examined him curiously through slightly slanted, brown eyes. An alien sense of excitement passed through him. He took his time, experiencing the scent of lavender soap in the crook of her neck mingling with the barest hint of dried fish on her hands. His fingers brushed the softness of her hair and the smoothness of her arms.

Then he pushed her slowly to the ground and used his teeth to puncture the wellspring in the base of her throat, all the while continuing to calm her with the power of his mind.

Her slender hands instinctively pushed once against his shoulders, but the moment passed, and he felt her gripping his shirt.

Power and unbelievable strength flowed into him. Domination through blind fear was one thing, but this was something else, something he and Parko had never talked about.

He drank until her heart stopped beating.

She was only a shell now, and he left her body where it lay, feeling some regret that the moment was over. Somehow, he knew Hashed didn't care about secrecy anymore.

Thoughts of the half-elf and the dog moved to the front of his awareness. Weapons? Shouldn't he find some weapons? No, his burned flesh was healing rapidly, and he had never felt stronger. No mortal trappings were necessary. He slipped down the near-deserted Miiska streets toward The Sea Lion.

Upon reaching it, he jerked one of the common room's shutters off. The dog lay alone in the large room, resting by the hearth.

"Here, puppy, puppy," he sang. What had that half-elf called him-Chap? "Here, Chap."

Chap's great, wolflike head snapped up in what Ratboy swore was disbelief. Then, as Ratboy anticipated, the dog's lips curled up in a hate-filled snarl, and he launched himself toward the window. Loud high-pitched wails burst from his long mouth.

Ratboy smiled. He bolted for the outskirts of town and the tree line.

Magiere ran down the near-black streets toward Brenden's shop until her lungs threatened to burst. Her long dress kept catching at her legs, but she pulled it up with her free hand and kept running.

What if Welstiel were right?

Truth hurt more than the exerted ache in her chest. How could she simply assume all danger had passed because Leesil and Brenden believed the burning warehouse had caved in the tunnels? She ignored the pain in her legs and ran on, falchion in hand.

As the smith's shop came into sight, she called out, "Leesil!" not caring whom she woke up.

The front door was closed. She pounded on it.

"Leesil! Brenden?"

No one answered, and she tried to open it. The door was unlocked.

Magiere shoved it open and stepped inside, but there was no one at home in the small one-room cottage. Maybe Leesil and Brenden hadn't gone directly to the blacksmith's house. What if Leesil had tried to cheer his friend by hunting up a late game of cards somewhere else?

Yes, she comforted herself. Leesil had taken Brenden somewhere else, and they were probably both sitting in some decrepit little inn playing faro. But her hopes were hysterical attempts to create personal security, and she knew it. Aunt Bieja always said, "We mustn't worry until we have something to be worried about."

No, Leesil had said he wouldn't be long.

When she walked past the back window, a flash of white caught her eye. She turned and saw Brenden's shirt. He was lying near the woodpile, not far from the fading stains of Eliza's blood.

"No!"

She rushed out the back door and into the yard, dropping to the ground at the blacksmith's side. His flesh was alabaster, contrasting with the dark red of his torn throat. She crouched down in front of him. His expression was not horrible, but more peaceful than any she'd ever seen on his face. Bright red hair stood out starkly against wan skin.

There was little blood on the ground, as whatever had ripped his throat open had carefully consumed every drop. She tried to let the sight sink in, to allow it inside where she could properly absorb and deal with it. But she couldn't.

Brenden was the only truly brave member of this town, the only one to help her and Leesil. And what had his bravery purchased? What did standing by them bring him? It had brought him death.