Leesil's face turned hard and cold as he looked upon Chap.

"You…" Leesil whispered.

Magiere's muscles clenched at the thought of what had happened that first night she looked into Leesil's eyes-and neither of them had known until now.

"You son of a bitch!" Leesil snarled, and he lunged at the hound.

Chap skittered away as Wynn fell backward, caught between the two of them.

Magiere grabbed Leesil by the waist and, crouched as she was, threw herself backward, toppling them both across the floor. Wynn spread her arms out like a barrier, with Chap nervously peering around her side.

Clinging tightly to Leesil, Magiere pulled him along as she backed across the floor up against the legs of a table.

"You did that to me!" Leesil shouted at the hound. "Stealing from a wandering woman with a sword-it was lunacy-but I couldn't leave well enough alone."

"Stop it," Wynn shouted back. "From all you have told me, he has never harmed you… never done anything to hurt you."

"Leesil, calm down," Magiere whispered.

He wrestled out of her grip and rolled to his feet. Backing toward the hallway entrance, he wouldn't even look at Chap.

"I can't be here."

He left without another word.

Gathering her gray robes and pushing her braid back, Wynn clambered to her feet. The young sage was obviously at her wits' end.

"I do not understand," she said, looking to Magiere for an answer. "Why is Leesil acting this way?"

Magiere had no answer for her. There was too much behind all of it, too little time, and so much more they were now facing. All these years, Chap had been hiding from them, following them silently. And telling Wynn anything meant revealing her and Leesil's past livelihood to someone who wouldn't understand it.

"Stay," Magiere finally managed to get out. "Stay with Chap and try to find out why he was digging through those parchments."

Betrayal and revelations aside, their immediate needs hadn't changed. She couldn't allow Leesil to turn away now. As she backed toward the hallway, Chap peered again around Wynn's long gray robe.

Canine crystal blue eyes looked at Magiere, watching her carefully.

The moment the sun set, Chane slipped from the house to find Toret sustenance. He felt the hunger himself, and his wounded shoulder troubled him. It burned.

He traveled the alleys and side ways into a lower district until coming upon a derelict woman resting behind a stack of crates, half-conscious, an empty brown glass bottle in her hand, the air around her smelling of cheap liquor.

Her flesh reeked of sweat and filth and urine, but Chane gorged himself on her blood, soaking in her life. He was careful not to shed a single drop on his clothing. Eyes closed, he settled back and focused inward, awareness sifting through his flesh, driving the woman's stolen life into his shoulder.

Pain decreased, but the wound did not fully heal.

He let the woman's body lie where he had found it. As he walked away, it occurred to him that Toret had abandoned all rules concerning prey. Before this hunter's arrival, they killed infrequently and always disposed of the bodies with discretion-or rather, Chane made certain that was what Toret believed. Now, no questions were asked.

The hunter.

She was the key to fit the locks and chains upon him. All he need do was to bring Toret and this dhampir together. All previous schemes tossed aside, he stepped onto the main street of the inner ring wall, heading for the sages' old barracks. Toret waited to be fed, and time was limited.

Upon reaching the barracks, Chane stepped inside, not bothering to knock. It was still early evening, and likely Wynn would be about. He headed straight for the large study area, relieved to find her inside poring over a stack of parchments.

He paused upon entering.

Across the floor were scattered scribblings. Chalked words were everywhere, and only a "yes" and "no" were in Belaskian, the rest scrawled in what appeared to be Elvish script in odd groups at all angles.

He stepped in, and Wynn noticed his arrival. She looked perfect sitting there in her neat gray robes and long brown braid, surrounded by piles of parchment in the glowing light of the cold lamp upon her desk. Her calm olive face was lovely, and her knowledgeable counsel was always welcome. He could see that she was attracted to him, though her intellectual nature blinded her awareness of this. She was a little sparrow of a scholar, and he would never play with her.

"Good evening, Wynn," he said politely.

For some reason, she appeared mildly agitated and not particularly glad to see him.

"Oh, Chane… did we plan to meet this evening?"

He crossed the room and pulled up a vacant stool to sit by her. "No, but I need information and thought to stop by. I hope that is all right?"

She nodded absently, preoccupied, and began scooping up parchments into neat stacks. "Yes, you are always welcome. There is simply a great deal happening right now."

"What is this?" Chane asked, glancing down at the chalked symbols on the floor and indicating the general disarray of the room.

"Assisting some friends," she replied, and sat back on her stool. "I am glad to see you, but I am a bit scattered at the moment. A change might clear my mind."

Wynn rubbed her eyelids; clearly she had been at her task too long without pause. Chane felt momentarily reluctant to burden her further. Mortals on the whole meant nothing to him, but Wynn was unique.

She reached out with small and perfect hands to straighten up the table. "Tell me what you are seeking."

"First, can you translate an Elvish word for me?"

"I can try. What is it?"

"Anmaglahk," he answered. "Something I read recently, but I have no idea what it means."

Wynn's brows knitted. "I do not think it is a real Elvish word, Chane. Where did you see it?"

"In a history text on this continent's elves," he lied.

She appeared thoughtful for a moment. "My best guess… would be ‘thief of lives. That is the closest I can surmise."

"Thief of lives?" he repeated. "That sounds like a killer-or an assassin."

"Perhaps," she replied with a frown, likely finding his interpretation unpleasant. "But the elves do not use assassins, so the word must have been used in reference to other races." She offered him a tired smile. "Now, what did you really come to research?"

"As long as you promise not to laugh at me," he chided.

"Why would I ever laugh at you?" She blinked, not quite catching his humor.

"I want to know about a legend called the ‘dhampir, rumored to be the offspring of a vampire and a mortal. A mere superstition, but curious."

Wynn did not laugh. In fact, she stared at his hands and hair and, for a moment, Chane thought he saw fear pass across her pretty features.

"Where did you hear that word?" she asked.

Her reaction confused Chane enough that his senses began to open. Carefully casual, he spread his hands, palm up, in a carefree gesture.

"A passing fancy," he said. "I think it was in a tavern, a rumor I overheard."

She nodded, outwardly calm, but he heard the quickened beat of her heart and the slight tremble of her breath. Was she afraid… of him?

"Domin Tilswith is the expert on lore. If you will wait here, I will find him."

As she stood up, Chane felt an urge to prevent her from leaving, to find out what had suddenly frightened her. Such an action would certainly frighten her further and, strangely, that bothered him.

With a quick bow and a shaky smile, Wynn left the room.

Something was amiss. Then Chane heard the sound of quick footsteps coming toward him from the far end of the barracks. Instinct took hold, and he bolted from the study toward the front door.