Secrets of the Night Special Edition (24 page)

She darted back, at the same time, snatching her dagger from its sheath. He stepped quickly, his gaze on her, and hers focused on him. She would have one chance and one chance only to kill him. With one fast fling, she hurled the dagger at his side, aiming for the kidney.

A startled look seized his face, then his mouth twisted in agony. Hand pressed to his side, he crumpled to the ground with a hard thud.

Leaning against the well, she breathed a long, slow sigh of relief, shaking all over. She had done it. She had poisoned the well and killed Stilo. Now, she must dispose of his body. No one must know what happened here, at least not for several days, when decomposition would set in. By that time, the bandregas would have come and gone, and she'd be safe in Moytura.

The wind howled and whipped her cloak about her. Every bush, every tree tossed in the wind.  She shivered and drew her cloak closer about her.

Stilo lay face up, his eyes gazing at the sky. Fianna knelt beside him to pull out the knife. No, wait. She'd withdraw the weapon later. For now, the dagger would act as a plug and keep him from bleeding. After she disposed of the body she'd get the dagger.

Grabbing his legs, she dragged him along the dirt path. His boots came off, but she left them where they lay. First, she'd hide his body, then fetch his boots. She breathed hard as she tugged, his body bouncing with each step. For one moment, she stood straight to rest her back, then pulled again, dragging him into the woods, several hundred feet away. A cluster of hemlocks and earthberry bushes provided ample concealment. Gasping for breath, she left him there, then returned for his boots. She stood back several feet from the trees and bushes to gauge how well the foliage concealed the body.

Satisfied he was well-hidden, she knelt to pull the knife out. Rivers of blood flowed from his wound onto the earth. Her breath coming quick and fast, she wiped the dagger on the grass and tucked it back in the sheath.  Goddess, forgive me. I never killed a man before. But Stilo was a demon. Or had been.

The ground tilted around her. Sour bile rose in her throat. She pressed her hand against the ground and swallowed convulsively. A wave of faintness washed over her body, her face hot, then cold. She gagged and bent over to vomit. Tears filled her eyes as she waited for her nausea to pass.  In the background, she heard her horse neighing in the distance. Stilo's, too.

Gasping for breath, she rubbed her hand across tear-brimmed eyes. Slowly, she rose to her feet. On quivering legs, she headed back to the mare. Its frantic neighing rang in her ears, Stilo's horse thrashing in the distance.  She found Stilo's horse several feet from her own, hidden among the hemlocks, thrashing among the trees. She untied the reins and slapped its rump, hoping it would find its way home.

Returning to her own horse, she rested her head on its back. Relief poured over her, mingling with other emotions. But it was done, thank the Goddess, her mission a success.

She felt as if she had aged thirty years. She agonized that she'd never be the same again. Her legs shook as she tried to mount the mare. Falling back, she was forced to try two more times before mounting. She flipped the reins and left Magh Eamhainn, headed for Moytura. Back to Gaderian.

* * *

Able to sit up, Gaderian leaned against the cave wall. The torchlight flickered, casting shadows on the streams of calcite, revealing the eerie beauty of the cave. Fianna taunted his mind every waking moment. She haunted his dreams while he slept, a vision of beauty, her spunk and courage an added allure. No other woman like her, this one who had come into his life and revealed how empty his life had been. Oh, to be sure, he had wealth, a splendid mansion and friends. Yet how fleeting happiness can be, how unfulfilled life can be without the one you love to share it. But would she be willing to share her life with him? If only he knew. And Goddess! When would she return? He raked his fingers through his hair, afraid to even consider that she might not come back. To think of all the dangers she may have encountered was torture. It was madness to have let her go. He cursed himself again and again; he should never have permitted her to go by herself.  He allowed himself a little smile, knowing too well that Fianna had a mind of her own, and once she determined on a plan, she followed through on it. No denying her. Tormented by countless possibilities of things that could go wrong, he pressed his hands to his aching head. She might not come back.

And if she didn't return? The long, lonely years stretched ahead, years without the woman he loved. No, he couldn't live without her. Goddess, he prayed, please bring her home safe to me. He wanted to ask her to marry him, but questioned the kind of life he must offer her. He wondered if she could learn to live by night and sleep by day, to adjust her life to his. All the things he had to give her–wealth, a lovely home, the ability to visit any place they desired–would all that matter to her if she had to make the necessary sacrifices to live with him?

His keen hearing detected footsteps coming his way. Within moments, Moreen sank down beside him, pushing her silvery hair from her shoulders and tucking her legs to the side. As much as he wanted to hear about the meeting, he thought of nothing but Fianna. He forced his mind to focus on the gathering of the undead.

"She'll be all right," Moreen said, as if she could read his mind. "Try not to worry."

"Easier said than done." Yet hope blossomed inside him. Surely Fianna would return soon.

"She should be back any day now. You'll be so happy to see her again, you'll wonder why you ever worried."

He clenched his hands. "So many things could happen to her." He must deflect his mind from the woman he loved. "Now tell me about the meeting."

"I thought you'd never ask." An apologetic look came over her face. "But I do realize your concern for Fianna, believe me, I do." She clasped his hand. "She'll be fine. Now, the meeting. First of all, everyone asked about you. I told them you were sick and why. That naturally led to a discussion of the bandregas, the main purpose of the meeting.  Before I told them about the well, they all wanted to know how the bandregas gained the ability to make themselves invisible. I told them about the rings. But let's hope their invisibility is a moot point by now. Let's hope they are all dead."

Enthusiasm crept into her voice. "But wait 'til you hear their reaction when I told them the bandregas' secret, and how they gain their power from the well water. The infernal regions broke loose! And, of course, Orrick was highly indignant that he hadn't been apprized of this discovery. I told him we hadn't had the time, that we'd had to develop a plan ourselves. You and I both know this wasn't the real reason he wasn't told ahead of time, but rather that he would have dithered and dallied until nothing was done. And we didn't want him to know our plan beforehand." She smiled. "I didn't say that either, of course."

She paused, as though collecting her thoughts. "I had to tell the gathering that we sent a mortal to poison the well. No use trying to keep that a secret. And when I told them–well, you could scarcely hear for the chatter and screaming." She opened her hands wide. "But it's done, or so we hope. Too late for them to protest."

Gaderian pounded his fist into the palm of his hand. "If only we knew! If only I'd see Fianna again!"

"It may be a day or two before she returns," Moreen said judiciously.

Gaderian wondered if Moreen was really so sanguine, or only pretending to be. He was crying inside, out of his mind with worry for his loved one.

"And Orrick?" he asked. "Do the undead still want him as their leader?"

"I believe his days as leader are numbered. When you're well again–"

"I'm getting better every day. When I'm recovered, I intend to challenge him for the position." He grinned. "And win!" His mind shifting to Fianna again, he sighed. "If only I knew that Fianna is safe, that she is on her way back."

Moreen squeezed his hand. "You'll see her again any day now."

Above all, he wanted to believe her.

* * *

Traveling at night, singly or in groups, the bandregas arrived at the well, some of them by horse but most on foot, a long walk from Moytura. Those who had walked had taken side roads, escaping detection by mortals. Mothers and fathers led their children by hand, and babies were held in their mothers' arms. The women wore long woolen dresses, the men clad in tunics and trousers, for the weather was much cooler now.

Next to the well, their leader, Kane, handed out the rings to the first one-hundred to arrive, for he had no more to give out now. Damn Angus Kendall! He needed hundreds more rings, but was getting them only a hundred at a time. The bandregas, haggard, their demon features showing, slipped on the rings and watched the glitter of the sunstone in the clear moonlight. In their deep voices, they chattered among themselves, scarcely able to wait to test the rings' magic. With their long noses and elongated ears, they preened and pranced, laughing with joy.

Kane's gaze covered all the bandregas. "Where's Stilo?" he yelled. "Anyone seen him?"

The bandregas looked down the line and from one to another, murmuring among themselves. Their demon features showed, their hands and faces sprouted with fur. They shook their heads in puzzlement. No one had seen Stilo.

Kane seethed. What was Stilo up to? His anger turned to concern. Had something happened to him? If not, why wasn't he here? 

Overhead, clouds drifted in front of the moon, and a cold wind tossed tree branches and swept dirt along the road. The moon emerged from the cloud cover, its light silvering the ground.

After the distribution of the rings, they lined up at the well, men, women, and children. At the head, Kane drank first, tilting the dipper at his mouth, letting the water run down his chin.  Mothers and fathers rested their fur-dotted hands on their children's shoulders, telling them they must be patient. Soon, they would all drink from the well again; soon, they would all look human once more, with strength ten times that of mortals. The clang and scrape of the bucket was heard again and again as the bandregas drank of the magic water. The line stretched the length of the village and back into the preceding woods. The demons talked among themselves as they waited, the women exchanging gossip, the men boasting.

"Get rid of the vampires once and for all! Kill every last one of them!"

Those who had finished drinking left the deserted hamlet. For those on foot, it was a long walk back to Moytura, but they were invigorated now, their power at a peak. By now, they were used to the long journey from the capital to Magh Eamhainn, and they accepted it as part of their lives. Chattering among themselves, they headed back to their homes, but their talk quieted as they passed human houses, lest someone wonder why such a crowd was about at this late hour. The knew this area was all farmland, and since the farmers went to bed early, no one would hear them unless they made excessive noise.

Hours later, an older bandrega stopped on the main road. He clutched his stomach, then his head.

"What is it?" His son rushed up to him, his brow wrinkled. "Father, what's the matter?" Others gathered around, their faces pinched with concern.

"Sick," the old man grimaced. "So sick. My head, my stomach, can't see straight."  He groaned and looked around. "Where am I? Why am I on this road?"

"Father! You're on the road, going back to Moytura. We just drank from the sacred well."

"No, we're going the wrong way." The old man staggered, then bent over and retched.

His son held him, then helped him rise. "Father, please, what is it? What has made you so sick?"

A three-year old girl clutched her mother's dress. "Mama, I feel sick. Mama, sick!"

"Ahh!" Staggering, the man clutched his heart, then toppled to the ground. He lay unmoving, eyes open to the sky.

"Father!" His son felt his chest but found no heartbeat. Tears streamed down his face, and he rocked back and forth. He cried tears of sorrow but bewilderment, too. Screaming, he tore his hair out and shouted.  "He's dead!" His glance took in all the others. "Dead! How can this be?" His body shook with sobs.

One-by-one, the bandregas fell to their knees and retched. They touched their heads and stomachs, their faces twisted with worry and fear. They looked from one to another, wailing through their pain. "What is it? What has happened to us?"

"The well water!" A young man rushed among them, pressing his hand to his forehead. "Well water! Poisoned!"

"No, how can this be?" 

They looked for Kane, wanting and needing his guidance. But he had gone ahead with the other riders.

"Hurry! Back to the well, go warn the others!"

Too ill to move, they could only moan and vomit. Those who had ridden ahead soon showed the same symptoms, falling from their horses. The riderless horses cantered on, some dragging their riders caught in the stirrups.

The bandregas languished on the path, dead or dying. With death, they reverted to their demon-like features, their bodies littering the countryside.

Every one of them dead.  

* * *

"Goddess!" A farmer who lived along the road gazed at the scene the next morning. 

His son stood beside him, both men shaking with fear. They made the sign of warding off evil. Thumb and forefinger touching, they flicked their right hand over their left shoulder.