Dhampir - By Barb Hendee & J. C. Hendee Page 0,134

she thought. Or at least he knew something critical was happening, and that his honored guest was waiting to see Magiere, the legendary hunter of the dead. Her falchion was hanging on her hip, and he did not ask her to remove it.

Loni led the way through The Velvet Rose's opulent main room, past the paintings and blooming flowers, and down the stairs to Welstiel's room.

He knocked lightly. "She's arrived, sir."

Without waiting for an answer, he opened the door and ushered her inside, closing it quietly behind her.

Welstiel sat in the same chair as before, but he seemed to be brooding rather than reading this time. The room had not changed. However, his expression actually flickered in surprise at the sight of her. Not that she cared what he thought, but she knew her appearance was that of a barmaid who'd been rolled in the hay.

"How long since you've slept?" he asked.

"I don't remember. I didn't come here to discuss my sleeping habits."

She'd never noticed how black his eyebrows were before. They contrasted sharply with the white patches at his temples.

"Why did you come here?" he asked, without moving from his chair.

"I thought there might be a slight chance you'd actually offer some help instead of your usual riddles."

The absence of windows and the unnatural light from Welstiel's glowing orb now unnerved her slightly.

"I heard a rumor. Of course, I'm sure it's just a rumor," he said, "that you had enlisted some of the fishermen and dockworkers."

"It's no rumor."

He stood up, and his tranquil face showed a hint of anger.

"Send them home. All of them. You are dhampir. Involving commoners will only cause chaos. This whole affair should have been finished days ago."

Magiere crossed her arms. "Fine, then you and Loni carve some stakes and come fight with me."

Welstiel's flicker of anger disappeared, and he smiled.

"I'm afraid that isn't possible, my dear. I once thought you clever, but perhaps you still don't understand. You are the dhampir. Your purpose, your existence, revolves around destroying the undead."

A mix of fury and frustration filled her, and on impulse, she drew her sword.

"I'm so tired of your games! If you know half as much as you pretend to, then spit it out now."

His dark eyes looked down to the falchion's edge and back up again.

"Can you feel the rage building? Every time you battle one of these vermin, does your strength not grow?" His tone dropped low. "Have you ever heard a foolish old saying that evil can only be conquered by good? It's a lie. Evil can only be conquered by evil. These bloodthirsty creatures are unnatural and have no place in the land of the living. However, one of them must have been wise enough, unselfish enough, to create you."

She lowered her sword. "What does that mean?"

Welstiel stepped a little closer.

"I have studied the ways of vampires at length. In the first days after being turned, it is still possible for one of them to create a child. One of your parents, probably your father, was undead. Half of you belongs to the dark world, a negative state of existence that needs to draw in and consume life in order to exist. But your mortal side is stronger. In dhampirs, this imbalance creates a hatred for their own unnatural half that they cannot control. By drawing on the powers of their black side, they become the only living weapon capable of battling and defeating vampires. Do you understand now?"

His words cut like a blade. She did not want to believe him, but could not deny recent events.

"How did you know, about me, I mean? How can you tell?"

He pointed to the leather thong and chain just visible around her neck. "Those amulets, hiding inside your dress. Who gave them to you?"

She paused and several pieces of the puzzle began to shift reluctantly into place.

"My father, or so I was told. He left the armor and the falchion as well. But if he were a vampire, why would he create me and then leave me weapons to destroy his own kind?"

Welstiel's hand impulsively reached out and then it stopped. Perhaps he sensed the sorrow she felt. "Sit down," he said.

She didn't move.

"Some vampires revel in their existence. They welcome it," he said, "but others are sometimes created against their will. I believe it is possible for a vampire to hate its own kind."

He seemed to be speaking with candor, and Magiere did not know whether to be grateful or regretful. She'd spent