for the heavy-bladed sword in her hand. A flicker of white in the dark pulled his attention left and up the street.

Standing near a street grate was a figure with long white-blond hair, a ragged white sleeveless vest or shirt lashed sloppily around his waist. The only other feature Sgaile could make out was a strange blade gripped in his hand.

The figure turned slowly about, looking all around with seeming concentration, and Sgaile saw his face. He focused his vision.

It was man of tanned skin like his own, but the face was not quite right. The eyes were not as wide or large as his own, and the feathered brows not quite as arched and high. His chin was more the squarish end common to humans.

Half-blood.

Sgaile glanced quickly at the woman and boy farther down the street's gradual arc. His target stood still and in plain view, and he could not let such a chance pass by.

He slipped an arrow from the back of his belt and fitted it to the shortbow. Taking aim, he drew the string back.

Leesil looked up and down the street and between the nearest buildings, trying to spot where Chap had gone. He was about to call out when an odd tingle scurried across his back. Wariness overtook him, and he peered about the dark as if there were something else nearby that he couldn't see.

Had the undead come out through another grate and doubled back? He listened carefully as he peered into the shadows of the buildings.

One shadow moved, low to the ground, and he tensed.

Chap ambled out from between two silent shops, nose to the ground as he followed the line of buildings. Leesil relaxed in annoyance.

"Get over here," he called. "It's gone already."

Chap looked up and paused again to the scan the street. With reluctance, he hobbled toward Leesil.

Sgaile fixed his gaze upon the half-blood's chest just right of center and at the man's heart. He took a slow, deep breath and released half of it.

A gray flicker bobbed from a building to the left and along the cobblestones toward his target. Sgaile paused, releasing the rest of his inhale.

It was a dog or hound approaching the half-blood at a slow, limping gait. Sgaile settled again with another breath, in and halfway out. The dog circled the target as the two moved slowly down the street, and Sgaile pulled tighter on the bowstring.

The angle was no longer what he needed, and he raised his focus to the half-blood's temple.

The sheen of the dog's coat caught the glimmer of a street lantern.

Sgaile paused again, and this time his breath caught in his chest.

The hound limped along next to the half-blood, and Sgaile looked carefully at it.

The dog was blue-gray in color and taller than the forest wolves, its head narrower and muzzle longer than those wild beasts. Even from a distance, Sgaile caught the glitter of its crystal-blue eyes as it intently looked about. He lowered his bow, slowly releasing tension on the string, and sat in silence, watching the two figures recede down the street.

"Majay-hi" he whispered in disbelief.

Chapter 16

Toret sat alone in the parlor, waiting for Chane to return with a mortal for him to feed on. His ruptured eye socket had closed up. He'd shut out any pain from his chest wound but loss of fluid had drained him, and he felt empty in more ways than simple hunger. In each passing moment he found the illusion of "Toret" more and more a ridiculous joke, and the reality of "Ratboy" welled up inside him.

The previous night's fight played out in Toret's mind, again and again, as disquiet crept into his thoughts. He was stronger than the half-blood, yet for all Chane's sword training, the mongrel had still outclassed him.

Tibor walked into the parlor, his appearance severing Toret's thoughts.

"Pardon, master, but there's a man here to see you."

The sailor's throat wound had closed, but the flesh around the hole was still seared. His undead existence made his gaunt, hawklike features stand out. His skin looked weathered and tight but was losing its dark, ruddy tan in his undead state. His brown eyes seemed distant and sad.

"Sestmir was your friend for a long time?" Toret asked.

"My brother." Tibor paused. "I suppose he was my friend too."

A brother? Toret should have realized. The two looked so much alike.

"Who is at the door?" he asked. He wasn't in the proper condition to conduct any type of business.

"Fancy gentleman," Tibor answered.

Toret tensed slightly. "Dark hair