"Barb & J. C. Hendee - Noble Dead 01 - Dhampir" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hendee JC & Barb)

dangerous. Once the job was finished, she would have to watch for unexpected company in the shadows
on her way out of town, ready to reclaim their payment with a harvest blade or shearing knife through her
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back.

“Open up!” one of her escorts shouted. “We have the hunter with us.”

The door creaked inward. The orange-red glow of firelight spilled out, along with an overwhelming
stench of garlic and sweat. Magiere glanced down into the eyes of an age-stunted woman clutching a
stained shawl, face drawn and sallow as though she hadn’t slept in days. At the sight of Magiere, the
woman’s expression altered to one of desperate hope. Magiere had seen it too many times.

“Thank the guardian spirits!” the woman whispered. “We heard you would come, but I didn’t...” She
trailed off. “Please come in. I’ll get you a hot drink.”

Magiere stepped into the thick heat of the small common house. One thing she hated most about her
vocation was all of the traveling in the cold. Eight men and three women were crowded into the tiny
room. On a table to one side lay an unconscious boy. At least two people at any given moment hovered
close to the boy in case he died.

A superstitious lot, these peasants believed that evil spirits sought out the bodies of the newly dead, using
the corpses to prey upon and feed off the blood of the living. The first thirty-six hours were the most
critical for a malevolent spirit to enter a corpse. Magiere had heard all the other legends and folk stories;
this was just one of the more popular. Some thought vampirism spread like a disease, or that such
creatures were simply evil people cursed by fate to an undead existence. The details varied; the results
were the same—long nights spent shivering from fear more than the cold as they waited for a champion
to save them.

A huge, dark-haired man, like an ancient grizzly with a gray-stubble beard, stood at the table’s head,
watching the boy’s closed eyes. It was a long moment before he lifted his gaze to Magiere and
acknowledged her presence. His clothing looked similar to everyone else’s, perhaps with one or two less
layers of grime, but his bearing marked him as the zupan. He pushed through the overcrowded room to
face her.

“I’m Petre Evanko,” he said in a surprisingly soft voice. He motioned to the woman who had greeted
Magiere. “My wife, Anna.”

Magiere politely nodded, but didn’t introduce herself. Mystery was part of the game.

Zupan Petre stood for a moment, taking in her appearance, one that Magiere had carefully tailored long
ago for her work.

Studded-leather armor marked her as warrior too much on the move for anything heavier or bulkier. The
volume of her cloak made it uncertain what might be hiding beneath.

Her thick black hair with its red accents was bound in a long, plain braid, sensible and efficient. Around