There it was. A low murmur. A woman’s voice. Her voice. Adalasia. She was real. Not a figment of his imagination. He went completely still, his heart pounding, blood thundering in his ears before he could get control. He immediately swept away that unacceptable reaction. Emotions had no place in the life of an ancient, a hunter of the undead. He had no idea if his woman was being held hostage or if she was his enemy. No matter which it was, she was his lifemate and he would sort it out. To do that, he needed to be in absolute control.
Like all the shops in the buildings, the name was over the door: The Guide. That told him next to nothing about what went on inside. There were two windows, one on either side of the door, neither particularly large. They were rectangular in shape and, like the other windows in the strange little mini city, seemed dingy. He could see books on shelves and various items on tables and display cases. The items appeared old, as if perhaps the shop held antiques.
An uneasy feeling had him making the circuit a third time, studying each shop with the same attention he’d shown The Guide. Someone was observing not only him but the antiques store. Had the observation simply been one of idle curiosity, Sandu would have ignored it. Humans were often curious about him. When he didn’t bother to tone down his predatory appearance, he drew attention. This attention felt different. It felt threatening—but not toward him, toward those inside that shop.
He didn’t feel the presence of the undead. This threat felt more human and yet . . . not. More. He let his gaze shift around the crowded roundabout. People were wary of him and gave him room, but they were back to shopping and talking with their friends. That allowed him to study the crowd and ferret out the one or ones threatening whoever was in that little shop. It didn’t take long before he zeroed in on three men and a woman whose wares were set up almost directly across from the shop. They had a green-and-white-striped umbrella-type canopy over their paintings. The woman sat in a chair drawing a portrait of a man with a boy standing next to him with what appeared to be colored pencils.
The four did their best not to stare at the antique shop, but their focus was on that shop. He had no doubt that anyone coming and going into the shop would draw their attention instantly. Deciding to test his theory, he once again approached The Guide. There was a small clock on the door saying a reading was taking place and would be over in another seven minutes, to please not disturb. He thought that was interesting. He wasn’t certain what “a reading” entailed, but the fact that someone would lose business while they did a reading had to mean they did fairly well.
He took another slow circuit of the roundabout, listening to the conversations. Three women couldn’t wait for a fabric shop to get their latest fabrics in. They cost the earth, but they were the best. Another group of women loved the yarn offered by a shop owner who spun and dyed her own fiber from various animals she kept on her farm. There was a shop specializing in quilts and another in homemade jams. A leather shop made belts, wallets and boots.
These shops and the outside vendors were not only artists but the real deal. They were craftsmen. Experts in their field. This place was unique. They weren’t charging small amounts of money for their wares. This was a chance to get jewelry or a vase or artwork by a master before anyone else. The people who came here knew it, and they paid for the privilege. Without the police to enforce the law, who kept them safe? Who patrolled the dimly lit alleys one had to walk before reaching the inner mini city? Were the ones he’d noticed on the rooftops keeping those shopping in the markets safe from thieves?
He’d spent enough time looking at the pottery offered at one of the stands. The work was beautiful. He considered purchasing something for his brethren, Andor’s lifemate, Lorraine, or Ferro’s lifemate, Elisabeta. Both women would no doubt appreciate the beauty and craftsmanship. He did so, arranging to have the pottery shipped, as he wasn’t about to carry it around with him. That added to his authenticity as someone who appreciated the arts. All the while, he kept an eye on the four under the brightly striped canopy. They were definitely watching the antique shop— and him.
The door to The Guide opened, and two men emerged along with a woman. They stood on the steps leading to the shop, talking for a moment.