by Lee Collins
Jack slammed his hand into the wall. This was Annabelle's room, and somebody had just jumped out of the window holding what looked like a body. He didn't want to believe it. He couldn't. No, Annabelle was still alive. She was probably just downstairs having a drink. Still, just to be safe, he should probably tell the marshal that something was fishy in town. Today was supposed to be his day off, and he thought he'd come pay Annabelle a surprise visit. He cursed this miserable town that couldn't give a lawman even one day of peace.
The cold air burned his ears as he ran through the street toward the station. Bursting through the front door, he gave a brief nod to Sanchez. The seated deputy returned the nod, watching in confusion as his fellow lawman stormed toward the marshal's office.
"Sir, we got a problem."
Duggan looked up from the small wooden crucifix he was holding. "We always got a problem, deputy. I'm stewing about one right this minute, as a matter of fact."
"Well, forget it," Jack said. "We got a worse one."
"You ain't giving me orders, are you?" Duggan asked, raising an eyebrow.
Jack looked down at his boots. "No, sir."
"I didn't think you was," Duggan said. "Now then, what's the new problem?"
"Something's wrong over at the Purdy," Jack said.
"Ain't something you can fix?"
Jack shook his head. "No, sir. Ain't no rowdy drunk this time. I think–" He took a deep breath. "I think somebody might have gone and killed one of them whores."
"Which one?" Duggan asked. When Jack didn't reply, the marshal looked up. Seeing the look on the deputy's face, he groaned. "Jack, tell me it ain't that one you're sweet on."
"Who said I was sweet on a whore?"
"Your face just done told me," Duggan said. "Before that, Mrs Oglesby said she saw you outside that brothel when we was fighting that other monster."
"That bitch," Jack said, shaking his head. "Ain't none of her business where I choose to sit."
"Don't take no big city detective to make the pieces fit." The marshal sighed and stood to his feet. "What makes you think your sweetheart got herself killed?"
Jack swallowed, looking at his boots again. "Well, I went in to call on her. The porter, he was busy with somebody else, so I figured I'd just let myself on up to see her. I went up to her room and I opened the door, and there was this strange feller in the room. He was carrying something that looked like a body over his shoulder. I hollered at him, and he just looked over at me and grinned before jumping right out the window."
Duggan's eyebrows arched over his blue eyes. "You say he jumped out the window?"
"Yes, sir," Jack said, nodding. "It's a second-story window, and he hopped on out like he was jumping a fence rail."
"Well, ain't that odd?" Duggan said, looking down at the cross in his hands. "You didn't find him limping around in the street afterward?"
"Didn't think to look," Jack said. "Ain't heard nobody say nothing about it, though." Jack watched the memory in his mind and shook his head. "It's like he just sprouted wings and flew off into the sky."
Duggan nodded without looking up. Sighing through his nose, he twirled the cross in his fingers. No man he knew could jump out of a second-story window onto a snow-packed street without breaking his legs, and no man anywhere could simply vanish into thin air. If what Jack said was true, their suspect wasn't a man. He didn't want to believe it, but it seemed as though Cora Oglesby's warning was well-founded. Again.
He looked up at his deputy. "You a praying man, Jack Evans?"
The question took Jack by surprise. "Why, I don't attend church regular, but I was raised in the faith."
"Well, that's something, at least," Duggan said. "Don't suppose it matters much which one, neither. My ma raised me Catholic, and I expect Sanchez out there will say the same."
"What difference does it make?" Jack asked. "How will that help us bag this feller?"
"You wasn't here when Mrs Oglesby stopped by," Duggan said, "so I'll give it to you quick."
The marshal summed up Cora's brief visit, explaining what she had said about crosses and garlic. When he finished, Jack's face was pale. "You mean to tell me my Annabelle Rose got killed by a vampire?"
"Ain't nothing sure about it," Duggan said, "but if what you said about him jumping out the window is true, I expect it's at least a possibility."
"Shit, marshal, we got to get moving," Jack said, heading out of the marshal's office. He paused at the front door and looked back. "Well, come on! We got to save her."
"Save who?" Sanchez asked, looking alarmed.
"Annabelle," Jack said, but Sanchez just gave him a blank look.
Duggan's boots thumped on the floor as he walked toward his deputies. "Jack," he said, "I don't reckon there's much we can do for her."
"What do you mean?" Jack asked. "We can't just leave her out there to get killed."
"I expect she's already dead," Duggan said.
"But you ain't sure of that," Jack said. "I didn't see no dead body, just some sack over his shoulder. Until we know for sure, it's our duty as lawmen to find and protect her."
"There's more folk in this town besides your whore," Duggan said. "I ain't about to run all three of us after some spook just because you was dumb enough to fall for a whore. My duty is to all the people of Leadville, and so is yours. Don't you forget it."
"Hunting down that vampire would make the whole town safer," Jack said. "The sooner we do it, the sooner we do our duty."
"Madre de Dios," Sanchez whispered from the desk. "There is a vampire here?"
"At least one," Duggan said, not taking his eyes off of Jack. "Mrs Oglesby said there might be more. Jack here seems to think one just jumped out a window with his sweetheart over one shoulder."
"What do we do, señor?" Sanchez asked.
"We stay right where we are," the marshal said. He raised a hand to halt Jack's outburst. "Won't do no good to charge off after a vampire at night, son. Even if you did find him, you'd only end up killed yourself."
"But I can't just–"
"What you can't do is save that woman." Duggan looked at his deputy, a mixture of pity and irritation on his face. Jack Evans was a good man, if a little slow in the head. Duggan didn't want to lose him, but the fool had gone and fallen for a whore. The marshal had been a lawman long enough to have seen many a fight over a whore's love. Sometimes, it was two men that broke out in fisticuffs for a girl's affections. Other times, a man turned violent on a girl who didn't return his feeling. Either way, such affairs always ended with a fight and time spent in a jail cell. Duggan had never seen a happy ending to a man's love for a whore, and he didn't think Jack's would be the first.
Jack set his jaw. "Well, I ain't just going to leave her, sir. If you ain't going to do your duty, then I'll do it my own self."
"That's your business, then," Duggan said. "But if you do plan on saving that woman, go prepared. This ain't like cracking some drunk over the head and hauling him off to jail."
"Don't you worry, marshal," Jack said, drawing his pistol and giving it a spin. "I ain't stupid."
Duggan opened his mouth to reply, but his deputy had already slammed the door. The marshal stared after him for a moment, then sighed and looked at Sanchez, who met his gaze with fearful eyes.
"Well, deputy," Duggan said, clapping him on the shoulder, "looks like it's just you and me tonight."
When Washington Jones came to himself, his mouth was full of blood. The taste filled him with a strange new excitement. Opening his eyes, he saw a figure standing before him. The man's wrist was in Wash's mouth, leaking blood from a deep cut.
When Glava saw awareness in his disciple, he pulled his arm away. "Welcome to your new life, my child."
"Where am I?"
"Where you died," the vampire replied. "Where you have now been reborn as a true master of the night."
Wash ran a hand along his neck, feeling the small wounds there, and the memories of the afternoon returned. "You killed me, didn't
you?"
"And gave you new life." Glava held out his injured arm, and Wash watched in amazement as the gash closed in on itself, vanishing within a matter of moments. "This power is now yours, along with many others. You are a new man, Washington Jones, one that need not fear the trappings of mortality."
A thrill ran through Wash's body as his mind worked to understand it. "So you're saying I can't be killed no more? Not by anything?"
The vampire's hand snatched the bowie knife from Wash's belt with the speed of a striking snake, yet Wash found he could follow it along every inch of its journey, as if Glava were casually reaching for a match. The elder vampire twirled the blade in his hands for a moment. Then, with Wash's blue eyes still watching the blade, Glava plunged the knife into his disciple's chest.
Wash felt the impact and looked down. The knife handle protruded from his ribs. He could feel the blade in his body, but the sensation was nothing more than a slight irritation. After a few moments, he reached up and pulled the blade free. It came out clean, and a small trickle of blood oozed from the wound. The skin soon closed in on itself, leaving behind no trace of the wound.
Wash looked up at Glava in amazement. "Did that just happen?"
"You are not blind," Glava said, "though you are still an idiot." His golden eyes flashed in the dim light for a moment before he turned toward the door. "Come. It is time for your first feeding."
SEVENTEEN
Cora pulled her hat down over her brow. The afternoon sun gleamed on the golden cross crowning the church's steeple, hurting her eyes. Despite sleeping through the night and most of the morning's train ride into Denver, she'd kept her head down through the streets, trying to hide from both her hangover and her growing dread.
Her boots clapped against the stone steps, bringing her up to the wooden doors. Closing her eyes, she gave a deep sigh, trying to exhale her panic and despair with the white cloud of breath that poured from her lips. It didn't work. Her hand paused on the door handle for a moment before she opened it and escaped into the darkness of the vestibule.
The thick carpet muffled her footsteps as she approached the altar and knelt before the crucifix. Closing her eyes, she savored the silence of this place of worship, willing it into her turbulent soul. After a few minutes, the throbbing in her head subsided, leaving her alone with her panic.
"Cora? Is that you?"
She turned her head and saw Father Baez approaching. "Yeah, it's me, Father. Forgive me, but I think I forgot to cross myself when I entered today."
A smile spread beneath his white beard. "I do believe the good Lord can find it in His heart, my dear. Now tell me, what brings you to my door?"
"Well," Cora said, "I got me a bit of a problem, and I heard tell you can give me some answers."
"I'll do what I can," Father Baez said, offering her a hand. "Come, sit and we'll talk."
He led her over to a pew. Cora sat down, wringing her hands despite herself. She looked at them for a few minutes, trying to find enough courage to speak. Taking a deep breath, she looked up into the priest's kind eyes. She needed the answers he could provide, no matter what they might be.
"Well, Father," she began, "I had me a run-in with a vampire yesterday, and he said something funny. About Ben." The priest's face grew grave, and Cora noticed. "So you do know something, then?"
Father Baez looked at the crucifix without answering. After a few moments, he nodded and turned back to her. "If I can help you in any way, I will."
Cora nodded. Trying to keep her voice steady, she told the priest about her two encounters with Fodor Glava. She recounted as best she could his exact words about Ben and Father Baez himself. When she finished, the priest leaned back in the pew, stroking his white beard.
"His words took you by surprise?" he asked.
"Course they did," Cora said, looking at him like he was crazy. "My Ben ain't been killed by no vampire, at least not that I know about." She paused, looking down at her hands again. "Truth is, that's the other reason I came calling on you today, Father. See, Ben didn't come back to the hotel last night, and that's got me awful worried. It ain't like him to just disappear like that."
"You were expecting him to come into your hotel room?" Father Baez asked. Cora nodded. "When was the last time you saw him?"
"Yesterday afternoon," Cora said. "Why?"
The priest looked at the crucifix again. His eyes betrayed a deep concern, but he remained silent. Cora watched his face, her fingers working at her belt. In the silence, her thoughts began running wild again. Father Baez wasn't reassuring her the way she thought he would. There were no words of comfort, no gentle laugh dismissing her worries. Candles winked on the altar, and the face of the blessed virgin looked down on them from a window.
Father Baez continued to look at the dying savior, his eyes wandering over the cloth draped around its arms. Finally, he roused himself and looked at her, his face filled with sorrow. "I've been trying to think of the best way to say this, and I've decided that our Lord's advice is best: the truth shall set you free." He took a deep breath. "Cora, my child, your husband Benjamin Oglesby has been dead for ten years."
Cora blinked.
A gale of laughter erupted from her lips. "That's plumb crazy, Father. Like I said, he was with me just yesterday. It may be that he was killed last night, but I know he ain't been dead no ten years."
Father Baez offered her a sad smile. "I can't explain that to you, and I don't intend to try. All I know is that I conducted a funeral mass for your husband ten years ago and laid him to rest in the old church's cemetery."
"But that ain't right," Cora said. "That Fodor Glava feller said that he killed my Ben, so if he did, then Ben ain't been laid to rest. He'd be…" She trailed off, unable to voice the thought.
"He was," Father Baez said, his smile disappearing. "Your husband was killed by a vampire, this one you call Fodor Glava. His body was reanimated as the unholy undead, one of the vampire's minions."
"Right," Cora said, "so you can't have laid him to rest. That means he ain't been dead no ten years, and maybe that means he ain't dead at all."
The priest shook his head, his face lined with regret. "No, Cora. Your husband's body became a vampire, a member of the nest you destroyed. I may have laid him in the ground, but it was your silver bullet that laid him to rest. Don't you remember?"
Cora shook her head, her mouth working but unable to speak. If she had killed her husband, she would remember doing it. What she did remember was talking with him, laughing with him, and riding with him every day of those ten years. They'd put a number of monsters to rest during that time, too, which was something a dead man couldn't do. Father Baez, for all his kindness, must have confused the story, just like Fodor Glava.
An image came into her mind: Ben's rusted pistol, lying in the bottom of their trunk amid unused bullets. She shifted her legs, uncomfortable with the thought, and felt the weight of the silver dagger in her boot. Her hand slipped down and pulled it out. The silver glimmered in the candlelight as she turned the blade over in her hands. She remembered it glimmering in the lantern's glow in the mine tunnel, Ben's fingers around its hilt.
The voice of James Townsend echoed in her ears, asking to meet her husband after a long afternoon of riding with him. The hotel clerk's confused eyes when she mentioned her husband. Ben's silence during the meeting with Lord Harcourt. Mart Duggan, asking for a description of Ben so he would know him if he saw him. She remembered now that Ben had been with her to see the marshal when she'd borrowed the gun she used to kill the wendigo. Duggan had to have seen him then, yet he couldn't recall what Ben looked like.
Cora's shoulders began shaking in quiet sobs. She felt a warm arm around her back, and she let herself fall into the priest's embrace. Her tears soaked into his vestments as the past ten years began unraveling. Ben's bright blue eyes shining as he laughed. His hand on her shoulder. His quiet concentration when he picked up a book. His grim determination as…
…they entered
the vampire nest. The vampires had holed up in a large house in north Denver. It had taken the hunters nearly a week to track them; the nest never stayed in one place for long. Ben kicked the front door open, letting the afternoon sun stream into the dark interior. They entered, guns at the ready, and waited for their eyes to adjust. She could hear Ben's steady breathing next to her.
Once the darkness had retreated from their sight, they moved up a stairway along the right-hand wall. The boards creaked beneath their boots, announcing their presence, but no monsters came flying out of the shadows. The hunters went from room to room on the second floor, ensuring each was clean of undead before moving on. Boards covered the windows, letting in only thin streams of sunlight. The floor lay under a thin carpet of dust that swirled around their spurs.
