by Lee Collins
He was going to die.
Duggan watched the naked woman continue to circle him, knuckles crunching in the snow. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw the golden-eyed man make a move. He spun toward him, cross held high. The nosferatu simply gazed back at him.
Behind him, the woman let out a howl and charged. He brought the holy symbol back around, but it was too late. She was already in the air, hands outstretched, flying toward him with murder in her eyes.
The monster jerked to one side in mid-air as if kicked, and fell in a heap beside him. Duggan stared in disbelief at the smoking hole in her side as she struggled to her feet. The crack of a rifle echoed from somewhere behind the elder vampire, followed by a loud curse. Looking up, he saw the golden eyes vanish in a whirl of dark hair. The nosferatu dodged to the left as another shot rang out. The bullet punched a hole in the snarling woman's skull. Pale limbs flailed in the snow, and her final howl ended in a choking gurgle. Looking up the street, Duggan could make out a small figure in a wide-brimmed hat.
Cora Oglesby trained her Winchester on the glowing golden eyes, her rosary dangling from her left hand. Behind her, Our Lady stood in the street, her breath streaming into the night air.
"Well, now, if it ain't my old friend Mr Fodor Glava," she said, chambering a round. "Nice to see you showing your real face to the world for a change."
Glava's eyes burned with hatred. "Welcome back, widow. I hope you are prepared to join your husband in hell."
"That ain't no kind of greeting, now," Cora said. Her boots crunched through the snow toward the vampire. "And here I was hoping for an apology."
Before Glava could answer, Cora's hand dropped to her belt. She pulled out her revolver and tossed it over to Mart Duggan. "Here, marshal. You lick them spooks behind you while me and Mr Glava here have ourselves a nice chat."
Keeping a wary eye on the vampire, Duggan picked up the revolver. He whispered an order to his frightened deputy and the two men traded places. Sanchez's frightened brown eyes locked on Fodor Glava while the marshal raised pistol and crucifix at the nearest vrykolakas. The Colt's roar echoed off of the surrounding buildings, and the monster collapsed. The rest of the vrykolakas began backing away from the marshal.
Glava could feel the terror rising in his minions. He longed to charge at this hateful woman and snap her neck, but the rosary in her hand held him at bay. In his mind, he screamed for Wash Jones to come to his aid. The apprentice heard the master's call, rising from the bed of a fresh kill, and a grin returned to the master's face. Even with their holy symbols and holy weapons, Cora Oglesby and her little marshal could not hope to withstand both nosferatu at once.
The grin vanished from Glava's face a moment later as pain and confusion exploded through the minds of his vrykolakas. Through their eyes, he could see a line of men on horseback galloping up the street. Their leader held a large cross in his raised hand. The lesser vampires panicked, turning back the way they had come only to cower before Mart Duggan's upraised crucifix. Their combined terror and pain flooded Glava's mind, threatening to overwhelm his hold on them. Forgetting himself, his golden eyes slid closed as he attempted to tighten his grip on them.
A moment later, he heard the crack of Cora's rifle. He dodged to the left, but the chaos in his mind slowed his reflexes. The silver bullet caught him just below the shoulder, tearing another hole in the breast of his suit. Searing pain flooded his body, and his mind shook loose of the vrykolakas. He could hear the Colt's booming voice as the marshal cut down his army, but he no longer felt their pain. Blinded by his own suffering, he stumbled and nearly fell. The hunter's rifle cracked again, and pain sliced through his leg.
Fodor Glava fell to his knees, unable to understand the waves of pain flowing through his immortal body. Behind him, the revolver's echoes vanished beneath the thundering of horses. The ground beneath him shook, and he forced his eyes open. No fewer than half a dozen mounted men surrounded him, all with crosses raised. The holy symbols wracked his body with fire, sapping what strength remained in him.
The horses began shuffling as the group parted, clearing the way for someone to come through. The golden eyes closed for a moment as Glava reached out one last, desperate time for his apprentice. He could feel Wash Jones nearby; he could see the group of men on horseback through his eyes. He could also sense the man's fear. Glava burned Wash's mind, commanding him to take the group in the back, to create a distraction, to do anything at all, but the former gunman remained where he stood. The elder vampire watched in despair as Wash finally took to his heels, holy terror lending speed to his flight.
Glava opened his eyes at the sound of approaching boots. Raising his head, he stared into the cold brown eyes of the hunter. Mart Duggan stood beside her, his raised crucifix sending more waves of crippling pain through the vampire's body. Cora Oglesby held only her saber. Around them, the night was silent, as if the rest of the world had ceased to exist. Not even the stamping of a horse's hoof disturbed the frigid air as vampire and hunter regarded each other.
"How the mighty are fallen," Cora finally said.
"Just like your husband," Glava replied, managing a sneer through his pain. "Did you say those same words to him as you shot him in the face?"
"Wasn't no need," Cora said. "He wouldn't have heard me if I had, not with his soul trapped inside your filthy body."
"Where he has served me for ten years," the vampire said. "If you kill me now, his soul will be forever lost to this world. You will never see his face again."
Cora drew her arm back and slapped him across the cheek with the flat of her blade. Glava tumbled sideways, landing face-first in the packed snow. "I ain't about to let him suffer just to give my own selfish self peace of mind." She knelt down, grabbed a fistful of Glava's hair, and jerked him upright. She pressed the point of her sword into the vampire's suit just above his heart.
"This is for my Ben."
Cora slid the saber through his chest in one fluid motion even as Glava opened his mouth. His reply became a hell ish wail, thin and piercing, that filled the empty streets with the voice of the damned. The men on horseback clapped their hands over their ears, and Mart Duggan winced and turned his head, but Cora Oglesby never flinched. She kept the sacred blade in her hand as the vampire's body writhed around it. Smoke burst forth from Glava's mouth and nose, rising in a great cloud above their heads. As it rose, the cries of a thousand liberated souls filled the air. Their voices grew fainter as the smoke, caught in the breath of a night breeze, melted into the stars. When the last voice had faded into the distance, the golden glow was gone from Glava's eyes.
Planting a boot on the vampire's shoulder, Cora pulled the saber out of the lifeless corpse. The blade shimmered in the moonlight as she brought it down once more. She wiped it clean on the hem of Glava's suit, slid the blade home, and turned to face the cluster of men. They all stared at her open-mouthed, faces frozen in amazement. Even Mart Duggan's blue eyes were wide in his pale face.
A grin blossomed across her lips. "Why the long faces, boys?" Kicking back with her heel, she drove a silver spur into the dead vampire's side. "Ain't got nothing to worry about no more." She held out her hand toward the marshal, and he handed her the spent revolver. She slipped the silver barrel back into her holster and pressed her way through the crowd of horses to where her own mare stood waiting. The two lawmen followed, quiet prayers still falling from Sanchez's lips.
Cora climbed into the saddle and looked down at them, her grin never wavering. "Go on home, you two. Get some sleep for a change." She tapped Our Lady's sides with her heels and walked the mare back to the group of men on horseback. James Townsend sat atop his big carriage horse, the cross in his hand all but forgotten.
"My God, Cora," he said when she rode up next to him.
"Why is your jaw hanging?" she asked. "Ain't that what you and Harcourt wanted?"
"Yes, but to have witnessed such an event…" James said, his empty hand groping for words. "The scholars
at Oxford will never believe my account of this."
"Don't forget to talk up your part in it," she said. "If you boys hadn't been awake when I came calling tonight, I might have had to do all the work myself."
James let out a small chuckle. "I will be hard-pressed to convince them of my credentials as a vampire killer."
Cora shrugged. "I'm sure you'll bring them around." She held up a hand to halt his reply. "Before you get to all that writing and talking, though, I do hope you'll join me for one last ride. I'm of a mind to call on Lord Harcourt tonight and settle up about my payment."
EPILOGUE
A steady wind rolled down from the slopes of the foothills and out across the plains, making the tall grasses bend and sigh. It was not a warm wind bearing with it the gentle promise of spring, but a cold, fierce wind filled with bony fingers that pulled and poked and pierced. It swept between the silent gravestones and tugged at the thick buffalo coat of the lone figure standing amid them. The figure seemed to take no notice of the cold wind or the bright afternoon sun as it stood, head bowed, before a gray stone cross. In the distance, a pair of saddled horses huddled together against the cold. A small man stood between them, his black robes flowing out beneath his white beard.
The wind pulled Cora's tears across her cheeks and froze them in place, but she didn't turn away from the gravestone at her feet. It was small and simple, a stone cross etched with the name of the dead man and his years of life. Ten years of wind and rain and snow and sun had already begun wearing down the edges of the letters, making them smooth. Strands of yellow grass emerged from the blanket of snow, teasing the stone arms and playing with the hem of her coat.
Benjamin Abraham Oglesby
1843 – 1873
Cora read the words over and over, her brown eyes tracing each letter as if carving them anew into the stone. Her breathing was uneven, drawing the cold wind down into her body only to return it to the prairie in quiet sobs. She didn't know how long she had stood at the foot of her husband's grave, but she knew it could never be long enough. The words on the stone were colder than any winter wind, covering her heart with a frost that would never melt.
"Well," she said, her voice thick, "I never thought I'd wake up one day to find you here."
The wind whistled around her, carrying her words away from her lips as soon as she spoke them.
"I hope you won't mind that I didn't stop by sooner, but I guess I was in a bad way about you dying. Didn't want to believe it, so I just kept saying it wasn't so until you came back to me." She sniffed, offering the headstone a small smile. "We still had us some good times, even if you wasn't really there."
Memories of his kind eyes and warm smile welled up in her, bringing fresh tears to her eyes. She didn't brush them off or turn her head; she had never hidden her sorrow from him in life and would not start now. The wave passed after a few moments, and she opened her eyes again.
"Even after Father Baez told me you was resting here, I couldn't make myself come. I couldn't face you until I knew that I'd settled up with your killer." She smiled again, feeling the frozen tears crack on her cheeks. "I licked that bastard good for you. Ran him through with your sword after me and some fellers cornered him like the dog he was. James says killing him freed you to go on up to the good Lord at long last. Once you're sainted, Father Baez says he'll talk with the Pope himself about making you the patron of vampire hunters. There ain't never been one before, so there's room, and it's fitting that it should be you."
She patted her breast pocket with a gloved hand. "Got me the bounty they put on that vampire's head. There's plenty there to open a print shop, just like you wanted. Ain't settled on where I'll put it yet, but I'm thinking about going back home and setting up where your pa's old shop was. Don't know if they'd take me as I am, though; I ain't exactly no lady."
A gust of wind filled in the silence as she trailed off. She could feel the icy fingers weaving their way under her coat, and she shivered, sinking back into her memories. After a few minutes, she roused herself, reached into her belt pouch, and pulled out a familiar silver dagger. She ran her fingers over the soft leather sheath, then tied the dangling rawhide strips into a loop. Then she knelt down and hung the dagger on the stone cross.
"Here's this back. Sorry I can't put it down there with you, but the soil's frozen up this time of year. I'll come by when it warms up again and bury it then if that's all right." She paused, thinking back on the memories that had so recently returned to her. "Maybe if you'd had it with you that night, things would be different now. Only the good Lord could say for sure."
She kissed her fingers and touched them to the chiseled letters. Her hand lingered there, tracing each letter in turn. Another gust of wind swirled around her. After a moment, she sighed and rose to her feet.
"I best be getting on," she said. "Won't do to keep poor Father Baez out here in the cold, old as he is. I'll stop by and tell you where it is I decided to put our print shop once I get it figured out, but I expect you'll see me before then, too." She pulled her coat closer around her, then raised her hand and tipped her hat to the silent grave. "Take care of yourself, now."
Her boots crunched in the snow as she turned and started walking back to the waiting priest. Father Baez offered her the reins with a kind smile. She returned it, her tears still frozen on her cheeks, and climbed into Our Lady of Virginia's saddle. The priest followed suit, turning his small horse away from the cemetery. Together, they rode down the small hill toward the city, and Cora did not look back.
The wind continued to play with the long grass growing around the cold stone cross. Ben's silver dagger rocked against the granite, swaying with the ebb and flow of the air. The sun drifted down toward the mountains, and the shadow of the cross stretched out eastward, following his beloved wife's footsteps, reaching out with unmoving arms toward the place where she had stood.
About the Author
Lee Collins has spent his entire life in the shadow of the Rocky Mountains. Despite this (or perhaps because of it), he generally prefers to stay indoors reading and playing video games. As a child, he never realized that he could create video games for a living, so he chose to study creative writing at Colorado State University. Upon graduation, he worked as an editorial intern for a local magazine before securing a desk job with his alma mater.
Lee's short fiction has appeared in Ensorcelled and Morpheus Tales, the latter of which awarded him second place in a flash fiction contest. In 2009, a friend challenged him to participate in National Novel Writing Month, and the resulting manuscript became his debut novel, The Dead of Winter.
In his spare minutes between writing and shepherding graduate students at his day job, Lee still indulges in his oldest passions: books and video games. He and his girlfriend live in Colorado with their imaginary corgi Fubsy Bumble.
leecollinsfiction.com
Acknowledgments
Many thanks to my friend and fellow scribbler Matt Carman, who invited me to try NaNoWriMo with him and gave me the heads-up about Angry Robot's Open Door Month. Thanks also to Amanda Rutter for offering my manuscript up to the Robot Overlords and to the Anxious Appliances for sharing the mind-shredding anxiety with me. Thanks to Melissa Gardner for being the first one to finish this book, to Nancy Gerardi for insisting that it could be a Broadway musical, and to my parents for encouraging my love of books from an early age. Finally, thanks to all the friends and family who caught typos, suggested improvements, discussed ideas, and listened to my frustrations.
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"Courage is being scared to death, but saddling up anyway." – John Wayne
An Angry Robot paperback original 2012
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Copyright © Lee Collins 2012
Lee Collins asserts the moral right to be i
dentified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 978 0 85766 271 2
eBook ISBN: 978 0 85766 273 6
Cover artist: Chris McGrath.
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