“That face,” he murmured. “Could it be that you’re . . . ”
“I’m a Vampire Hunter,” D said quietly. “At the request of the father of an abducted girl, I’m in pursuit of the culprit. I’ve come here as a result of that, and nothing more. But I understand your position. All I ask it that you put him back outside and let me pursue him in peace.”
“Oh. Better yet, a man of principle.” The old man seemed beside himself with joy, striking his cane against the earth. “Out of respect for that, I’ll share a little something with you. What his requests were. One was that we provide him with an escort to protect him from you and other Hunters. The other was to dispose of a young man named D who was certain to come here.”
The square was buried in an avalanche of killing lust. While the two were conversing, countless villagers had encircled them. Not a single one of them had a weapon in hand. Nonetheless, each and every one of them had a fearsome air that made it clear they’d have no problem slaying a few humans at a time.
“What will you do now, D? It was remarkable how you made it all the way in here, but getting back out looks to be somewhat more difficult, doesn’t it? Every man and woman assembled here’s been trained in the most astounding of abilities. No matter how great of a Hunter you may be, you can’t possibly kill them all.”
And what was D doing as the old man spoke the indisputable truth? He was looking up at the sky. Gazing at the perfectly clear blue and the clouds cavorting there.
His expression was so intent the villagers stopped closing on him and exchanged looks with each other.
“So, is that where he wants to go then?”
Perhaps mistaking the Hunter’s muttering as a plea for his life, one of the Barbarois leapt into the air with a cry like a savage roc. When he straightened up, his body was round overall, yet his stomach was flat as a board, a shape that was reminiscent of a tortoise. The beast stretched his arms toward D’s face. The fingertips fused with the nails and became like the horns of a bull. If they but touched him, they’d gouge away a chunk of flesh and bone.
The two figures passed each other—one in the air and one on the ground—and the rotund man landed lightly as he came back to earth.
Maybe it was the stirring of the villagers that called forth the bloody mist. A number of them had caught the silvery flash that shot out faster than the eye could follow in the instant the man had passed D. But, no—they’d certainly seen the man’s head pull into his clothing just as D’s blade was about to strike. Like a tortoise, the man’s body was covered by a carapace that was impervious to even bullets, and his hands and feet could stretch like springs.
But his carapace cracked down the middle just as he landed. The face of the man that appeared from the bottom, the serpentine neck, the tangle of intestines—all of them had been split in two right down to the crotch, and the man sent up a spray of blood as he toppled.
For the first time, the others saw the blade shining in D’s right hand. There was no one foolish enough among them to press the Hunter a second time, despite the gut-deep rage they felt at the death of their comrade and friend. The realization that this youth possessed an unholy prowess with the sword seeped into the marrow of their bones.
In an attitude and pose no different from the one that’d greeted his attacker, D turned to the old man and said softly, “You can kill me if you like, but many of your villagers will die, too. Why don’t you stand back and let me stay here until night? When the carriage leaves, I’ll go right out after it. That’s it. As the lot of you have entered a contract to help the z, I’ll ask nothing else.”
If the decree of certain death the old man had pronounced on D was valid, what D said was equally true.
“So, it’s just as I thought then . . . ” The old man nodded, his face showing understanding. “Such abilities, such dignity,” he muttered. “Yes, I was right all along . . . ” Then, waving his right hand so the villagers backed off, he said something unexpected in a weary tone. “If you should ask that all in the village drown in a lake of blood, I could not deny you. I implore you, take the shriveled head of this old fool for our rudeness and grant us your forgiveness.”
“What are you talking about?!” someone shouted. This one angry outburst parted the wall of villagers.
A woman in a dress an unsettlingly deep shade of indigo stepped from the mob to stand between the old man and D. The spot of pink on her exposed right shoulder was strangely conspicuous against her white skin. Her voice was a venom-dripping howl as she said, “Why the fainthearted drivel? Elder, have you forgotten the law of our village? Once we have a contract with one who’s come seeking our aid—regardless of who they may be—we must uphold the wishes of our employer or die trying. And I, Caroline, intend to do so, with the aid of Mashira and Bengé.”
“Absolutely,” an impudent voice added in agreement. Pushing his way through the ring of people, a middle-aged man of average height and medium build tossed the hem of his gray coat and took his place alongside the woman. “By failing to honor a contract we’ve already agreed to, you’d be doing more than just breaking the law of the village. It would mean the ruin of the village itself. Elder, leave this young pup to the three of us.”
“My sentiments exactly.”
The third speaker drew a dramatic reaction. The voice came from behind the middle-aged man, and it must’ve caught him off guard, because he flinched momentarily and took a step back.
Framed by the other two but standing behind them was a strangely elongated man, as thin as a preying mantis. His hands and face were as black as if they’d been dipped in ink, and his coat was the color of midnight. Though this was the same color as the leather Kyle garbed himself in, there was something peculiar about it that gave it an entirely different feel.
“I believe we met earlier,” the tenebrous man said, winking at D. The man was so thin it seemed plausible no one would be able to see him hiding behind a fair-sized pole. But there hadn’t even been a single tree nearby to conceal him. “Allow me to do the introductions. The lovely lady you see here is Caroline, while this is Mashira. And I am Bengé,” he said, turning with a smile to the elder. “Since he’s already here there’s not much we can do. Elder, you may relent, but we’re going through with this. You can strip us of our right to reside here if you so desire.”
“Friends of his marred my skin,” Caroline said in a quivering voice as she pressed her left hand to the pink spot. “I won’t forget that. I’ll never forget the pain. Even pounding an iron wedge through this rascal’s chest won’t make it go away!”
“There must be others besides us who feel the same way. Step forward!”
But when the middle-aged man—Mashira—had made this call, the old man shouted “Idiots!” so loudly that the rebellious trio and a number of villagers coming forward to join them flinched. That wizened feline form of the old man had caused the group of malcontents three times his size to tremble.
“Do you fools know I’ve looked like this since the village was founded? Have you any idea how your ancestors suffered and sweated to build this mountain village after they were chased from their homes for carnal relations with demons? I’ll have you know, all their hard work was poised for destruction at one time.”
Even the young ones—those for whom the past did not yet exist—were riveted in place by the purposefulness of the old man’s voice. It was the sort of voice that would steal into their ears even if they had their hands clamped over them. Perhaps the only one who could ignore it was D, standing solitary and forlorn.
The bloody screams of the old man continued. “On that day—the first day of our ten-thousand-year history—a horrible toxic gas gushed from the earth and onto our land. Half the villagers died, and the other half could do naught but wait for death as their flesh festered. If a certain personage hadn’t appeared, the village would’ve become the domain of the Grim Reaper, and none of you would’ve ever been born. Listen well, for that person traveled with a certain grand p
urpose in mind. He’d heard rumors of us, and was the first to rush here. And this is what he said. ‘Let five of your strongest, bravest men accompany me on my journey. If you do, I will take away this calamity that has befallen your village, and fortune shall instantly smile upon you.’”
This was the first time more than half of the villagers had heard these facts. Engrossed by this sudden tale of days gone by, the villagers failed to notice two things that were happening. The first was that, perhaps due to something in the old man’s story, D’s eyes had begun to give off a piercing light. And the other was that a young man was walking down the road from the supposedly locked main gate, making his way through the deserted village as he headed towards the square.
“This entire square,” the Elder continued, “and the whole village, for that matter, was filled with rotting, dying souls. But the instant that person’s proposition reached their ears, they forgot all about the excruciating pain. And then, one villager came from behind a pile of rubble over there, and another came from back beyond the withered trees. The people went to him as if they’d been summoned by name—exactly five of them. What’s more, they were the toughest we had, and everyone knew it.”
The young man approached the entrance to the square. Taking a quick peek around, a charming smile nudged his ruddy cheeks as he headed in.
“And then, the village of the Barbarois came back to life.” The old man’s voice was boundlessly deep. “As soon as that personage had left with the five, why, the ground the village sits on rose toward the sky and came to be where you see it now. In the space of three breaths, new growth budded on the trees, and the flowers bore fruit. It wasn’t until later we discovered the toxic subterranean gases had been diluted to harmless levels, too. All we could do at the time was chant out his name and press our faces to the ground. Heed my words!” the old man said, his voice that of the Elder that commanded all. “I’ll tell you a law that you youngsters don’t know about. When that person or any of his bloodline should appear, then and only then must all in the village bend any subsequent laws and comply with his wishes.”
His awe-inspiring tone was an order. Even the rebellious trio was speechless.
The old man bowed deeply to the beautiful Hunter, whose black hair was swaying in the breeze. “Long have we awaited you. All that your highness desires shall be granted. If you wish that carriage ripped apart, or burnt to the ground where it stands, we are yours to command.”
As they watched him with eyes full of an awe that surpassed fear, D’s reply came to the villagers’ ears.
“I appreciate the offer, but you have the wrong person. Let those three go and guard the carriage, as they wish. I’ll be right behind them.”
“What are you trying to say?” the old man asked in astonishment.
“What an honest fellow,” black Bengé laughed shrilly. “Well, since he says so himself, this law you’ve brought up doesn’t apply, Elder. But in light of his frankness, we won’t let anyone else touch him. The three of us alone will take him on.”
“I have one juicy tidbit for you to take to your grave,” Caroline laughed, her crimson lips curling back. “This carriage is bound for the Claybourne States.”
“Let’s go, whippersnapper!” Mashira cried out as he crouched down. A heavy ax glittered in his right hand.
It looked like even the old man lacked the means to forestall the vicious attack by the trio. Just then, a harsh query of “Who the hell are you?!” could be heard from the rear of the crowd, but the question soon became a drawn-out scream.
The rows of people kicked up sand as they parted, and, at the far end of the straight path they opened, a rosy-cheeked young man smiled brightly. It was an angelic smile, the kind anyone would return without thinking twice. However, the fetid stench billowing up before him was part of the smoke rising from the chest of a fallen villager. Though it was unclear just what sort of energy had struck the villager, flames were still licking the carbonized and perfectly circular wounds on his chest and back.
D became a black shooting star flying through the air. The ray beam that shot through the space he’d occupied an instant earlier continued past him. With nothing to strike, it scored a direct hit to the carriage parked to one side of the square.
“That’s not good!” someone cried out. Startled by the flying sparks and energy discharge, the team of horses whinnied especially loudly and bolted for the exit on the far side of the square.
“Close the back gate!”
A few villagers ran off in response to the old man’s shouts, but an instant later a beam intercepted them, and they fell forward with their heads blown off. Nobody could tell where the beams were coming from. The square had become a place where bolts of light flitted madly, and, as fleeing villagers vanished in the flashes, the origin of the murderous beams still seemed impossible to determine.
However, the one clear image that greeted anyone who looked back was the enraptured expression of the angelic young man as he stood by the entrance to the square watching the mad dance of the lights. It was inspiring how his face brimmed with joie de vivre as he gleefully toyed with the deadly rays.
All at once, the square reclaimed its original hue. Perhaps it was an aftereffect of the powerful white flashes, but the green trees and brown houses burned themselves into the scene in almost painfully deep tones before gradually returning to their natural colors.
Villagers creeping to the edge of the square—or in some cases crouched on the ground watching where this supernatural phenomenon was headed—saw a pair of figures square off with some thirty feet between them. One was a young man wearing an angelic smile, the other was a Hunter as beautiful as the moon’s corona.
Which would prove faster, the racing figure in black or the coursing stream of white light?
Everyone gasped as D fended off one white-hot attack but had two more streaks pierce his body as he dashed forward. But what did the villagers really see and gasp about?
D had held his left hand out in front on his chest. The two bolts of light changed direction right before him, became a single flash, and were sucked into the palm of his hand.
The young man didn’t move. His smile still brimmed with pleasure.
D’s flashing blade flowed from the tip of his foe’s head down to his lower jaw. There was no resistance. Still holding the pose from his downward stroke, D stood a little closer to the edge of the square.
The young man had suddenly disappeared. Dim shadows that played across D’s face testified this wasn’t the result of anything he’d done.
The old man ran over to him. “D—Are you injured, milord?”
Without answering, D looked back across the square. There was no sign of the carriage. “Can I get down the back side of the mountain?” he asked.
The old man nodded. “There’s a passage known only to the villagers. Damn!” the old man shouted, looking around desperately.
D knew why the Elder cursed. The three toughs Mayerling had retained were nowhere to be seen.
—
Kyle pulled his hot lips away from the woman’s body now that resistance had given way to moaning, as it always did. From a bunk that until now had been deathly silent, there trickled the sound of shallow but urgent breathing.
“Dammit—he’s back pretty damn fast this time,” Kyle spat irritably and stood up. “Hey, hurry up and get that IV ready,” he ordered Leila, who was still stark naked.
Glaring sharply at her older brother, the tracks of tears still fresh on her face, Leila gathered her discarded clothing.
Glancing at the bruises on her skin and the purple teeth-marks from where he’d just bitten her, Kyle clucked his tongue remonstratively. “You should’ve just behaved like usual and done what I told you. I don’t know what got into you today, but that’s what you get for being dumb and putting up a fight.” Chuckling, he added, “Of course, I suppose it just made it that much easier to get ol’ Grove worked up.”
“Quit it!” Leila slapped away t
he hand reaching for her ample bosom. “Lately, the gap between his normal attacks has gotten pretty slim, you know. If you keep forcing Grove to have more on top of those, even though you know it’s shortening his life, what do you think is gonna happen? If his energy goes wild, no one has any idea how bad the destruction would be.”
“Shit, you think we can read that far ahead? We’ve got problems right now. We’ll know how things went just as soon as Borgoff gets back. Nah, on second thought I think I’ll try asking Grove first. Outta my way.”
Cruelly pushing Leila aside, Kyle went to the pillow of the third Marcus brother.
“Hey, bro, it’s me—Kyle. Tell me what you saw while you were . . . in there. Remember what I asked you to look into before you went?”
For quite a while the rasping sounds that escape from a patient at death’s door continued, then ceased.
A sudden gasp. It hadn’t come from the man beneath the blankets. A pale thin hand was wrapped around Kyle’s windpipe.
“Want to know, Kyle? You want to know?” Groveck wheezed. “You’re here having all the fun with Leila . . . while you put me through the tortures of hell . . . And you want to know?”
“Er . . . yeah. Sure, I wanna know.” It was all the younger Marcus brother could do to answer, with the hand at his throat.
The hand quickly fell away. Groveck’s delicate voice practically sobbed, “Our prey is heading for . . . the Claybourne States . . . ”
THE KILLING GAME
CHAPTER 4
—
I
—
Twilight had begun to swaddle the woods at a fork in the gently snaking road.
Gently, the girl switched off an electric light patterned after an old-fashioned candelabra. Blue darkness flooded the interior. The day that was hers alone was ending, and the world that was both of theirs was beginning.
The girl liked the sound of the lid opening on the black coffin that lay in one corner of the vehicle. Before long, his hand appeared and pushed the lid away. He stood up and stretched once, as was his habit. And then, pulling a small chair over, he seated himself in front of the girl.
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