by Evie Byrne
“Why—why the cow horns?”
“The blood tastes best in it. Metal, plastic—they taint the flavor.”
She tried to think of a smart remark about the horn being suitably medieval, but came up empty. All in all, she felt empty. “Oh.”
“I have a flask to catch any leftovers. I don’t think there will be any, though, what with the way Gunnar’s feeding.”
A curious, ripping noise started behind her. She turned to see Ivar slicing the boar’s hairy underbelly from end to end. He reached in and drew out a pile of slick, steaming viscera. The smell of it hit her just as the sight sank in, and she turned away, gagging.
Wat offered her an ordinary steel water bottle from his pack. She took it gratefully and drank, trying to scrub the lingering image of slimy innards from her mind. There was no escaping the smell.
Glancing at her, he said with mild amusement, “Maybe you should put your head between your knees.”
She glared at him. “I’m not going to faint because a pig died. What are you going to do with the rest of it?”
Under Halverson’s rule, the Northwoods vamps had become sloppy, or at least some of them had. They’d left the drained carcasses where hunters and rangers and hikers could find them—hell, they’d fed right on the edge of human towns—which had led to rumors about satanic cults and alien conspiracies. Nocturnal society, the larger vampire community, had been appalled by the indiscretions. Thank god no one had ever spotted them in the act.
“That’s what I wanted you to see. We’ll take it back. All of it, except the guts, which our friends—” he pointed upward, and she saw ravens gathering in the trees above the kill site—“will dispose of for us. This boar is a rare kill. They aren’t native to these parts, but we see them once in a while. I think they escaped from a hunting preserve. I have a human contact who will buy exotic meat like this. Mostly we take deer, and I’ve started a program to turn all of the venison we take into boutique jerky.”
“Boutique. Jerky.” Vamps selling snack food?
“Organic, free-range, wildcrafted, gourmet venison jerky. A local specialty, sold in the bars and diners and tourist traps. Whatever doesn’t become jerky the dogs clean up, even the bones.”
Eva nodded, understanding. “I’d wondered why you keep dogs.”
“They eat well. In return they guard the village. They’re half wild, more wolf than anything. They belong to no one, but we all take care of them. The skins we prepare and use ourselves or sell at a premium to leather crafters. There is also a market for the furs we take from other animals. This forms the basis of our cash economy—what I call the ‘meat economy.’ I have 100% compliance on this program. No evidence. No problem.”
Behind them, Ivar and Wat were lowering the boar to the ground.
“What about the human population? Rangers? Hunters?”
“Rangers patrol where humans hunt. We steer clear of those areas. Admittedly, Halverson didn’t enforce that rule well enough, which led to problems. We own the land we build on, but our property abuts BLM and National Forest land. You’ve got to realize this is very remote territory. If humans do happen to stray into these parts, they never see us.”
“Still, I don’t see how you survive. How you are able to kill enough animals to feed every day? Humans who live on the land eat meat. There’s lots of meat on a deer or a boar, but only so much blood.”
“We are good at husbanding the forest. Yes, we prefer game blood when we can get it, but we have another food source, too. I’ll show you later.”
“And I’ll look forward to seeing it. Still, what you’re describing is an incredibly hard life. You just risked both your life and Ivar’s, just to eat. It would be so much easier for you down South.”
“If we wanted to feed on humans.”
“Yes. If you wanted to feed without killing. If you wanted to feed in pleasure and comfort, without all this…” She waved a mitten vaguely at the carcass and the steaming pile of guts, at a loss for words. “This is…barbaric.”
Wat’s face lost its happy glow. “Life is about more than merely existing. I’d rather be a barbarian than a lazy parasite.” He went to help the others.
Eva remained where she was, irked and half-queasy.
Preparations to leave took a long time. They cut the boar into chunks and split the weight between their three packs. The area beneath the tree looked like a slaughterhouse floor. Ivar strapped the boar’s head to the back of Wat’s pack, joking all the while. Everyone retrieved their snow shoes. The ravens flapped and croaked, eager for the scraps. She couldn’t wait to oblige them by leaving.
When everyone was strapped in and loaded up, they headed off. Ivar and Gunnar pretended she didn’t exist. Wat was still irked with her, and she was equally irked with him. No one spoke as they headed back to the frozen lake.
She’d resumed her place in line, wrinkling her nose at the sight of the piggy hooves sticking out of Gunnar’s pack. Wat insisted on bringing up the rear, presumably because he didn’t trust her not to get lost. She could feel his gaze on her back. She could almost hear his thoughts. Decadent, spoiled, arrogant, ignorant, parasitical city vamp.
When they crested the lookout ridge, everyone paused to take off their snowshoes. Eva retrieved her discarded coat and tied it around her waist. Gunnar lingered by her, looking needy, but didn’t say anything. By unspoken agreement, Wat led the way home. Ivar fell in after him, and Gunnar fell in behind her. They began to march again. Ivar and Wat were moving fast, and she was glad to see the back of both of them. She slowed down, and Gunnar came up beside her.
“You were talking about how you feed. On humans who like it.”
Ah, he’d taken the bait she’d thrown out earlier that day. Who said she couldn’t hunt? Or fish, at least. Her mood improved substantially.
“They love it.” Unlike Mr. Piggy.
“You have sex with them,” Gunnar said, trying to wrap his head around the concept. “While you feed.”
She gave him sideways smile. “Yep. Usually.”
“And you feed every day.”
“Mm-hmm.”
His eyes bulged half out of his head. “But you can’t have sex every day!”
“Why not? There are no consequences from sex with humans. No pregnancy, no diseases. It’s all good.” Except you missed it when you couldn’t have it.
“But—but you’ll kill them by feeding from them so much.”
“No, no. I only tap a feeder once a week at most. That’s why I have a stable of thirty, give or take.”
“You have thirty boyfriends?”
She laughed. “I have thirty people, male and female, with whom I transact. Some of them are my lovers; some are more like professional acquaintances. I have sex with maybe twenty of them. I have ten feeders who are not into sexual contact, but will make themselves available for a quick feeding, whenever I ask, for a fee.”
“Do you pay all of them?
“I pay about half of them in cash.”
“Is it like a sex for blood kind of thing?” She knew he’d put that as politely as his little brain could. It was her job to make him see the subtlety of the vamp/feeder relationship
“Each feeder has different needs, so I have a different relationship with each of them. We work it out. They sign confidentiality agreements, and I hit them with a dose of compulsion, so they can’t talk about it with others. I can explain it all to you if you want.”
“I don’t know.” Gunnar squinted, thinking it through. “It sounds kind of weird.”
She stopped and looked him in the eye. “I promise you, Gunnar, feeding on a pretty girl while you fuck her is the biggest thrill you’ll ever have.”
Gunnar reddened from his neck to his eyebrows. Wat hurried toward them.
“What are you talking about?” he asked Gunnar.
Gunnar’s mouth opened and closed. He was a perfect picture of guilt.
Wat turned to her, livid. Of course he’d been listening. They should have
used the hunting voice. “I would appreciate it if you would not speak to my ward when I am not present.”
She fluttered her eyelashes at him. “I’m sorry. I forgot I was an evil influence.”
“Like hell you did. Where do you get off telling me my life is too hard, too complicated, when you have to manage a…did you actually use the word stable? A stable of thirty lovers?”
“Thirty feeders. Only twenty of them are lovers. Give or take.”
“And you think that’s reasonable?”
He was actually trying to shame her. Her teeth sharpened, and she said, her voice silky, “Are you inquiring about logistics or morals?”
“I don’t doubt you can handle the logistics. I’m talking about morals. I’m talking about self-respect.” His eyes had turned a deep, baleful green. Perhaps he was more like Ivan that she’d suspected. Maybe there was a little Heathcliff in him after all.
She touched her tongue to the point of one tooth. “I’m not asking for your opinion or your permission. I like my life. I’m lucky to have all that I do, and I’m very satisfied.”
He scowled. “That gives you no right to corrupt my ward.”
“How can he make decisions as a prince without really knowing the options available to him and his people?”
Gunnar was transfixed, looking back and forth between them. Eva wondered what was running through that head of his—his cousin’s moral condemnation, or the prospect of having twenty lovers on call? She’d be willing to lay bets.
Wat said, “Gun, what did your parents teach you about sex?”
Poor Gunnar’s face would perhaps never return to its normal color. “Um, that there’s eggs—”
“No, what does sex mean?”
He toed a hole in the snow and mumbled, “That it’s a sacred act between two people who love each other.”
“Thank you.” He turned, triumphant, to Eva. “That’s right. Sex is not an appetizer.”
“It can be beautiful and sacred. That’s true.” Not that she’d ever experienced any of that herself, but she’d read about it in books. Smiling at Wat, she added, “It can also be cheap and dirty, all teeth and blood and sweat, cursing and clawing each other ‘til dawn, with no regrets."
Wat stared at her with eyes gone huge and dark. He didn’t seem angry as much as…oh my. Her heart began to pound, faster and faster under that hungry gaze. Her mouth went dry. Meanwhile, other places were going quite wet. She had to push him—she couldn’t help it. “Have you ever had it like that, Wat?”
Wat sucked in a huge breath, obviously trying to control himself, and she shuddered in response. Heat rose between them like a shimmering mirage. She struggled to tamp the fire—fucking Wat was not on the agenda. They had business to transact. And there was that horrible beard of his. But at that moment all she could think was, Throw down that pig, caveman, and show me what you’ve got.
“Uh, guys?” Gunnar said.
Eva jumped, startled out of her lust trance. She hopped backward. How’d they come to be standing so close? Wat whirled away. The sight of the hideous boar head hanging off his back brought her back to her senses like a cold shower.
Jesus. She blew out her breath and wiped her hair off her face. What in the hell was that?
Gunnar looked worried, rather than embarrassed or smug. Since he wasn’t likely to be concerned about the implications of two opposing negotiators to falling in the sack together, he’d probably only picked up on the violent aspect of their silent, lustful exchange. It was scary big, and it had come out of nowhere. They may have looked like they were about to tear each other to shreds. Or something very like it. She licked her teeth to soothe them back into their retracted position, and then gave Gunnar a reassuring smile.
“People disagree about sex sometimes. It’s a…philosophical thing. You have to, you know, follow your heart. Or whatever.” She flipped up her hood to hide her face.
Wat was walking away fast. “Let’s move,” he called over his shoulder.
She and Gunnar hurried after him, and there was no more talking.
Chapter Five
Dead geese. Plucking geese. Limp. Flaccid. Naked. No—not naked. Plucked. Plucked, pimply geese. Stinking piles of them.
Wat adjusted the shoulder straps of his bag and marched on, his eyes fixed on the path under his feet. This would pass.
This would pass.
Hunting stirred his blood, whether or not Eva Padilla Sosa was around. A dangerous hunt like this one, a kill that took him right to the razor’s edge between life and death, always left him restless for a day or so. Unless he had a woman. If he had a woman…well, nothing was as fine as sex after a hunt. But he wouldn’t think about that.
He wouldn’t think about the challenge in Eva’s eyes. The invitation. She’d been ready. Right there. Right then. Damn her.
Geese. Rotten geese.
When they arrived home, Gunnar offered to start the sauna fire. “We’re taking a sauna, right?”
Usually, they would. After a hunt they cleansed themselves, so as not to bring the taint of death into the house. And it was always a pleasure to wallow in the heat after hours of hard work outdoors. But that night, Wat said without hesitation, “You go on ahead.”
And Eva, speaking just as fast—speaking over him, as a matter of fact—said, “No, thanks.”
So, the lust surge had her shook up as well. Something to think on. Later. Wat kept his eyes forward, focused on Gunnar.
“I’ll sit with you, Gun,” Ivar said. “I got nothing against slippery, sweaty, naked flesh. Unlike some people.” He threw a wicked glance at Wat.
Wat shrugged one shoulder, indicating the meat he carried. “I have to process this.” It was a lame excuse, Wat knew. Ivar knew it, too.
“I’ve got some things to do inside,” Eva said, already walking away.
“We’ll continue the tour in an hour,” Wat called toward her back.
She made a vague wave in reply as she hurried toward the house.
Eva headed straight to her room, her pace quickening as she went. She slammed the door and bolted it.
“Damn.” Back and forth she paced, a dog in a kennel.
“Screw it.” She leaned against the door, jerked open her pants, slid her hand under the elastic of her panties, and brought herself off quick and hard. As she did, she thought about Wat in the woods, his eyes ablaze, ready to tear into her. She imagined him fucking her. In the snow. At the kill site. Rough. Holding her wrists. Grunting like an animal.
Gasping, barely satisfied, she fell to her knees.
She’d never wanted anyone so badly as she’d wanted him out there. It felt like a form of insanity. He just wasn’t her type. He had a beard. He dressed like a folk singer. He was far too nice.
Too nice. That was it. The real Wat, as opposed to her fantasy Wat, would probably be too considerate in bed. Gentle. Predictable. Perhaps even prone to lecturing during the act: By the way, did you know this dildo is hand carved? We craft them of local hardwood and trade them for coffee at an eco-conscious sex shop in St. Paul. It’s what I like to call our ‘smut economy.’
Eva laughed aloud, quietly, her breath still short. She needed a break. Just a few hours around normal people. Tomorrow she’d go to whatever passed as civilization around here, feed, fuck and—
Someone rapped at the door. She jumped up, fastened her pants and darted to the washbasin. “Who is it?” She called as she rubbed her hands together in the frigid water.
“Hetta,” answered a crone’s voice.
The cleaning woman—or whatever she really was—Hetta of the remarkable timing. Eva glanced in the mirror, smoothed down the back of her hair, and opened the door.
Hetta stood in the hall. “Little Blackbird, how fare you without the menfolk for good company? Do you keep yourself busy?”
Eva narrowed her eyes at the woman, suspicious of her deadpan delivery.
“I’m fine. Thank you for asking.”
“The men will be in the sauna f
or a time. Come with me now. I have something to show you.”
Wat had Ivar and Gunnar bring their packs to the meat shed. As soon as they dropped the heavy packs on the worktable, Gun ran off to start the sauna fires. Ivar lingered, watching as Wat donned his apron and spread out his tools.
Feeling the other man’s eyes on him, Wat said, “Don’t say it.”
Ivar tsked. “You, of all people, led by your cock.”
“I’m not—not that bad off.”
“I saw you two back there. You put off so much heat you almost triggered an early thaw.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.” Wat pulled a boar haunch out of the bag and slammed it on the table. “Tell me it’s foolish and dangerous. And while you’re at it, tell me why the dead are walking. Tell me why I can’t save my people.” He hefted the cleaver and, in one powerful motion, severed the lower half of the leg. “Tell me why I can’t do anything at all.”
“What does Amma want with the Hand?”
“I don’t know. She’s not talking to me. She’s only talking to Eva.”
Whack, went the cleaver. Whack! Whack!
Ivar stepped well out of the way. “That woman brings trouble in her wake. Everything is unsettled, even the dead. You are…Wat, you shouldn’t be cutting meat now.”
Wat stopped mid-stroke, noting the pile of mangled meat in front of him. He wiped little flecks of boar off his face with the back of his wrist and put down the cleaver. Ivar was right—he was making a mess of the carcass. Humans were very particular about the way their meat was cut. Why it mattered so much, he really didn’t understand. They’d chew it all up anyway.
“You need someone to give you a long, hard ride.” Ivar said. “You’ve got plenty of possibilities. Hell, I doubt there’s a free woman in the village who’d turn you away if you knocked on her door.”
Wat waved a hand in denial. “All the women left here are like my sisters.”
That wasn’t strictly true, but he only wanted Eva. It wasn’t a need based in the head, something to be reasoned away; it was lodged in his body. He wanted her, and he couldn’t have her. Ever. This meat-tantrum would be the only satisfaction he was going to get.
