by Roh Morgon
The giggle behind him enraged him further. He spun around and spotted her perched on a rock not ten feet away. He lunged toward her, and as he reached out to grab her, she ducked beneath his grasp and darted into a moonlit clearing. She stopped and turned around.
Feeling as though he was about to explode, Trace strode toward her, undoing the laces of his breeches. She didn’t move, and when he reached her, he grabbed both her arms and forced her to the ground.
“That’s it, my noble savage,” Angelique whispered. “Show me what you’re really made of.”
~ ~ ~
Trace lay on his back with one arm beneath his head, the other around her pale body. Her head rested on his chest, and he winced as she dragged a sharp nail around his nipple. Her tongue darted out and licked the blood welling in the thin, curving line.
“You never told me where you’re from.” He smoothed a blond tangle back from her face.
“You never asked.”
“Well?”
“France. Paris, to be exact.”
His breath stopped at the way she said Frahnce and Paree in her old country accent.
Paris. She’s travelled half the world . . .
“Tell me about it.”
She didn’t move for a long time. Trace was beginning to regret his question when she finally answered.
“Paris is very beautiful, so alive with art and music. Grand ballrooms and salons, and gowns . . . Oh, the gowns. My mother always hovered over the handmaid as she dressed me and fixed my hair. Even when my father held his dinner parties, at which no children were allowed, Mother insisted I wear my finest in the event my presence was requested.
“When the King moved his court to Versailles, we took residence there as well. I had just come of age.”
Her words faded. Trace could feel the rise and fall of her breasts against him and gently tightened his arm holding her petite frame.
“My mother decided there were too many risks for a young girl at court, and so we returned to Paris.” She shook her head and laughed softly. “Where there were far worse dangers than lusty noblemen’s sons.”
“So how’d you end up out here, in the middle of the Rockies?”
“I came over on a ship, then worked my way west through Canada.”
“No, I mean, how did you end up here?”
“Ah.” She laughed. “Why, I followed you.”
He shifted to look down at her, his brow furrowed.
“What do you mean, you followed me?”
“Just that. I followed you. I first saw you in the village. You were different from the rest. They were the same as the other red people scattered across this immense land. But not you. Your golden eyes held a wild thirst to know things, to see things beyond this primitive world. That intrigued me. So I watched you. And when you left the village, I followed.”
Trace listened, stunned by her words. Seized by a growing sense of horror, he shifted out from beneath her and rose to his knees, staring.
She what . . .? She watched me in the village?
“That’s several hundred miles north. Took me nearly two weeks to get here.”
She sat up and nodded.
“I don’t understand. No one was following me. I’d have known.” But even as the words left his lips, he knew they were wrong. He’d spent each night in his camp with the feeling that something was out there, watching him.
“I traveled at night.”
“How’d you track me in the dark?”
She smiled and tapped the side of her nose.
Trace frowned.
“Did you ride?”
She shook her head.
“You walked.”
“I ran.”
Trace looked down at her bare feet, feet that hadn’t known shoes for a very long time.
He remembered the villager’s warnings.
“The two hunters from the village?”
She tipped her head and shrugged.
Trace shoved himself to a stand and looked down at her.
“What are you?” he whispered.
Angelique laughed and stood. Trace stepped back, suddenly gripped by the same fear he felt the first time he saw her.
“Ah, mon chéri. Are we back to that again? And here I thought we were getting somewhere.”
“You stalked me. You hunted me.”
“Yes, my fine red hunter. I did. And you have been a most worthy prey.”
His eyes widened. He spun and bolted.
She hit him before he took three steps and they both went down. He grunted as she wrenched his head back and sank her fangs into the side of his throat. She bit down, hard. The violent pull of her feeding held none of the passion and tenderness she’d shown since her initial attack, and savage growls now replaced her loving moans. Trace’s ears began to ring and his breath grew shallow, and he felt a crushing weight inside his body, and then he was falling into blackness.
~ ~ ~
The madness eased and she regained enough coherent thought to realize she was draining him dry. She stopped and sat up, licking the blood from her lips. She studied his limp form.
Red memories spun lazily in her head. She thought of the last time she was with the others, and the game they’d made out of keeping their victims alive as long as they could while still finding new ways to make them bleed and scream. She’d won, but not from any special restraint on her part. She’d just been lucky enough to draw the straw of the hardiest soldier from the French patrol her companions had hidden away in the bowels of Gilles’ castle.
This one was proving to be every bit as strong. It had been a long time since she’d found a man worthy of her favors, and she was enjoying the fierce abandon he brought to their lovemaking. She stroked the scar on his face, and decided she wasn’t tired of him just yet.
But he had better not be so foolish as to run from her again.
~ ~ ~
Trace felt her fingers on his cheek and fought his way to consciousness. He opened his eyes to a greying eastern sky and tried to sit up, but he was so weak that his arms gave out and he collapsed flat again.
“Oh, mon chéri, I may have taken a little too much. Here, this will help restore you.”
She sliced her arm and leaned down to place it against his mouth. He turned his head, dreading the insatiable passion her blood always aroused in him.
Angelique grabbed his chin and pressed her arm against his mouth, her pale blue eyes demanding he obey.
He had no choice but to do so.
As she filled him once again, the familiar ache took hold. But when he reached for her body, she shifted away.
“No. I must go.” She leaned down and kissed him hard on the mouth, and then she was gone.
Trace watched the sky get lighter, thinking about her story. She’d watched him, followed him, hunted him. Somehow this disturbed him even more than her drinking his blood.
The glowing edge of the sun broke over the eastern ridge.
His eyelids grew heavy and Trace sank into a deep but troubled sleep.
~ Day 4 ~
He woke, sweating, hot, burning up. He opened his eyes to a blinding sun and threw his arm over his face.
Trace rolled onto his side and wearily pushed himself to his feet. He staggered into the shade of the nearby trees and stood, blinking, his mouth dry and sticky. He rubbed it and looked in disgust at the crusty flakes of blood that came off onto his fingers.
Surveying the clearing, he spotted his clothes. He ducked his face to hide it from the glaring sun and gathered his things, then moved back into the shade.
Trace stepped into his buckskin breeches, trying to remember everything that had happened last night.
Prey.
That’s what she’d said he was.
A wave of terror washed through him and he froze, staring at the crushed and bloodied grass where they’d rutted like animals, with a frenzy he never knew existed. He hardened at the memory, his fear fading.
Well, she hasn’t killed me. Ye
t. Though she may screw me to death.
Grimacing, Trace yanked his buckskin shirt over his head and pulled his tangled hair free. He slipped his moccasins on, then tried to figure out where he was.
Recognizing the eastern and southern ridgelines, Trace turned north and made his way through the woods. When he neared the cabin, he veered west until he reached the small stream that ran not far from his parents’ place. He bent down and cupped his hands in the icy water.
The cold water felt good going down his parched throat, and he scooped handful after handful. The last one he used to wash the dried blood off his face. He stood and shook the water from his hands, then turned toward home.
Trace glanced at the sun again, guessing it was about midday. He entered the grassy meadow surrounding the cabin and noticed his horse and the mules were hobbled and picketed out to graze on the far side.
Need to start gathering feed for the winter. The ground will be covered in snow by the time the ol’ man is fit to do it.
All three animals raised their heads and snorted as he crossed the meadow. They flicked their ears nervously, nostrils flaring, then hopped away from him as far as their picket lines would allow. One of them, the black mule, started pulling harder at his line.
Trace whipped around and peered into the surrounding forest behind him. Not seeing anything, he looked back at the animals, puzzled, then realized they were staring at him.
Damned demon blood.
He scowled and kept walking toward the cabin, wondering what effect his scent would have on hunting.
He thought back, trying to remember when he’d last brought home any meat. He glanced at his mother’s drying racks above a small, smoky fire. The strips of venison hanging there, nearly dry, were from the small buck he’d shot below the western ridge.
That must’ve been . . . three days ago.
Trace set his jaw against the bitter taste of guilt. He should’ve been hunting every day. Though he’d been keeping their larder full since he got here, he still needed to lay in a lot more meat to get his parents through the winter.
As he approached the cabin, his mother walked out of the trees behind the mule pen. Three dead rabbits dangled by their hind feet from a braided leather rope she carried. He knew she was proud of her skill at snaring small game, considering it part of her family duties. But he still felt the flush of shame heat his face and he fixed his attention on the cabin ahead of him.
He could feel her watching him as she neared, and he remembered the way he’d left last night, filled with anger. Despite his guilt, resentment rose again in response to her scrutiny.
His father shuffled out onto the porch using a crudely carved tree branch as a crutch, his face pale and his brow glistening with sweat. It jarred Trace to see his once-robust father so weak.
“Well, boy, you got a squaw whore stashed out in them woods? She must be damned ugly if yer too ’shamed to bring her ’round.” He snorted and spat.
Any concern Trace felt for his father vanished beneath the flash of rage. His mother hung the rabbits from the rafter hook, then walked past him into the cabin, her eyes to the ground.
Trace grunted and followed her inside.
I can’t be here no more.
He walked over to his corner, grabbed his robe, Angelique’s coat, and his saddlebags. He picked up his weapons and turned toward the door.
His mother was standing there, her eyes shining.
“Son, please . . .”
He shook his head and started to walk past her, but she stopped him with a hand on his chest.
“You know he doesn’t mean it—” She frowned and reached up toward his neck. “What happened, Son? Are you hurt?”
Trace shrank back from her touch, wishing he’d been more thorough when he’d washed up at the creek.
“I’m all right, Mother.” He sighed and wiped his mouth. “Gonna go move the sets. Back in a couple days.”
She studied his face a moment. Nodding, she stepped back and walked toward the cooking area.
“Then if you won’t eat at my fire, at least take some food with you. You’re looking thin.”
Irritated by her continual fuss over him, Trace waited, his jaw flexing as she packed several days’ rations into a deerskin pouch.
“Be careful, my son. I’m worried about you. The last few days . . .” She shook her head and handed him the pouch. “Something’s not right.”
“I’ll be fine, Mother. I’ve been on my own a long time now.” Regretting his impatience, he smoothed back the loose strands of hair that had worked free of her braid.
She nodded, her eyes damp.
He pressed his lips tight, then opened the door and walked outside, his mother trailing him. She stepped over to where his father was sitting on the porch, his leg propped up on a stump.
“Runnin’ off, are ya, boy? I bet—”
His mother hissed and Trace glanced up, eyebrows rising at the sight of her fingers against the bearded mouth. Light brown eyes, full of questions, stared into his own. His father grunted and pushed her hand away.
Trace hid a smile and continued to the mule pen. Setting down his gear, he looked over at his horse and the mules on their picket lines. They had stopped grazing and were watching him, wary. He took a deep breath and started toward them.
~ ~ ~
The sun had already dipped below the western ridge when Trace finished tying the last string of traps he’d pulled from the creek onto the mule’s pack saddle. He hauled himself up onto the palomino and settled into the saddle, exhausted. They set off down the game trail that paralleled the creek below the small beaver pond, the mule trailing along behind.
He’d had to rest periodically throughout the day. Several times his vision had darkened around the edges and his legs nearly gave out. He’d tried to eat, but was only able to swallow a few bites before his stomach rebelled. Though he’d managed to keep the food down, the nausea had lingered for some time afterward.
Trace glanced nervously around him at the darkening sky and gripped the mule’s rope tighter, hoping the woman wasn’t following him.
I’m not up to walking back to the cabin again.
He pressed his heels against the horse’s sides and the gelding picked up his pace. The underbrush started to thin, then gave way to another small meadow. As the creek widened into a pond, indicating a beaver dam farther downstream, Trace turned and headed across to the other side. He listened to the sound of hooves plunging into the shallow water, step by step, accented by the occasional snort. Droplets rose through the cool air, shimmering in the last of the light before falling back into the froth.
Trace angled his horse across the meadow, away from the creek, aiming for another drainage that fed into the small valley on the other side. He quickened the pace again.
It was nearly dark when they arrived at the campsite in a small, grassy clearing. It hadn’t been used in a couple of years and its edges were overgrown, but Trace had no trouble finding it in spite of the encroaching night. He dismounted and hobbled the horse and mule, then strung up their picket line. Once he had the animals securely tied, he set to work unsaddling. He watched them closely for any sign the woman was nearby, but they were focused only on the grass beneath their feet.
Trace walked the edges of the clearing with his hatchet, gathering dead wood and kindling. He kept one eye on the animals, watching for any reaction, and the other on the surrounding woods, watching for her.
Where is she? Three nights she’s found me, and now . . . nothing.
Part of him was relieved to be free of her, but the other part longed for her . . . her body, her laughter, her blood.
The last thought shocked him, and he stopped in his tracks.
What has she done to me?
Shaken, Trace returned to the campsite. He distracted himself with his chores, tethering his hide shelter to a tree and arranging his gear with more fuss than usual. After he checked the stock one more time, he laid out his robe for his bed and sa
t down by the small smokeless fire, his stomach knotted with hunger. He untied the bundles of food his mother had put together for him and stared at them in his lap.
He swallowed and looked up into the tiny fire, watching the blue of the flame as it caressed the wood like a lover, yet consumed it bit by bit.
Am I turning to ash as well?
With a deep breath, Trace picked up a few dried berries and stuffed them in his mouth. Their natural, sweet flavor was now bitter, almost burning his tongue, and he swallowed them only half chewed. But he knew he needed to get some food down. He’d seen too many people die once they stopped eating.
The sourdough was no better than a mouthful of dry dirt, and he could hardly choke down the leathery jerky, its taste as foul as rotten meat. He washed each bite down with a drink from his waterskin, swallowing repeatedly to keep the whole mess from coming back up. He finally gave up and shoved the food back into its deerskin bag.
His muscles felt twitchy, restless, and he got up and walked to the edge of the camp, then circled the tiny clearing. He peered into the brush as he walked, keeping an eye on his animals as well. But their only concern was eating, and after several laps around the camp, he returned to his bed and stretched out with Angelique’s coat as his pillow. The mid-October evening was cool, but he barely noticed. Trace closed his eyes.
Though he’d been dead tired all day, sleep seemed determined to avoid him. He rolled onto his side and stared into the hot coals, missing the tales and laughter of other trappers that had filled such nights in the past. But their stories had inevitably led to talk of women they’d bedded, or wished they’d bedded, and Trace found his thoughts drifting in the same direction.
Images of Winter Moon had been his bedtime companion on those long nights. He’d only held her once, but the memory of her body touching his had kept him warm as he lay beneath the stars, and the remembered smell of her hair had fueled his dreams.
Until Angelique.
He could not stop thinking about the she-demon, despite his reluctant awareness of her evil nature and her unpredictable violence. Even as he recalled her latest attack, and the fear she’d spawned in him, he felt himself grow hard.
