Rancor: Vampyre Hunter (Rancor Chronicles)

by James McCann

  The new kid paused, and there was a sparkle in his sunken emerald eyes that warmed his aura. But again the harsh, pensive look returned. The stranger indicated that she should enter first. Alix did not argue. As she walked down the aisle a sensation began in the back of her mind as if someone had set a fire. Slowly, as it engulfed her entire spirit, the sensation made the journey feel as if a magical whirlwind had trapped her in another era of time. She closed her eyes to shake this unnatural feeling from her soul, but was unable to do so.

  Claiming her usual seat, Alix noted that the only empty places were Betty’s usual one beside her, and one in the far back. The stranger glanced at the place beside her. She wondered which he might take. He smiled, but continued his way toward the back. Alix’s tense muscles melted as the aura about her lost its eerie sensation.

  Then Betty arrived, and sat down. “I can’t believe you talked to him!”

  “He only let me show him to the class.”

  Betty shook her head and rolled her eyes. “He looks weird. Don’t undo all the hard work I did getting you in. Getting you popular.”

  “What’s the big deal that I wanted to welcome a new student?”

  “I don’t know what your problem is, girl. What’s with the charity case?” She glanced back to where the stranger was now sitting next to Simon. “Great. He’s sitting beside my boyfriend. Hope he doesn’t start anything.”

  “Who? The new guy, or Simon?”

  “What was that?”

  Alix sighed. “Nothing.”

  “I don’t understand what you’re thinking.”

  A tall, thin man clad in grey cords and a blue sweater strolled into the room. “Good morning, class.”

  “Morning, Mr. Pausron,” the class responded in unison, their conversation cut short by his sardonic smile.

  Mr. Pausron stopped in front of his desk. He sat on its top like he always did.

  “I hope you all had as enjoyable a holiday as I.”

  Reaching behind him for the class roster, the history teacher noticed a new face in the room. Scanning the list until he came across an unfamiliar name penciled in by the principal, he closed his eyes and committed the name and face to memory.

  “I see a new person in here. Rellik Faolchú. Welcome. I hope you enjoy our sleepy little town, Rellik. And I hope your parents don’t change their minds about staying after last night’s unusual wolf attack.”

  “Wolf attack?”

  Mr. Pausron looked to see who had spoken. He noticed Simon with a smile plastered on his face. “Please, Simon . . .”

  “I heard it was a person–a cannibal!–who just made it look like a wolf did it.” Simon’s tapping foot echoed in the silence.

  “Rumors don’t solve anything,” Mr. Pausron said.

  The history teacher wanted to continue the discussion, but he knew if he did there wouldn’t be enough time left for the lesson. Still, he saw from the look on many of his students’ faces that the previous night’s tragedy troubled them. Worse, many believed Simon’s cannibal theory.

  He really had meant to speak with Simon’s father about his son’s tendency to disrupt class. But, for now, he had a class full of scared teens and a new student to introduce.

  “Class, before we continue on this subject–and we can continue it, should any of you have concerns–we have a new student to welcome. Rellik, why don’t you take center stage and introduce yourself? Tell us where you come from and, perhaps, something you’d like us to know about you. Stand, please.”

  Rellik’s square jaw drew tense. He didn’t rise. He glared hard, captivating his audience, just as a cobra might captivate its prey moments before lashing out with its venomous bite.

  “My name is Rellik Faolchú. There is nothing more about me that any of you need to know.”

  Rellik fixed his glare on Mr. Pausron, setting the stage for a challenge.

  “So be it, Rellik. That is your right.”

  Mr. Pausron had looked forward to this first school day all summer. But had he known how unusually long and intensely uncomfortable the first day was going to be, he might not have wanted it to come at all.

  “When mortals say they wish to go back in time to do an event over, they assume that to do it a second time they would not repeat the same mistake.

  “What they do not consider is that to erase that mistake is to erase that lesson it invoked, and thus more mistakes will follow.

  “If I could go back in time to do an event over, I would go back to the best time in my life. And rather than change it, I would savor it.”

  -Wulfsign

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The only computer in the entire school dedicated for student use was a clunky museum piece with Internet so incredibly slow, it might as well have been equipped with a dial-up modem. Minitaw was so far in the dark ages that it was beyond sad. Alix couldn’t wait to move to the city for university.

  Mr. Gordon, the librarian, kept looking her way even though Alix refused to make eye contact. He must know she was skipping her afternoon Math period, but as long as she acted like she belonged here, he wouldn’t know for sure. She wouldn’t have been able to concentrate on Math anyway. All she could think about was that new kid. He seemed so tense, so uncomfortable, so ready to explode. Yet she felt a need to understand him.

  “Okay, Rellik Faolchú, let’s see who you are.”

  Alix typed his name (guessing on the spelling of his surname) and made sure to put them in quotes as Fred, her own personal techie, had taught her. Google took forever to bring up a response, which added to the frustration when it came up with nothing. She tried just “Rellik,” but even after the longest twenty seconds of her life it came up dry. Should she try just his surname? Alix sighed. She was ready to give up.

  Then, as the wind outside rattled the pane behind her, Alix absently tried “FAHLCHOO”. It came up with zero hits . . . except for the inquiry: “Did you mean FAOLCHÚ?” Clicking on the link, she waited almost sixty seconds for sixty thousand hits.

  “Useless,” she whispered, as she clicked on the third link down that brought her to an Irish mythology site. On the cover page she read:

  “Rancor, son of Faolchú, was kidnapped by the Alsandair, a nomadic tribe, after they slaughtered his clan of shapeshifters. He was raised with no knowledge of his heritage.

  “The Alsandair were famous for their war-like ways, and they believed that Rancor would breed his supernatural abilities into their race . . .”

  And blah, blah, blah, so it went. What kind of geek would write a website like this? Alix wondered.

  She looked about to make sure no one was around. When she was satisfied no one was close enough to peer over her shoulder, she brought up her journal. It wasn’t so much that she wanted to record her daily musings, but that her therapist thought it a good idea. Her journal was password protected and not open to the public–except to the therapist.

  Clicking on the icon for new entry, she began to type:

  “Weird day. Carl still hasn’t asked me out, but Betty keeps hinting he will soon. I think he’s waiting for the dance. I’m hoping he’s going to ask me to it.”

  Suddenly, that strange sensation came over her again, the same one that had encircled her outside of Mr. Pausron’s class when she was standing with Rellik.

  She typed:

  “My parents have both died from a terrible illness. The townsfolk took them away today, to burn their bodies so they don’t spread the disease. I fear it may be too late. My brother has started a terrible cough, and twice now he has woken with blood on his lips.”

  The school clock buzzed as the large hand struck twelve in the afternoon. But in Alix’s world the sound went unnoticed. She continued to write, until someone threw a book on the table next to her.

  “Hi, Alix.” It was Fred. “Working through lunch? Want me to leave you alone?”

  “No, don’t be silly. I’ll work on this later.” She scrambled to get it off the screen.

  “You sure?” He sa
t in a chair across the table from her. “Hey, that’s cool. Writing assignment for English class?”

  “Uh, no. I wasn’t working on school stuff.” Alix looked at him, smiling in the hope he’d just forget about it. And he would, just like always.

  That’s why Fred was so comfortable to be around: his predictability. He was still wearing last year’s outfit, which made her wonder if his closet was all just one set of shirts and pants like that Einstein guy. She knew Fred wasn’t at fault for wearing the same clothes, nor was he at fault for his matching grey slacks and black shoes that looked like two little mirrors. His parents controlled whatever he wore, all the way from his tie clip to the haircut that screamed future banker!

  Fred’s apparel was a major reason why she had never spoken to him before this past summer. Fred had his own unique charm she had to get used to, just like Mr. Chips’s burgers. But now that they were friends, Alix never let Fred’s freak status bother her.

  “So, why are you here, anyway? Don’t you ever eat?” she asked.

  “I can both study and eat. You, uh, hear about the fight?”

  “Yeah. I take it you heard.”

  “Hard not to. I heard the new guy beat up both Derrick and Carl.”

  “Why, Fred! Is that pleasure in your voice?”

  He blushed. “You know I abhor violence–but those two sure need an ego check.”

  “Well, I hate to burst your bubble, but only Derrick got his ego checked.”

  Fred perked an eyebrow.

  “Okay, so technically Carl ran away, but he didn’t lose.”

  “Is that how he’s rationalized it?”

  Alix laughed. “Yeah. Y’know, you’re going to mess things up for me with this whole ‘reality’ thing.”

  “I heard you talked to the new kid.”

  “I’m not making that mistake twice!”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “It’s weird. You look in his eyes and it’s like looking into another world.”

  “Do we know anything about him?”

  “Nope. Maybe you can Google him for me later.”

  Fred smiled. “Googling for answers, young Jedi? Your training is complete.” Then, more seriously, he asked, “What’s this fascination about?”

  The school bell rang, indicating the end of lunch. Fred said, as Alix gathered her things, “Saved by the bell.”

  “We’ll talk later,” Alix said.

  “Anytime. You, uh, doing anything tonight?”

  “No,” she lied, “but if I change my mind I’ll call you. See ya.”

  Alix hurried down the hall to her English Lit class. At the door she realized she’d forgotten her Hamlet text.

  “Damn,” she whispered, spinning to go back to her locker.

  Kim was standing in the hallway not five feet from Alix. Kim’s eyes were as piercing as her brother’s knife. Alix thought to just ignore her and walk past, but Kim moved purposefully to block her way.

  Now they were mere inches apart. Alix stepped to the left; Kim followed suit. Alix tried the right. Kim still blocked her.

  “Uhh–” Alix looked around but everyone had gone to class. They were alone.

  “Why are you afraid of me?” Kim asked, with obvious disdain.

  “I’m not,” Alix laughed, but tremulously.

  “So, you are just another Barbie wannabe who thinks all us Indians are gang members.”

  Alix didn’t know how to get out of this. She could scream and get the teachers out here, but she wasn’t sure she still had a voice.

  “I was so wrong about you.” Kim shook her head and turned to walk away.

  “Wait.” Alix found her courage buried beneath her curiosity. “Wrong about what?”

  “Last night at Mr. Chips, you were the only one who didn’t seem to want a fight to happen.”

  “I didn’t want a fight to happen.”

  “Well, I just thought you and I could stop this stupid pissing contest between your boyfriend and my brother. But forget it.”

  Alix watched as Kim walked away. She did want to stop the fight between Carl and Derrick, but she was already in enough trouble with Carl. Thankfully, she was still invited to his party–and hopefully she hadn’t erased all her chances of getting asked to the dance! Alix decided to forget this incident with Kim. That was the only option.

  That evening a chill wind swept over the sleepy town, bringing a grim reminder that winter would soon besiege them. Alix spent the evening at home, hiding on the sidelines, waiting for Betty to call about Carl’s party. She didn’t spend much time at home anymore, at least not since lymphocytic leukemia had stolen her mother two years ago. That was the last time she’d seen strength in her father and in her family.

  Her mother’s passing had forced Alix to grow up quickly. During the past two years, not only had she seen to her own care, but to Sam’s as well. Alix considered going downstairs to get a snack, but the thought of seeing her drunk father stumble around the house changed her mind.

  If it had been warm, she would have rested in the gazebo that stood at the back of their garden. Had it been daytime, she would have tended the flowers. But on this cold evening, she desired the warmth of her room. With book in hand she walked to her wicker chair and sank deeply into the soft cushions, with only the bright overhead lamp that hung above her by golden chains for company.

  The light cast a mirror against her large bedroom window. Sometimes when Alix glanced at her reflection she had to look twice, for every now and then she didn’t recognize the pensive image who stared back.

  Her room faced the field behind her home, where she could look out to the ends of the Earth. A narrow stairwell that rose into the loft above their garage passed just below the sill, where her mother had once painted in hopes of becoming world famous. As a young girl Alix had visited that loft often to watch her work, but since her mother’s death she could not bring herself to visit it again. As Alix stared at the girl in the mirrored window, she turned a page in the book that rested in her curled lap, recalling that she had homework to do.

  The stairwell just outside her door creaked. Footsteps clip-clopped against the silence, interrupting her thoughts. Alix knew it was her father, probably wanting her to cook his dinner. She glanced at the digital alarm clock beside her bed. It read 6:13 p.m. She sighed, hoping this time her dad would just make his own dinner.

  He opened the door beside her wicker chair. At first Alix refused to face him. She called him “Sam” for spite, rather than “Dad.”

  Then Alix turned to face her father, taken aback by what she saw.

  He was not at all what she had grown accustomed to expect. He was clean-shaven, showered and scented with Old Spice aftershave. His thinning blond hair was cut and styled neatly to one side, and he wore over his hefty six-foot build a grey suit with a tie and a rose in the left pocket. The most striking thing, and the most pleasing, was that her father hadn’t been drinking! For the first time in three years he bore a look of optimism rather than defeat.

  “Alexandria,” Sam said, the words creating a harsh sound that was not as hopeful as his demeanor, “I’m going to interview people. I’m hiring help–for the store, I mean. I’m–I’m reopening.”

  Sam paused as if to let her open up to him. But Alix didn’t know what she should say.

  His shoulders slumped. His eyes glistened from the tears he’d held at bay. “If the house phone rings, would you answer it?”

  Her father broke eye contact with her. Alix was still staring at him in shock. There was so much she wanted to say, but the rush of emotions stunned her. A part of her wanted to bound from the wicker chair and grab him in a hug; to break out crying with such intensity that her tears would wash away his past years of drunkenness.

  But another part remembered the two years he had forced her to go at life alone. That part wished to damn him.

  She stared at her father and managed to say only, “Okay.”

  Sam smiled his first genuine, sober grin in years an
d gently closed the door behind him. He knew the news had overwhelmed her. Hell, even he was having difficulty accepting the situation. This hadn’t been an easy decision to come to. Clearing his throat in the hope it might calm his nerves, he wondered if he’d see his decision through to its end. He could, after all, live a few more years off his wife’s insurance money, but a long time ago he had made a promise to her. A promise he had neglected these last two years.

  Sam fixed his tie and jacket as he descended the creaky stairwell, thinking how good it felt to know he might be part of his daughter’s life again. Time had passed so quickly that when he looked at Alix she seemed almost like a stranger. A small chuckle escaped his throat when he realized he was even a stranger to himself. He needed to change so many things that there seemed too many first steps to take.

  Sam decided to wait until later to tell Alix he had joined Alcoholics Anonymous. He accepted that his drinking had grown way beyond a temporary crutch and into a deadly obsession. Two full years had passed since he was last sober. Recalling the years previous to his wife’s passing, he realized there hadn’t been many days of sobriety then, either. He had wallowed in self-pity for too long and needed to get on with life–but for it to feel worth living, he needed his daughter to be a part of it, too.

  As he walked into his dark den, Sam rubbed the brass door handle and made a special note to shut the door. Its icy touch soothed him. As he ran another finger down the door’s wood grain, he wondered if he’d ever be able to accept his wife’s passing without his crutch. If only he could be as strong as Alexandria, maybe he wouldn’t be so alone. Perhaps he could even find someone else to share his life?

  Sam turned on the overhead lamp, looked at his den, and smelled the musk from the time he had spilled his aftershave. The carpet still stank, but he kept it because he and his wife had chosen it together.

  He’d once used the room to prepare for hunting trips. Along one wall was a large bookcase for his hunting guides. Directly across from it was a desk used to reload shells.