by Tanya Huff
Below and behind him, some large creature blundered about. Perhaps a cow or sheep had wandered into the conservation area from one of the nearby farms. It didn’t matter. Now that the wind had changed, his interest lay in the pale rectangles of field beyond the woods. They would come to check the sheep and he would be waiting.
With the barrel of his rifle braced against a convenient limb, he laid his cheek gently against the butt and flicked on the receiver of his night scope. He’d ordered the simplest infrared scope from a Bushnell catalog back in early summer, when he’d first known what he had to do. It had cost him more than he could really afford, but the money had been well spent. Nor did he begrudge the continuing outlay for lithium batteries, replaced before every mission. A man is only as good as his equipment—his old sergeant had made sure every man he commanded remembered that.
Under the cross hairs, the ghostly outline of trees began to show, punctuated here and there by the dim red heat signatures of small animals. Without bothering to turn on the emitter, he scanned both fields, registering nothing more than the sheep. The sheep were innocent. They had no control over the masters they had. Then he came back to the trees.
They hunted the conservation area on occasion. He knew it. Perhaps tonight they would hunt and he would. . . .
He frowned at a flash of red between two trees. Showing too dim for the size, he had no idea what it might be. Moving slowly, silently, he flicked on the emitter, playing the beam of infrared light over the area. Although the naked eye could see no difference, his scope brightened as if he’d turned on a high-powered red flashlight.
The creature he’d scanned should be. . . .
With an effort, Henry brought himself back to the woods. It was infinitely pleasanter replaying the earlier part of the night, but he knew he must be getting close to the pine. He lifted his head to scan the treetops . . .
. . . and snapped it back snarling as a beam of red light raked across his eyes.
“Holy shit!” Mark Williams raised his uncle’s shotgun in trembling hands. He didn’t know what that was. He didn’t care. He’d had nightmares about things like that, the kind of nightmares that jerked you awake sweating, scrabbling for the light, desperately trying to push back the darkness.
It didn’t look human. It didn’t look safe.
He pulled the trigger.
The buckshot had spread enough that it did little real damage when it hit, tracing a pattern of holes down the outside of his right hip and thigh. The light had been an annoyance. This was an attack.
Henry had warned Vicki once that his kind held the beast much closer to the surface than mortals did. As blood began to slowly seep into his jeans, he let it loose.
A heartbeat later, a slug hit him in high in the left shoulder and spun him around, lifting him off his feet. His skull cracked hard against the trunk of a tree and he dropped, barely conscious, to the ground.
Through the pain, through the throbbing of his life in his ears, he thought he heard voices, men’s voices, one almost hysterical, the other low and intense. He knew it was important that he listen, that he learn, but he couldn’t seem to focus. The pain he could deal with. He’d been shot before and knew that even now his body had begun to mend. He fought against the waves of gray, trying to hold onto self, but it was like trying to hold sand that kept seeping out of his grasp.
The voices were gone; where, he had no idea.
Then a hand reached down and turned him gently over. A voice he knew said quietly, “We’ve got to get him back to the house.”
“I don’t think he can walk. Go for Donald, he’s too heavy for you to carry.”
Stuart. He recognized Stuart. That gave him a place to start from. By the time Nadine returned with Donald, he’d managed to grab onto his scattered wits and force them into a semblance of reason. His head felt eggshell fragile, but if he held it carefully, very carefully, he could keep the world from twisting too far off center.
In spite of rough handling, Henry’s head had almost cleared by the time the wer got him to the house. A number of gray patches continued to drift up from the swelling at the base of his skull but, essentially, he was back.
He could see Vicki waiting on the porch, peering anxiously into the darkness. She looked softer and more vulnerable than he’d ever seen her. As Stuart and Donald carried him into her reach, she stretched out a hand and lightly touched his cheek.
Her brows snapped down. “What the fuck happened to you?”
“Of course I followed you!” Mark Williams gulped a little more whiskey from the water glass in his hand. “I get back a little early from a friendly poker game and see my aged uncle sneaking out of the house in the middle of the night carrying . . .” He waved a hand at the rifle now lying in pieces on the kitchen table. “. . . that, off to do God knows what. . . .”
“God knows,” Carl interrupted quietly, working the oily rag along the barrel.
“Fine. God knows. But I don’t. And,” he slammed the now empty glass down on the table, “after what I just went through, I think I deserve an explanation.”
Carl stared up at his nephew for a moment, then sighed. “Sit down.”
“Okay. I’ll sit.” Mark threw himself into a kitchen chair. “You talk. What the hell were you planning on hunting out there and what was that thing that attacked me?”
Ever since the Lord had shown him what lived on the Heerkens farm and had let him know where his duty lay, Carl Biehn had been afraid he wouldn’t be strong enough. He was an old man, older than he looked, and the Lord had given one old man a terrible burden to carry. Mark was not who he would have chosen to help him bear his cross, but the Lord worked in mysterious ways and apparently Mark had also been chosen. It made a certain sense he supposed, the boy was his only living relative, and by pulling that trigger tonight he’d proven he had the strength to enter the fray. Perhaps his own sins would be washed away in the blood of the ungodly he was to help destroy.
Carl made his decision and took the three rounds he’d prepared from his vest pocket, standing them on the table. They gleamed in the overhead light like tiny missiles.
“Holy shit! That’s silver!”
“Yes.”
Mark stroked one finger down the bullet head and laughed a bit hysterically. “You trying to tell me you’re hunting werewolves?”
“Yes.”
In the sudden silence the ticking of the kitchen clock sounded unnaturally loud.
The old boy’s flipped. He’s right out of his tiny little mind. Werewolves. He’s crazy.
And then Carl started to talk. Of how he’d been out bird-watching in late spring and seen the first change by accident. How he’d seen the others by design. How he’d recognized a creature of the devil. Realized that this was why none of the cursed family ever entered God’s house. Realized they were not God’s creatures but Satan’s, sent by the Great Deceiver to spread darkness on the earth. Gradually came to know what he must do.
They must be sent back to hell. And they must be sent back in the form that was not a mockery of God’s image. It must be done in secret under the cover of the night lest the Lord of Lies try to stop him.
To his surprise, Mark found himself believing. It was the weirdest goddamned story he’d ever heard, but it had the undeniable ring of truth.
“Werewolves,” he muttered, shaking his head.
“Creatures of the evil one,” his uncle agreed.
“And you’re killing them?” And this is the guy who thinks eating a burger is a sin.
“I am sending them back to their dark master. Demons cannot actually be killed.”
“But you’re sending them with silver bullets?”
“Silver is the Lord’s metal as it paid for the life of His son.”
“Jesus H. Christ.”
“Do not blaspheme.”
Mark looked down at the rifle, now cleaned and reassembled, then back up at his uncle. The man was a moral nut case, something that had to be remembered. A well arm
ed moral nut case and one hell of a shot. “Yeah. Sorry. So, uh, what about that thing in the woods tonight?”
“I don’t know.” Carl laced his fingers together and sighed. “I shot him to protect you.”
Sweat beaded Mark’s forehead as he remembered and his heart began to race. For an instant, he thought he might lose control of his bladder again. He’d looked at Death tonight and he’d never forget the feel of icy fingers closing around his life, no matter how badly he might want to. That experience, primal and terrifying, made it easier to believe the rest. “Maybe,” he offered, swallowing heavily, “it was Old Nick himself, come to check on his charges.”
Carl nodded slowly. “Perhaps, but if so, I will leave him to the Lord.”
Easy for you to say. Mark wiped damp hands on his jeans. It wasn’t going for your throat. “What about the woman?”
“The woman?”
“Yeah, that Nelson babe who wandered by this morning.”
“An innocent bystander, nothing more. You will leave her out of this.”
But Mark remembered the bits of pine stuck to a Blue Jays T-shirt and wasn’t so sure.
“A .30 caliber rifle at that range should’ve blown your fucking shoulder off.” Vicki secured the end of the gauze and frowned down at her handiwork. “There’s no way your collarbone should’ve been able to deflect that shot.”
Henry smiled at the incredulous disbelief in Vicki’s voice. The pain had fallen to tolerable levels and the damage had been much less than he’d feared. Theoretically, he should be able to regenerate a lost limb but he had no real desire to test the theory. A broken collarbone and a chunk of flesh blown off the top of his shoulder, he could live with. “My kind has stronger bones than yours,” he told her, attempting to flex the arm. Vicki made a fist and looked ready to use it, so he stopped.
“Stronger?” She snorted. “Fucking titanium.”
“Not quite. Titanium wouldn’t have broken.” He winced as Donald dug yet another piece of buckshot out of his thigh then turned back to Vicki. “Do you realize your language deteriorates when you’re worried?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You’ve done more swearing in the last hour than you have since we’ve met.”
“Yeah?” She snapped the first aid kit shut with unnecessary force. “Well, I’ve had more to swear about, haven’t I? I don’t understand how this happened. You’re supposed to be so great at night. What were you thinking about?”
He didn’t see any reason to lie. “You. Us. What happened earlier.”
Vicki’s eyes narrowed. “Isn’t that just like a man. Four hundred and fifty fucking years old and he’s still thinking with his balls.”
“That’s the lot.” Donald straightened and threw the tweezers into the bowl with the shot. “Few hours and you’ll be good as new. Some of the shallower holes are healing already.”
“You’re pretty good at that,” Henry noted, elevating his leg a little to get a better look.
Donald shrugged. “Used to get lots of practice twenty, thirty years ago. Folks were faster on the trigger back then and fur only deflects so much. Used to have a pattern much like that on my butt.” Twisting around in a way no human spine could handle, he studied the body part in question. “Seems to be gone now.” He picked up the bowl and headed for the door. “If you were one of us, I’d suggest you change a few times to clear out any possible infection. Or lick it. As it is. . . .” He shrugged and was gone.
“I wasn’t even going to ask!” Henry protested as Vicki glared down at him.
“Good thing.” Lick buckshot holes indeed! She couldn’t hold the glare. It became a grin, then a worried frown as a new problem occurred to her. “Will you need to feed again?”
He shook his head, regretting it almost immediately. “Tomorrow maybe, not tonight.”
“After the attack by the demon, you needed to feed right away.”
“Trust me, I was in much worse shape after the attack by the demon.”
Vicki rested her hand lightly on the flat expanse of Henry’s stomach, just where the line of red-gold hair began below his navel. The motion was proprietary without being overtly sexual. “Can you feed tomorrow?”
He covered her hand with his good one. “We’ll work something out.”
She nodded, if not satisfied at least willing to wait. The desire she felt was embarrassing and she hoped like hell Henry’s vampiric vibrations were responsible. Overactive hormones were the last thing she needed. “You know, I’m amazed you’ve managed to survive for four centuries; first the demon, now this, and in only five short months.”
“You may not believe this, but until I met you I lived the staid, boring life of a romance writer.”
Both her brows rose and her glasses slipped to the end of her nose.
“Oh, all right,” he admitted, “the night life was a bit better, but these sorts of things never happened to me.”
“Never?”
He grinned as he remembered, although the event had been far from funny at the time. A woman—all right, his preoccupation with a woman—had been responsible for that disaster too. “Well, hardly ever. . . .”
His right knee felt twice its normal size and barely held his weight. A lucky blow from the blacksmith’s iron hammer had slammed into the side of the joint. A man would never have walked again. Henry Fitzroy, vampire, had gotten up and run but the damage and the pain held him to a mortal’s pace.
He could hear the dogs. They were close.
He should have sensed the trap. Heard or smelled or seen the men waiting in the dark corners of the room. But he’d been so anxious to feed, so anxious to lose himself in the arms of his little Mila, that he never suspected a thing. Never suspected that little Mila, of the sweet smile and soft thighs and hot blood, had confessed her sin to the priest and he had roused the village.
The presence of a vampire outweighed the sanctity of the confessional.
The dogs were gaining. Behind them came the torches and the stakes and the final death.
Had they not placed their faith so strongly in the cross, they would have had him. Only the blacksmith had presence of mind enough to swing as he broke through their circle and made for the door.
His leg twisted and white fire shot through his entire body. The sound of his own blood loud in his ears, he clutched desperately at a tree, fighting to stay upright. He couldn’t go on. He couldn’t stop.
It hurts. Oh, God, how it hurts.
The dogs were closer.
He couldn’t die like this, not after barely a hundred years; hunted down like a beast in the night. His ribs pressed tight around his straining heart, as though they already felt the final pressure of the stake.
The dogs were almost on him. The night had narrowed to their baying and the pain.
He didn’t see the cliff.
He missed the rocks at the water’s edge by little more than the width of a prayer, then the world turned over and around and he almost drowned before he managed to claw his way back to the air. Unable to fight the current, he gave himself over to it. Fortunately, it was spring and the river ran deep—most of its teeth were safely submerged under three or four feet of water. Most. Not all.
Just before dawn, Henry dragged himself up onto the shore and wedged his battered body as deep as it would go into a narrow stone cleft. It was damp and cold, but the sun would not reach so far and, for the moment, he was safe.
It had never meant more.
“No, sir. Never any trouble from Mr. Fitzroy.” Greg squared his shoulders and looked the police officer in the eye. “He’s a good tenant.”
“No wild parties?” Celluci asked. “Complaints from the neighbors?”
“No sir. Not at all. Mr. Fitzroy is a very quiet gentleman.”
“He has no company at all?”
“Oh, he has company, sir.” The old security guard’s ears burned. “There’s a young woman. . . .”
“Tall, short blonde hair, glasses? Earl
y thirties?”
Greg winced a little at the tone. “Yes, sir.”
“We know her. Go on.”
“Well, there’s a boy, late teens. He’s kind of scruffy, tough like. Not the kind you’d expect Mr. Fitzroy to have over.”
The boy’s presence wasn’t much of a surprise. It only added another piece to the puzzle, bringing it a step close to completion. “Is that all?”
“All the company, sir, but. . . .”
Celluci pounced on the hesitation. “But what?”
“Well, it’s just you never see Mr. Fitzroy in the daytime sir. And when you ask him questions about his past. . . .”
Yes, I’ve a few questions myself about his past. In fact, Fitzroy had turned out to be more questions than answers. Celluci didn’t like that in a man and he liked it even less now that he was beginning to see how he could fill in the blanks.
If Henry Fitzroy thought he could hide what he was, he was due for a nasty surprise.
The old man was asleep; Mark could hear him snoring through the wall that separated their bedrooms.
“The sleep of the just,” he murmured, linking his hands behind his head and staring at a watermark on the ceiling. Although he’d agreed to help in his uncle’s holy war—And that’s one elderly gentleman who’s a few pickles short of a barrel.—nothing had actually been said about what this entailed. Whether or not the werewolves were creatures of the devil was a moot point as far as he was concerned—more importantly, they were creatures apparently outside the law.
He was a businessman; there had to be a way he could make a profit out of that.
If he could capture one of them, he knew a number of people who would be more than willing to purchase such a curiosity. Unfortunately, that idea came with an obvious problem. The creature could just refuse to change—and they appeared to have complete control over the process—ruining any credibility he might have. And in sales, credibility was everything.
