My mind raced as I read through the list. I’ve never been one who was afraid of travel, but the idea of traipsing all over the country in search of an impish god trapped in a billionaire meat suit didn’t sit well with me. The Council had always kept me pretty close to Bean Town, and I’d grown accustomed to the area. My contacts were here. My blood suppliers.
I pushed away from the table and glanced out the window. I realized that I had become complacent and comfortable. Two things that I never would have thought would ever apply to me. I strode to the window and watched as the sun dipped below the horizon. Licks of light crossed the evening sky; bright oranges and reds, fading shades of yellow flaming below the blue blackness of night, and I reveled again at being able to witness such beauty.
My fax machine whirred to life and quickly pulled my mind from its introspection. I crossed the short distance and pulled the paper from the machine. Of course it was the Council. Who else would fax me?
I scanned the document and tossed it in my IN basket. Some poor sap was about to become ash and I actually missed that small thrill that came with new assignments. Dealing with the lesser god had stirred something within me that I hadn’t felt in a very long time: a challenge. Possibly, my ultimate challenge. I actually found my hands shaking with excitement as I realized that hunting Loki could well mean my own destruction.
Being a vampire has its perks. But being the only vampire that can stand in the sun and not die gave me an unfair advantage, one that I didn’t mind using at all. But it was this key ability that had also brought on my complacency. I was certain of it. Loki, on the other hand…he was a force in himself, one who apparently had some daddy issues.
I scooped up the blunt bolts and headed into the night. I had to see a man about some bullets.
“I THINK IT can be done.” Carl scratched at his chin as he studied the bolts. “I don’t see why not.” He turned the bolt in his hands and studied the design. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a crossbow bolt quite like this before, though.”
I didn’t offer an explanation. “I don’t know what metal this is…” I looked at him expectantly.
Carl shrugged. “My machines can handle most anything. Titanium takes a bit longer to machine, mostly because it’s so brittle. But it can be done. Patience. Patience is the key.”
He pulled a device and checked the shaft. “You want 10MM slugs, right?”
“Correct.” I watched as he read the micrometer and smiled. “Lucky for you, this is damn near spot on. By the time I machine them down, I should be able to get you a dozen from the pair. Easily.” He lifted the blunted head of the bolt and pointed to it. “These I can probably mill down and get you a couple rifle rounds from them. That is, as long as you go larger than your 10MM.”
“The pistol rounds should suffice.” I pulled a gold coin from my breast pocket and pressed it gently into his palm. “Speed and discretion, as always.”
“Of course.” He shot me a crooked smile. “I’ll have these for you tomorrow. You know Sven…you pay me entirely too much.”
“Your work is worth it.” I didn’t want to explain to him how difficult it had become to convert the Council’s coinage into usable cash. Too many gold buyers want to take advantage of you. It was far better to overpay someone like Carl than to put myself through the pain and effort of not throttling some scumbag whose business it was to gyp me in a currency exchange. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“I’ll get started on these now. If you change your mind on the rifle rounds, just give me a call. It wouldn’t be any trouble at all to mill out a few .308s from these heads.”
I left him to his work.
The ride home was boringly quiet. My mind wandered, as it often did when driving. I considered Grigori’s cautionary tale of the tall blonde-haired man tracking Loki. I also considered the ramifications of missing my chance again once Loki resurfaced. I had become used to relying on somebody else telling me where to find my prey, and I used my ability to travel during the day greatly to my advantage. I realized that with these privileges, I was no longer truly a hunter. I had allowed myself to respect the accolades of my employers and to accept, if not believe, the lies that spread about the Viking enforcer that the Council now used to mete out their brand of justice. They say: “Kill.” And I kill.
I pulled into my driveway and turned off the headlights. I stared at the front door of my humble home and tried to remember the last time I had truly hunted; not like a hit man, but like the predator I used to be. When had I last used my skills, my wile, to track a creature down and usher them to the afterlife?
I realized as I opened the door and stepped out that it had been entirely too long.
I MUST HAVE looked the fool sitting at the table, trying to use Jasmine’s computer. It took me five different tries to find the website that would show me what the different venues actually looked like that Loki was planning to visit.
My goal was to find a place where he could be trapped. If I could corner the little shit, I should be able to put a round through his tiny, shriveled little heart before he could exit. At least, I thought I could. I might have to wrassle him to the ground first and press the barrel to his chest to ensure my bullet found that dried, bloodless husk, but it was a chore I was more than willing to do.
I clicked through the different pictures until something caught my eye. According to the angelic dossier on the lesser god, he planned to attend a gala in Florida just a week from now. I didn’t care why he would be there or what it was for–I only cared that it would be held on the beach. At night. With a crowd.
I pictured that the odds of him using his god-like speed to escape would be minimal. He would be surrounded by people, presumably he couldn’t just blow through them in his meat suit, so even if he tried, there would most likely be somebody there to block his exit or slow him down. I had no idea how fast he could swim, but with the ocean being his only avenue of escape, I thought that would be a reluctant choice.
The real question was whether or not I could get close enough to put a bullet in him. I’d be sure to carry the blades in case my plan didn’t work, but hopefully if the bullet didn’t kill him, it would slow him down enough that I could filet him before he got away again.
It would be risky. Odds are that somebody there would see me. I doubt that I could mix in well enough to simply walk up, shoot him in the chest…or between the eyes, and then walk away without somebody realizing what had happened and making a big deal out of it.
I ground my teeth and flipped through the pages of the dossier again. I was missing something. I knew it. It was bothering me like an itch you can’t reach to scratch. You can scrape against the bark of a tree or find a stick to claw at the spot, but the itch just won’t be satisfied. Very similar to my nose healing, except this itch was in the back of my mind–really tough to get a stick up in there. I knew I was overlooking something; I could feel it in my bones.
My eyes settled on his assets. I flipped through the photos; houses, businesses, hell of a nice collection of cars, big ass boat…I went back. Boat?
I pulled the photo out and stared at it. This wasn’t just any boat. This was a yacht. I think they’re called “mega-yachts.” A person could live on this thing and possibly raise a brood of sea-faring offspring and never need to go ashore for much of anything. Beer, maybe.
I stared at the rear of the craft and noted the pale, clear blue of the water. I quickly pulled the information sheet on the beast, Poseidon’s Prodigal, and wanted to smack my head. It was moored in Florida. Of course it was.
I switched back to the dossier to see the dates she was expected to dock there. I now knew why people say “smack my head.” If I were him and I wanted to avoid being made into shish-kagod, I’d be camped out on my floating house, offshore, safe from your average hunter– not to mention popular with the ladies.
I sat back and stared at the photo of the craft. I didn’t know how far off shore she would be anchored, but I knew exactly how I wou
ld approach it. The same way I had in the past.
LET ME TELL you…for the longest time, the only companionship I had were the voices in my head. No, not psychotic voices…just me talking with myself. I didn’t dare befriend a human. First of all, I give the best advice and tell the funniest jokes. I argue sometimes, but in the end I always accept the fact that I am correct. How could a human possibly replace that kind of friend? How could they ever accept me for what I am? Yeah, I’d tried that once. It was beyond disastrous. It simply wasn’t worth the risk.
For centuries I stayed in the shadows. People were food. Do hear me? Food. You may talk to your cat or dog, but would you EAT them? No. How could I have a pet, friend, companion, whatever, then turn around and eat it? Because that is what would happen. Eventually, they would find out, and even if they swore they’d never tell, they would know; I would be forced to kill them. Besides, what kind of vampire would I be if I allowed a perfectly good meal to go to waste for a little conversation or a game of checkers?
So, when I finally stepped from the shadows and carved a lifestyle in the human world, I quickly created a story that would appease those who might attempt to befriend me.
I began hunting those of means, and I made sure to relieve them of their wealth; they couldn’t take it with them, afterall. I will say that I tried to choose those who were of advanced years. Little or no family, no one who would immediately look for them; hey, call me sentimental, but it was just easier that way. I used the monies I acquired and purchased homes in Boston and in New York. I would tell people who inquired that my family had all perished in a horrible fire, save for a single son. Of course, he would be at boarding school or a military academy. It helped to explain my lack of interacting with others by telling them that my family line were of royalty. Swedish royalty, so it was doubtful that any of the locals would have rubbed elbows with my brethren.
Every dozen years I would move to my other home and introduce myself as my heir. Same name, of course. A different haircut, a few updates to the wardrobe, perhaps some facial hair to throw them off. Humans tend to believe what they want to believe. Then I would return to my old ways. Hunting humans who wouldn’t be missed. Sailors from a newly berthed ship, prostitutes, vagabonds, carpetbaggers, homeless and the infirm–especially the loonies, were all easy prey, though they didn’t usually have much money on them. I scanned the obits for well off humans survived by a spouse; they often did themselves in from grief, anyway.
It was during one of these winter hunts that a foreign ship made port in New York. I saw its mast and sails as it entered the harbor and was actually quite pleased to find out that this one had come from the orient. The humans who hail from that region have a wonderful flavor to their blood. I don’t know if it’s the spices they use, the food they eat or perhaps it’s the water. Whatever the reason, they have a most delightful flavor. Plus, they’re rather small compared to my stock, making them easy to hide as you cart them away.
I waited until the wee hours of the morning and approached the boarding plank as quietly as I could. The watchman was asleep at his post and reeked of rice wine.
I stepped past him easily and made my way below, to the crew’s berthing. I knew from my own experience that any ship’s captain worth his salt would only allow half of the crew to take liberty at the same time. There are numerous reasons for such actions…the list varies from crew safety to having a skeleton crew aboard in case the other half didn’t return, but also to defend the ship and cargo if boarded by ne’er-do-wells.
My eyes adjusted easily to the darkness and I was correct in my assumption. Half the berths were empty. I actually found myself envious of these sailors…they each had their own bed. In my younger days, I had been conscripted into the Swedish Navy and we had to share berths. It allowed more room for supplies and cargo. The only up side was that the bed was already warm from the last man in it. Amongst the many downsides, you often prayed that the other man didn’t have fleas or lice, that he could hold his water, and that he didn’t miss his girl too horribly. You’d be surprised how many can’t stand the solitude.
Anyway, I made my way to the aft portion of the small, darkened room and was reminded of another reason that I didn’t miss sailing: the stench. Body odor, feet, farts, bad breath, stale fish, vomit…it all mixed and lingered, soaked over the decades right into the wood of the ship.
I was about to extract a young man from his dreams when I heard the unmistakable sound of sailors returning. The chuckling, the slurred speech, the dragging of feet across the planks of the upper deck…somebody’d had a good time while on liberty.
I slipped quietly under the lowest bunk and waited, having to breathe through my mouth. Three men entered the room and it became obvious that two of the sailors were carrying the third. They dumped him unceremoniously onto a bunk then the other two staggered to the front and relieved themselves in what must have been their version of a chamber pot, they were about thirty-five percent on target.
I waited patiently for them to crawl into their own bunks, and once their whispers turned to snores, I slipped back out. I pulled the man closest to the stairs from his bed and clamped my hand securely to his mouth.
I still remember how wide his eyes were as I lifted him from his feet and held him tightly to me. I took the stairs in one jump and landed quietly on the deck above. The man in my arms dangled like a rag doll.
I turned and was face to face with a very sober and quite surprised fellow. I wasn’t expecting what happened next. He didn’t yell. He simply drew a sword and began slashing at me.
I will say this, the little fellow was quick. Not as quick as I am, of course, but damned fast. Before I realized what I was doing, I began using the sailor flailing in my arms as a shield.
I smelled the fresh blood and it distracted me. I didn’t hear the other, who had snuck in from behind. I felt the burn of her sword as it cut my flesh and feared that I had been sliced in half.
Now, I’ll admit that I heal very quickly, especially with fresh blood in my system, but damn that sword cut deeply. From my shoulder to my kidneys, the slash crossed my back and I could feel my long coat flailing behind me.
I didn’t know if the sailor I had been using as a shield was dead or not but I squeezed his neck and pulled at his hair until I felt his head rip clear. I threw it with all my might at the attacker behind me. The trunk I tossed at the first attacker, then used the confusion to slip over the edge of the ship.
From under the water, I saw them both leaning over the edge, their faces scanning for me. When the water tinged red, I knew that would be a dead giveaway, so I swam under the keel and made my way to shore.
To say that I was angry would be an understatement. What should have been a quick and easy snack almost turned into my last meal. I believe that this was the first time I had to face the possibility of my own demise. Once they thought of me as a monster, a beheading would be a top priority, even back then. Before that encounter, I had truly thought that the average human had as much chance against me as a field mouse might against a cat.
I snatched up the first lady of the evening I came across and drained her completely. The slice across my back stung from the salt water, but the worst part was the insane itching that came with the wound healing. I wanted to find the nearest oak and scrape my back along its rough bark. I knew better, and was nowhere near a forest, but still…I wanted to.
I made it back to my home just before sunup and spent a good portion of the day bouncing between anger, at myself, ultimately, and embarrassment over the whole thing.
I was born of Viking stock. I know how to fight. I was a warrior before I was conscripted. But I had become lazy since my transition. I had stopped carrying weapons; when you are the top predator…who needs a weapon? I am a weapon. Few could resist the sheer strength I now wielded.
But damned if those little Orientals didn’t nearly kill me. If I didn’t know better, I’d think that they had been expecting me; that thought helped les
sen the feeling of utter failure. But that couldn’t be right or they surely would have used silver.
I checked the wound on my back before retiring for the day and was glad to see that only a bright pink scar remained. I crawled into my bed and surrendered to the sun’s call.
Chapter 5
I PACKED MY gear and began the drive to Florida. The trip was boring…progressively more trees and of fewer species. I found my mind wandering back to the last time I had dealt with sneaking aboard a docked ship. It had nearly killed me. I went over the details again, going past my humiliating escape and reliving the consequences of their little victory. Little did I know that the physical wounds I’d suffered that night were nothing compared to what lay ahead.
Even though the prostitute was a rather plump Dora, I awoke hungrier than I’d been in a very long time. I wanted revenge for what had happened aboard that foreign ship, and I would, by Odin, have my vengeance.
Later that night, I crept through the dirty streets dockside to the small merchant vessel. I wasn’t surprised that the guard had been doubled and they all looked nervous as they continually scanned the area.
I jumped onto the roof of a nearby building and verified my suspicions. They were all stationed on the pier side of the ship, which made perfect sense to a bunch of dumb humans. I smiled to myself as I hopped back into the alley.
I made my approach from the sea side. I swam under the calm waters until I reached the hull of the ship. With a silent extension of my nails, I pulled myself easily up the anchor rope and peered over the railing. All of the guards still had their backs to me. My fangs reflected the bright moon as I smiled.
Fools.
I slipped over the railing and ripped the throat from the first guard in one swift strike, pulling him into the shadows as he choked on his own blood. I did allow myself a quick drink or three before I slipped him silently over the side and lowered him as far as I could into the water; he barely made a splash. My eyes never left the other guards as they continued to stand like statues, their eyes glued to the pier.
Hunter II Page 4
