Blood Hunter: An Urban Fantasy Vampire Hunting Novel

by Nicholas Woode-Smith

  That sounded like the legendary inkanyamba, but one could never tell. Sometimes, people saw what they wanted to see. And legends were often self-fulfilling prophecies. But, despite that…

  “I will investigate the river. Thanks for the food, Aphiwe.”

  She practically glowed as she thanked me, turned and walked away.

  I watched her as she left, noting the swaying of her hips. From the corner of my eye, I saw a less desirable visage, as Graham grinned mischievously.

  “What?” I asked him.

  “Mysterious stranger, rock-hard muscles, scars from a life of service and sacrifice…” Graham listed, putting on the air of one reciting romantic poetry.

  “What are you talking about, demon?”

  Graham rolled his eyes. “Are all humans as dull as you? You like that girl. Hit it!”

  “Hit her? No!”

  “For the love of…no, seduce her.”

  I shook my head, returning hastily to my meal. It was growing colder.

  Graham appeared in front of me, stealing one of the mielies. He consumed an entire side of it before levelling it at me like a weapon.

  “You aren’t going to get anywhere with this mysterious outsider shtick if you don’t follow through. I saw how you looked at her…”

  “She’s afraid of me.”

  “For now! Because you’re a dangerous man of violence but, if she can figure out that you’re HER man of violence, then she’ll be putty in your hands.”

  I shook my head. “No, no. It’s not appropriate.”

  Graham turned, giving a loud and exasperated sigh. I would be surprised if no one else had heard him.

  “You’re such a prude, Guy Mgebe. You got the violence part down pat, but you have a lot to learn about sex before you can be a real man.”

  I winced, but Graham didn’t seem to notice, as he smelled liquor and went to raid the villagers of their feast day booze.

  ***

  The river in question was quite far away from the village. It must be impressive for the villagers to seek it out despite all the closer streams. And even more impressive now that they wanted me to risk my life to kill a legendary giant eel so they could use it again.

  Well, that was my lot.

  Graham pestered me about lack of pay, as if it was his problem. But he wouldn’t understand. These weren’t his people.

  Over a final grassy hillock, I saw the river. Brackish, but long and wide, snaking between the hills like the serpent that allegedly inhabited it. Bushes, trees and reeds grew by its banks.

  “Why are there no settlements near this river?” Graham asked, sounding the most scholarly I had ever heard him.

  “Dangers lurk in the depths, and around the shores. Raiders expect villages to appear near rivers. And look at this land. It’s flatter. Fewer places to hide. Very hard to defend.”

  Graham shook his head as he hung loosely off my sleeve.

  “Such an unpleasant land you live in. Haven’t you ever considered going to Hope City? It sounds nice. It’s got hope in its name after all!”

  I snorted, proceeding to the riverbank.

  From a distance, the river looked normal. Nothing out of the ordinary, unless the lack of settlements was considered out of the ordinary. In a safer land, perhaps it would be.

  But, as I reached the bank, keeping a safe distance from the dark waters, I saw disturbances.

  Cracked branches. Flattened bushes.

  I counted the signs of destruction as I scoped the riverbank. A small tree uprooted, hanging limply into the river.

  Graham was uncharacteristically silent as we surveyed the damage to the foliage.

  We soon reached a muddy bank without plants. Shattered and splintered, a small raft lay in ruins against a rock, far from the shore. As if it had been thrown. I knelt close, examining the wreck. A lot of the damage was from the impact with the rock, but there was initial damage in the centre of the raft. Something sharp had crunched into it from both sides, hefting it out of the water and tossing it to shore.

  I stood up and faced the river. The sun brightened as clouds passed out of the way. There were trenches dug into the dark mud. Not made by man. As if trails made by a creature dragging its immense weight through the dirt.

  They looked like snake tracks. But, if the snake was massive.

  “This seems a bit above your paygrade,” Graham said, and he didn’t sound mocking.

  I turned my back on the river and left.

  “Are you really leaving this beast here? I didn’t think you had the sense!” Graham added.

  “No. I’m coming back,” I said. “But I’m going to need a little help…”

  Chapter 12. Muti

  A blinding flash of lightning followed by the boom of thunder. It wasn’t like a gunshot. In a way, it was more terrifying. Storms spoke to something primal within us. Our genes remembered when we couldn’t hide behind thick walls and sturdy roofs. Our bodies remembered the terror of the cold, and the noise. And, despite all we now understood about weather, and rain, and lightning…storms reminded us that knowledge couldn’t protect us from everything.

  Dark clouds covered the hills in shadow. I saw the hut only by the small lamp hung outside its door.

  Perhaps, it was not a coincidence that the storm started as I approached this lone hut in the hills. It was said that witch doctors kept impundulu as pets and familiars. In exchange for human blood, the lightning birds would provide the witch doctor with the power of the storms.

  This was not a witch doctor. This hut belonged to a sangoma. A healer. But…often enough there was little difference.

  Graham was nowhere to be seen as I pulled my raincoat in tighter around my body. Raincoat was a bit of an overstatement. It was basically a bit of almost human shaped tarp that I used for transporting monster bits, and for occasionally keeping myself out of the rain.

  The world went white for a split second again, followed by the booming of nature. I repressed a shudder, as I rapped my knuckles on the hut’s wooden door.

  One knock. Two knocks.

  Before I could perform a third, the door opened, revealing an elderly man with a scowl that seemed indented into his skin. He wore a faded robe, but in its day would have been a rich array of red and blues in the shape of flowers and stars. A wig crafted of white beads fell around his head like a waterfall. The room smelled like earth and blood.

  “What?!” he asked, sharply.

  “I seek to slay a monster. An inkanyamba by the river a few valleys south.”

  “And this concerns me how?” the sangoma hissed, looking behind me as if he expected vagabonds to shove past me any second.

  “I come looking for muti. For protection against the darkness. I bring some things that may interest you in exchange.”

  The sangoma scoffed. “I don’t lust after idola, little herd boy.”

  I shook my head. “And I have no idola to give. But if it is the parts of monsters that interest you, then I think we could make a deal.”

  The sangoma had been on the verge of closing the door, but he stopped. He spun, his beaded wig rattling.

  “Come in. Close the door.”

  I entered, giving a presumably invisible Graham a few moments to pass through the door before closing it behind me. The cacophony of the storm became a muffle. The thatched roof of the hut sealed away the torrents. Magic or engineering, I did not know. In a way, they were the same thing.

  The sangoma, paying me no heed, returned to a colourful woven mat, where he retrieved a mortar and pestle. As a sangoma, he should be grinding up isicakathi – plants with medicinal properties. But the contents of his mortar were white. Like bone meal. I hoped it was from an animal.

  I was slow to join the sangoma, as I examined his room. The walls were lined with shelves, bearing jars of plants, pickled reptiles and disturbing organs. I wasn’t an expert in anatomy, but I suspected that some of it may have been human. Or zombie. Fine line there.

  I stopped at a snow globe, dep
icting the Drakensberg mountains. A quaint little thing. If I had space for it, I may have asked to include it in the trade.

  I finally sat down, cross-legged, opposite the sangoma. He kept grinding the white powder, adding a few violet flower petals, and some white objects that looked like dog teeth.

  “You are a Blood Hunter,” the sangoma said, matter of factly.

  I nodded.

  The sangoma sighed. It didn’t sound frustrated, and rather held just a bit of pity.

  “Black-clad fools, all of you. You chase demons and monsters to train for your fated battle with the blood-drinkers. But we all know that battle will never come. There are always too few of you. And no one appreciates your work. And, even if they did, how do they reward you? The only people with money are collaborators, or impi, or the Blood themselves. So, you wander the hills in search of revenge. You tell yourself that you are training. That your hunt means something. But, in the end…you are only searching for your grave.”

  A muffled crack of thunder punctuated his rant. Or was it truly a rant? I looked into his eyes, even as he kept them downcast on his work. Yes, that was pity.

  “My fruitless hunts sometimes bear fruit, witch,” I said. The sangoma winced, but his eyes became hungry as I revealed a cloth bag of vials.

  “Ghoul blood. Taken while alive…if you can call it that. Not as potent as vampire blood, as you know. But it should be enough for what I need.”

  The sangoma reached greedily, but then hesitantly, towards one of the vials. He uncorked it and sniffed, before dipping a finger in to taste.

  I didn’t stop him, despite what I knew about the liquid. It wouldn’t make him a mindless thrall, but one should never drink the Blood. You could become lost in it.

  The sangoma nodded, satisfied. He recorked the vial and put it with the rest, before closing up the cloth bag and stowing it behind him.

  “Do you have any charms, spells or muti in mind?” the sangoma asked. Pity and contempt had disappeared from the man. He looked eager. Good.

  “The red roots of the Umabophe for weakening the beast. The juices of the ikhubalolika lanjeni to grant my body protection. And, finally, a necklace of ancestral marks to lend me guidance.”

  The sangoma nodded, slowly, before standing up to retrieve the ingredients needed to make the charms and muti.

  “The inkanyamba is said to be able to take flight,” the sangoma said, rifling through some jars. “Does that pistol of yours have ammunition? I could provide some divine powder to augment the rounds.”

  I shook my head, sadly.

  “It is winter. They have never been known to fly outside of the summer months. I hope to lure it on land and trap it.”

  I heard the clinking of glass as the sangoma revealed a glass bottle. It used to be a vodka bottle. Clear glass. But it had been corked and filled with reddish-brown liquid.

  “Hide this bottle inside the carcass of a calf. When it has consumed it, its wounds will reopen and no longer heal. It shall become weak and ready to be slain.”

  I nodded my thanks, stowing the bottle of magical poison in my bag.

  The storm ended, eventually. I bid the sangoma farewell. He was too busy grinning at the vials of ghoul blood. I closed the door on my way out.

  “You can’t really believe that this stuff will work?!” Graham accused, popping into existence onto my shoulder, holding the vial of ground up red roots.

  I grabbed it from him, and he blinked on top of my head.

  “There’s real magic, Guy, and then there’s just hocus pocus.”

  “Rich coming from you…tokoloshe. You’re a myth from my people’s history. And these medicines and charms are the way of my people. You should respect them more.”

  Graham rolled his eyes. I didn’t even need to see him do it. I could just guess that the snide little demon would have such a reaction.

  I stepped out onto the muddy path, breathing in the fresh air. Everything smelled better after a shower. Especially the Earth.

  “The mythology of mortals doesn’t concern me. And even if it did, am I not a testament to its inaccuracy? What am I supposed to be? A giant gorilla with a crocodile head? A gremlin who consumes little children? A water sprite that cannot harm you if you sleep on bricks…”

  “Fine, fine…I get your point. But, Silumko says these charms work.”

  “And Silumko is…?”

  “I’ve mentioned him at least eight times.”

  Graham examined his nails. He had lost interest. I repressed a huff and continued on my way.

  “Why do you even care?” I asked, finally.

  Graham pondered the question.

  “You amuse me, mortal. I would rather you aren’t eaten anytime soon. It would be particularly humorous for a moment, but then I would have to find a new travelling companion. And you know how shy I am.”

  Could have fooled me!

  “If you truly don’t want me to die, imp, then you could help me slay the beast. For once.”

  Graham shrugged, and that was the end of that.

  Chapter 13. Swim

  Clear skies were covered once again, darkening the land. I prayed a storm wouldn’t come. Legend said that the inkanyamba could control the storms. But, so could impundulu. Now that I thought about it, a lot of the local mythological beasts were big on controlling storms. Perhaps, their competition for domination over the elements left the weather in equilibrium?

  I stopped dragging the calf carcass as the river came into view. Two men from the village had helped me carry it this far but, as the clouds covered the sky once again, they fled. Graham was practically rolling on the floor laughing at that. We mortals really were amusing to him, apparently.

  I took a deep breath and then tugged hard on the carcass again, pulling it a few more inches through the mud. Graham appeared atop the poor departed creature, his legs crossed.

  “Those men flee this beast, but you charge towards it,” he said, grinning. “What does this mean?”

  I snorted by way of response, pulling the corpse just a bit further. Had it become heavier? Graham didn’t weigh much when he was perched on my head or shoulders. But knowing him, he could probably adjust his own weight. Just to torment me.

  “It means,” Graham continued, despite my displeasure. “That either you are a fool, or they are.”

  “They are not fools,” I grunted, as I hefted the calf over a rock indented into the mud.

  “Then that makes you the fool.”

  “Perhaps.”

  Graham frowned at that. A rare expression on the demon’s face.

  The slope downwards made my labour much easier, but it was still hard going, as the body caught on branches and rocks, and its limbs got stuck in the mud.

  “You respect them,” Graham finally said. “Even though they are simple folk. Peasants.”

  “They know what life is meant to be. Peace. And they embrace it. I am the fool for seeking violence and death. But…”

  “Without you…they would not have peace.”

  His voice was low. Measured. Graham had never sounded so sincere or thoughtful before.

  I pulled on the carcass, wrestling it from its restraints and agonisingly pulling it to the riverbank. Graham remained sitting on the calf, crossing his legs and looking into the distance.

  Eventually, I reached the riverbank. Graham disappeared as I let the calf lie in the mud. A light drizzle had begun to fall. Hopefully, it would remain light.

  I retrieved the poison bottle from my bag and placed it deeply within the pre-cut hole in the calf’s side, securing it firmly in its gut. I would have liked some explosives too, but one could only dream.

  Bait as ready as it could ever be, I proceeded to a tree. It had a thick trunk, with old roots sinking deep into the earth. I retrieved a long rope, which I tied around the tree trunk. Silumko had drilled me in knot-tying. A lot. I was confident this knot could hold a dragon. I tied the other end of the rope to a metal ring on the butt of one of my assegais. The blad
e on this weapon had hooks on the side. Once it pierced a target, it would take a lot of damage for it to slide out.

  I crouched down and took out my arsenal. Machete, hooked assegai and my plain silvered one. From a vial from the sangoma, I took out the red roots of the Umabohe and began chewing them.

  “Careful, hunter,” Graham chided, seemingly out of his contemplative mood. “You don’t want to chew it all to pulp before you can spit it at the serpent. For all the good that would do.”

  I spat the red root pulp onto my machete blade, and then chewed some more and spat it onto the blades of both my assegais. Graham cocked his head.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  I picked up my machete and began spreading the pulp across my blade.

  “You’re meant to spit it at the enemy,” Graham explained. It seemed he did understand some Nguni traditions.

  “Silumko says that’s a waste of good roots. The plant has magical properties, but only when used right.”

  With my finger, I began drawing symbols onto the now earthy red blades. The symbols were straight lines. Simple geometry. But not random. Silumko had pushed me hard to remember this runic scripture. I could draw it blindfolded. I had, once before. And many more times in the dark, stalking my prey.

  Graham watched, seemingly genuinely curious, as I applied similar runes to the other blades.

  “The rain will wash it off,” he argued.

  “Then it will wash off. But worth making the effort, just in case it doesn’t.”

  “These patterns…they’re runes?”

  I nodded. “From Uhlanga. The same place this beast comes from. Kryptonite hurts Superman from Krypton, so the runes of Uhlanga should hurt this beast from Uhlanga.”

  “Arbitrary reasoning”

  I shrugged. “The runes weaken the hide of those it touches. But it must be written in the pulp of the red root. Else, I’d use it more often.”

  Graham watched my preparations for a while longer, as I drank the juice of the ikhubalolika lanjeni and placed the necklace of ancestral marks around my neck. The necklace was crafted of animal bone and the lightning-struck wood of trees in the area. Similar Uhlangan runes were carved into each, bearing the true names of my ancestors.