by J. R. Rain
I took careful aim, time and time again, squeezing shots off into chests, always the biggest target. Head shots were for snipers with clear targets, not late-night desert warfare. In a battle, we were taught to aim for the chest, always the chest.
Seven of my first eight shots were true, but I took no great pleasure in watching man after man tumble to his death. I was methodical and calculating, and even as some riders made it into camp, I held my place. The wooden chests absorbed many bullets, and so far, they served me well, keeping me out of harm’s way, and War Daddy, too.
Two more shots, two more fallen bandits. Which brought me down to my last bullet. Luckily, we seemed to be holding off the bastards. I saw some of them hightailing it up over the closest dune, fleeing and shooting randomly behind them like the cowards they were.
I had been so intent on tracking them, waiting for the perfect last shot, when two things happened simultaneously: War Daddy erupted in barking and I was tackled from behind.
I pitched forward, my weapon flying from my hands. Powerful knees jammed in my lower back, followed by the distinctive whisper of a blade being unsheathed. It all happened so fast and, as much as I hated to admit it, the man was stronger than me. That, and he had the element of surprise on his side. As I struggled, knowing that at any moment a blade could sever my spine or pierce my heart or plunge into the back of my neck, I heard the hellacious growls and barks above me, and the next thing I knew, the man was dragged off me. I turned, drawing my jambiya. And saw something I would not soon forget: War Daddy had his jaws around the man’s throat, crushing the life out of him. His blade, I saw, was firmly planted in War Daddy’s hindquarters. The dog didn’t seem to notice or care, and by the time I had crawled to my feet, I could see the massive damage to the man’s throat. Irreparable damage. He gave me one last confused look before he quit struggling.
e’d lost eight men. The bandits had lost twenty-four.
Between War Daddy and myself, we had killed ten of them. I was not happy with that number. A lost life was just that, lost. Would those twenty-four dead men have eventually gone on to do some good in the world? Perhaps. Perhaps not.
I had escaped unscathed. War Daddy, not so much. Luckily, one of the group was a medic—in particular, a veterinarian of sorts. When one traveled with thirty pack animals, one needed a professional skilled in caring for them. I watched with a heavy heart as the man stitched up War Daddy. Again, he had had lost so much blood. The others had seen him take down the bandit, had seen him choke the life out of a man who’d sought to harm us. They had seen me level the bandits, too, one shot at a time. We were treated as heroes, and War Daddy’s health was not taken lightly.
We buried the dead, even the bandits, according to Muslim traditions. The traders were good people. We stockpiled their weapons and provisions and soon, we were carrying on, with War Daddy being lifted carefully and placed over my lap, as I sat high upon my camel.
Many more days passed.
War Daddy slept them away, only awakening to lick his wounds and to drink sparingly. He was not much interested in food either. By the fourth day, I was worried, but by the fifth, my worry was all for naught. I awoke to a very wet, eager tongue on my face, and a whole lot of dog breath, too. I looked up into what I was sure was the doggie version of a smile. I smiled, too, and pulled the big guy into me, and held him tight. I was not ashamed that relieved, grateful tears came from me. They were, of course, promptly lapped up by the big fella.
t was out of their way, but the traders escorted me to the desert village on the edge of forever. It was, in fact, a glorious oasis of palm trees and a clear pool of water that, I suspected, was very, very deep. We filled every container we had and only then, drank deeply from the pool itself.
In Riyadh, I’d spent many days tracing the drug traffickers. I’d narrowed it down to a likely village in the northwest territories, where they have been known to steal dogs off streets and out of the yards, to use them as drug mules.
It was here, in this forgotten town, where the caravan pulled up short. It was here, as I sat with the now mostly healed War Daddy, that I came to realize this might be the last I might see of him. T’aul stood with me, his arm in a sling. He had taken a bullet in his bicep, but seemed okay now, thanks to the care of the caravan’s vet.
I nodded to T’aul to proceed, and as the caravan now descended into the village, War Daddy and I made our way through the streets with no names. It was a hot day, but the nearby water and the promise of replenishment seemed to make it less so. Indeed, I noticed a spring in War Daddy’s step. How wise was it for me to return the dog to his home, to the very place from where he’d been abducted? I didn’t know the answer to that, but seeing War Daddy take the lead, his tongue hanging out and a spring to his step, well, that meant the world to me. It was all I could do to follow him because he obviously knew where he was going.
It didn’t take long for us to attract a small crowd. At first, it was children, boys only, many of them dressed in knock-off American t-shirts and shorts. Many were barefoot. All were smiling and giggling. Many of the boys came up to War Daddy and hugged him tightly and with easy familiarity—not something you saw very much of in this country since many Saudis would not even touch dogs. But War Daddy was special to them. He absorbed their love, his tail wagging, his ears forward. Always forward. When they were done, the big white dog continued onward, and I followed him. Hell, we all did.
Soon, the adults of the village joined in, all talking excitedly, all looking at me with curiosity and certain admiration. The men’s faces were bronzed, the women’s eyes wide and bright, the rest hidden behind the traditional head-cloth. All of them followed us, including some in my caravan. A streaming crowd pushed through the simple streets, all following War Daddy.
Someone took my hand—a young boy. I smiled and held the small, sticky hand as War Daddy led the way. Shortly, I sensed the crowd holding back, and I saw why: the big, beautiful white dog was heading straight for a small wattle-and-daub home on the far edge of town. I slowed my pace, even as War Daddy picked up his. Soon, he was bounding, his long tongue hanging out. I might have seen a trail of saliva escape. His stride was long and sure, his healed hindquarters rippling with muscle and strength. He had his destination in sight and let loose a sharp bark at the front door when he arrived, and then sat there, waiting.
It was then that a little girl suddenly appeared in the now-open doorway—War Daddy came up to her and would have bowled her over if he hadn’t been so careful and aware. Instead, he stopped short as the girl threw her arms around him—and soon, the rest of her family filtered out, staring first at us in shock and awe, and then down at their dog as tears of recognition and gratitude sprang from their eyes and ran down their faces. The man shouted something excitedly. As I translated his words in my head, someone else quickly brought an item I recognized, an item that gutted me when I realized that this was truly the end of War Daddy’s journey with me. As a dog harness with a U-shaped handle was shoved into the hands of the little girl with the mesmerizing, crystal-blue eyes—eyes, which did not see—she gave a cry of delight and called out in a local dialect, “My eyes! My eyes!” And I realized that was War Daddy’s real name… who he was to her.
My eyes…
I turned away from the scene and pushed my way through the crowd, my heart heavy but happy, when I felt a small tug on my khakis. I was expecting to see, perhaps, the owners of War Daddy, but I saw the dog himself, looking up at me with that doggie smile of his, tail wagging. I squatted down and gave the big lug the biggest hug I could.
A goodbye hug.
’aul and I and ten traders stayed behind and planned our assault on the nearby village that was known to harbor the base of operations for the drug traffickers, one of whom was missing a finger and two other matching body parts that had shown up in War Daddy’s gut. Two parts I had neglected to mention. Two parts a man would really, really miss.
Soon, a much bigger party, aided by those
in the village who were sick and tired of being used by the local thugs, joined our cause. Our numbers swelled to over thirty fighters, and our plan was strategic and well-thought-out. With luck, the drug traffickers and their local empire would be leveled, only to be swallowed by the desert itself and its ever-shifting sands.
Wish us luck.
Author’s Note: Vampire Dawn (Vampire for Hire #6) was a tough book for me to finish. I wrote, I believe, six different endings before settling on one. But one of them has always haunted me. I liked it. Except, sadly, I couldn’t make it work. I liked the set-up: Sam saving her kidnapped sister. Except, of course, I never had her sister kidnapped… or even involved in the storyline. So, to make it work, I would have had to go back and layer her sister more thoroughly throughout the story. I wasn’t sure that would work. Plus, I didn’t really like the idea of using her sister as a plot ploy. So, the idea got scrapped, and the scene cut… until now. Please note, this alternate ending was never quite finished, but I think you might still enjoy it. —J.R. Rain.
t the base of the stairway, an amorphous entity materialized before me. It soon took on the shape of a young woman—a young woman with a deep gash across her throat. She appeared to hover in midair, as ghosts are wont to do.
As I stepped forward, she blocked my path. She lifted what was supposed to be a hand, but was really just a blurred stump. I tried to step around her but she blocked my path again. Each time she moved, her mostly shapeless body lost what definition it had, until it swarmed again and reformed. She shook what was left of her head.
I paused in this lower level hallway, a level that was far colder than the floor just above. A level that smelled of death.
“I’m okay,” I whispered. “But thank you.”
She shook her head again, and kept on shaking it even as I stepped through her, scattering her glowing filaments like so many frightened fish.
Shivering, I moved forward again, toward a door at the far end of the hallway. Beyond it, hiding behind a pillar of some sort, was a man waiting to kill me. Of that I was sure.
And behind him, in a room filled with light, was my sister.
I was sure of that, too.
Suddenly pissed beyond control, I marched down the hall, and gave the killer what he was waiting for.
Me.
With one raised foot and a lot of rage, I kicked the door open. So hard that the whole damn thing collapsed forward, including some of the doorframe.
The sound was deafening.
I was here. They knew I was here. Enough with the charade. Besides, I wasn’t standing in the doorway. I was off to the side, just behind the mangled frame as dust billowed everywhere.
I doubted these guys were trained killers. Not like the vampire hunter I’d met last year, a man who systematically hunted down my brethren. No, these guys were punks. Sickos that deceived their victims. At least, that was the impression I’d had when I touched the walls. Women were lured in, and, in the case of Brian Meeks, those who simply worked here as well.
How they captured and killed vampires, I didn’t know, but I was beginning to get some ideas.
For now, though, I had a bastard with a crossbow to deal with.
Of course, what I should do next was still up in the air. I hadn’t really thought things through much further than kicking down the door.
Whoever he was, he was alone. Only one set of excited lungs breathed at the far end of the hall. How many more were beyond this hall, I didn’t know. How many people it took to run a blood ring, I didn’t know that either. The fewer the better. In fact, I doubted the workers I had seen in the theater were truly privy to what was going on behind these closed doors.
Whoever they were, human life meant little. Blood was all that mattered. They were nothing more than butchers.
As I peered around the frame and through the settling dust, I could see bright light issuing out from under the door, crisscrossed by the moving shadows. I had gotten someone’s attention.
As I waited, knowing that a man at the far end of the hallway was holding the one weapon that could actually kill me, the same ghost girl materialized before me. But this time, she didn’t look so staticky. This time, I suspected, anyone could see her. Anyone, as in the guy at the far end of the hallway. She turned her head and looked at me sadly, her eyes round and dark, the gash in her neck somehow deepened, revealing the ghostly hint of her mortally damaged neck. And as she continued to stare at me, I saw what she was doing.
Acting as a decoy.
In that instant, a shiny-tipped arrow swept through her, to thunk deep into the wall behind her. She never took her eyes off me. Instead, she smiled and dematerialized.
I yanked the bolt out of the wall—and moved.
I swept low over the ground, moving impossibly fast. I doubted the shooter had another bolt cocked and ready to fire.
I was right, he hadn’t. Instead, he had something else.
Another crossbow.
Already armed with a silver-tipped arrow. He raised it now as I hurled down the black hallway. I’d had some experience with silver. It wasn’t fun. It was hell, in fact.
Rarely have I moved so fast. I was surprised to see I clawed the ground with my hands like a wild animal, hurling myself forward, covering the long hallway in a blink of an eye.
He had just raised the crossbow, had just started squeezing the trigger when one moment he was alive, and the next he was twitching at my feet, the crossbow bolt lodged deep in his chest. As his legs kicked and he fought for breath that would not come, I looked away and pressed an ear against the door. Voices. Movement. Water dripping.
I looked again at the man at my feet. He’d mercifully quit twitching.
I considered my options, and realized I didn’t have many.
Now would have been a good time to cast my mind out, to search what lay beyond this door, to search for enemies and, most importantly, my sister.
Good plan, except for one problem.
I couldn’t calm down. I couldn’t focus. My mind raced too fast. Blood pumped too hard.
As I listened to the sounds of distant water dripping, I took deep breaths. Until a thought of my sister somewhere behind this door sent my mind off into a fit of rage. I nearly threw the door open and charged inside.
To do that would have been the death of me… and of my sister.
I told myself to relax, to calm my mind.
Finally, finally, I was able to clear it. Enough to cast my thoughts out in an ever-widening gyre. It was my ace in the hole. My edge. Without it, I was walking into a death trap.
Except I wasn’t as calm as I would have liked. The images that were returned to me were fuzzy and incomplete. Still, good enough. There were three of them in the massive room beyond. Three living, that is. Three moving. There were others. Many others… hanging. Dripping blood.
The dripping sounds I’d been hearing.
Sweet Jesus.
Calm down, Sam. Relax. You can do this. Your sister needs you. Hell, you need you.
I breathed deeply, filling my useless lungs with useless air. It was a technique that still worked to help me focus.
From somewhere far down the hallway to my right, a distant sound fought for my attention. It could have been anything. Rats. Earth shifting. Or someone approaching. Hard to tell. Either way, whatever or whoever it was, was still far away. So, I concentrated on the issue at hand.
These new enemies behind the door I couldn’t recognize, although I suspected the tall one near the door was Robert Cash. He held something, assumingly a crossbow. The other was smaller, thinner. Stood straight. Unarmed, as far as I could tell. Impossible to know who they were. At least, for the time being.
I would know soon enough.
I continued my remote search. The massive room was set lower than this hallway. Down some steps. Earth everywhere. It appeared to be a cavern… but an unnatural one, dug out long ago. By whom and for what reason, I didn’t know. Maybe it had always been used to kill and drain an
d feed the local vampires.
I continued mentally scanning the big room—the room of horror—until I saw what appeared to be more doors. No surprise there. There had to be many ways into this underground chamber beneath the theater.
A balcony high above. Accessed by a door to my right.
Another door? Oh?
My eyes shot open. Indeed, behind more junk and behind where the dead man now lay at my feet, was a barely discernible door.
I quietly moved toward it. It was locked. A quick flick of my wrist took care of that.
It opened quietly enough. I slipped inside and headed up.
The stairs were narrow and suspect.
I kept to the far edges, never stepping in the middle, and swept up them as quickly and quietly as I could. I wasn’t alone on the stairs. A
steady procession of faded entities appeared and vanished. These chambers and tunnels, hallways and stairs were easily the most haunted locations I’d ever seen.
No surprise there. This was, after all, a human blood factory. A death factory.
At the upstairs landing, dim light spilled over the railing, illuminating a loft-like area filled with… crap. I stepped past shovels and filthy buckets and weird-looking glass containers. The scent of blood was everywhere. New blood. Old blood. My stomach growled.
Great.
I ignored the growling, hating myself all over again, but releasing the hate immediately. It was, after all, time to save my sister.
I stepped as lightly as I could through the mess, until I found myself at the balcony I had seen in my mental scan. Once there, I looked down at the scene below… and gasped. Human corpses filled the room. They hung from the rafters, many chained, although some suspended by thick ropes. All were naked. All hung upside down. All with slit throats.
My knees threatened to give. Hell, my whole world threatened to give. If I had to breathe, I would have been gasping. I probably would have fainted.
