Vampires in America

by D. B. Reynolds

  The crowds were noticeably thinner as he made his way toward the third tent, operating on instinct. Ordinarily, he imagined Vernon would be leading the show in one of the larger tents, calling reluctant patrons to come stare at the freaks. But when they’d walked through earlier, Raphael had seen that the third tent was still quiet and forlorn, still listing heavily to one side. Logic said Vernon was losing money with every hour the tent remained dark. Instinct told him Vernon would work his slaves to death if that’s what it took to get it re-opened.

  He heard Vernon’s voice before he circled the tent and found him sitting in a folding chair, directing the two slaves and mopping his brow, as if he was the one doing all the work.

  “Not that way, you fool,” he bellowed. He waved an arm, but didn’t raise the whip which lay on the ground next to him.

  “Too tired to whip your own slaves, Vernon?” Raphael asked in his silkiest voice.

  The man’s head snapped around, the chair falling over behind him as he struggled to stand. “What the hell do you want?” he demanded. “I told you to leave. I won’t warn you again.” Striding over to where the two huge men were working to erect the tent, he picked up the heavy chain that linked to the iron collar around the neck of the one who’d challenged Raphael earlier. Vernon gave the chain a yank to get the slave’s attention, which drew the other one along as well, since the two were linked. “You,” he yelled, addressing the first slave. “Get rid of this troublemaker. Toss him in the bay.”

  The big slave stared at Vernon for a moment, as if contemplating his death, and then swung his gaze over to Raphael, who said, “I did say I’d be back.”

  Vernon stared back and forth between them, his chest heaving with growing outrage, hands still fisted around the thick chain. Without warning, he dropped the chain, pulled a weapon, and fired at Raphael.

  After that, two things happened at the same time. One of the slaves gave a huge bellow and grabbed Vernon. And Raphael felt an agonizing pain in his chest, the kind of pain he hadn’t felt since he’d been turned over four hundred years ago, when he’d suffered through his rebirth as a vampire, alone and ignorant. He pressed a hand to his chest and it came away wet. He looked down and stared. Blood. Too much blood.

  He collapsed to his knees, feeling the magic that ran through his veins trying to patch him back together, but he’d spent so much of his own blood in the last few hours—healing first Bennie and then Agnes—that his body was struggling to recover. For the first time since that long-ago turning, he realized with shocking clarity, he was in danger of dying.

  Raphael gritted his teeth and forced himself to concentrate. He hadn’t survived a sadistic father, a murderous bitch of a mistress, and three thousand hellish miles at sea only to die on a dirty pier in San Francisco.

  Turning his magic inward, he began repairing the worst of the damage. If he could restore others, he could damn well mend himself. At least well enough to hold until their rendezvous with Lucas, who could give him an infusion of much-needed power. He was so intent on his work that he wasn’t aware of the two slaves or Vernon, until he heard the handler yelling for help at the top of his lungs.

  Acting on instinct, Raphael reached out and wrapped a narrow ribbon of power around Vernon’s heart. Following the sounds of the man’s pained gasps, he turned slowly and found one of the slaves, the quiet one who never spoke, gripping both of Vernon’s arms behind his back, holding them both in one big hand. It looked painful. And from the constant wails of the circus man, it was.

  “Please,” Vernon rasped, staring at Raphael. “Help me.”

  Raphael watched him coldly. He still held the man’s heart in a delicate grip. A single twitch of his finger, the slightest flare of his power, and the organ would be nothing but ash. It would be totally bloodless. No need to open the man’s chest. But he wanted him to suffer, wanted him to feel a small fraction of the pain he’d no doubt inflicted on others, including the two big men who were looking on with identical expressions of cool curiosity.

  Raphael looked from one identical face to the other. “His life belongs to you, not me. I will take it,” he continued, ignoring Vernon’s renewed wails, “if that’s your wish.”

  The men remained silent, staring at each other. If they’d been vampires, Raphael would have assumed some telepathic communication. But they were fully human. He wondered if their twin birth had gifted them with some other means of communication, or if they’d simply spent so much of their lives together that words were no longer necessary.

  The one in front of Vernon, the same one who’d eyed Raphael so boldly, picked up the revolver that their tormentor had shot Raphael with and studied it carefully, turning it this way and that, pointing it in the distance and lining up its sights. When he swung around and pointed the gun at Vernon, the man’s squeals became non-stop, as he twisted and fought the hold on his arms, causing himself more pain with nothing to show for it. The silent twin behind him barely seemed to notice the man’s thrashing attempts at escape.

  “If I shoot him, the police might investigate,” the twin holding the gun said.

  Raphael studied him. “You speak English,” he said, not commenting on the fact that these were the first words he’d ever heard from either of them.

  “Enough,” the twin said. He seemed to be the spokesman for the pair.

  “I can make his death appear as though his heart failed.”

  “Will he suffer?”

  Raphael smiled slowly. “Oh, yes.”

  The twin glanced at his brother, then nodded. “Then do it. We would not have the rest of our lives haunted by those looking for answers to his death.”

  Raphael turned to Vernon and let his fangs slide out to slowly fill his smile. Power struck silver in his black gaze, as the human babbled in terror.

  “Don’t let him touch me. He’s a monster. He’s not even human. Look at him!” he shrieked, as the stench of urine filled the air.

  Raphael lifted his hand and crooked one finger, sliding a barbed hook of power into the man’s heart and giving it a slow tug, this way and that. Vernon screamed while his heart was slowly ripped into pieces, as Raphael held onto his life force, refusing to let him die until the organ was no more than shredded bloody flesh and Vernon could do nothing but keen mindlessly as he suffered.

  Raphael would have made it last longer. Days would have been the appropriate sentence for the man’s crimes. But the night was moving on, and Lucas would be growing impatient. If Raphael didn’t show up soon, Lucas would come looking for him.

  He sighed, feeling more tired than he had in years. Perhaps he’d grown complacent about his own immortality. It was different now. Guns permitted an enemy to kill from a distance, and even the most powerful vampire could die if a bullet shredded his heart.

  Forcing himself to his feet, he looked at the two men. “You can’t stay here,” he cautioned. “You should come with me, at least until we’re away from this city.”

  The spokesman tilted his head curiously. “Are you vampire?”

  Raphael concealed his surprise. Few humans knew what a vampire was, especially in this new world. “I am,” he agreed. “But I don’t feed on the unwilling, if that’s your concern.”

  The big man nodded, then lifted the heavy chain that still bound him to his brother. He didn’t bother noting the shackles on his ankles and neck. “We’ll have to get rid of these.”

  Raphael gestured at the dead man. “Do you know where he carries the key?”

  “He doesn’t. They’re in his wagon. He was too afraid we’d take it from him if he kept it with him.”

  Raphael considered that. Vernon’s wagon was already outside the city, with Lucas and the others. “Was it the wagon with a blue door?” he asked, wanting to be sure.

  The big man shrugged. “We’ve never even seen his wagon. My brother and I s
lept with the beasts.”

  Raphael’s lip curled in disgust. He should have made the man suffer more. “I don’t need any key,” he muttered abruptly. Walking over, he snapped the chain between the two brothers, then turned to the talkative one. “The collar will have to stay for now. I don’t want to hurt you.” Going down to one knee, he reached for the chain between the man’s ankles, but the large man stepped back with a grunted protest.

  “Your clothes! It’s filthy here, sir. We can wait—”

  “The clothes are replaceable, and already covered in blood. And, no, you cannot wait even one more hour.” Raphael snapped the chains close to the heavy metal anklets, then reached for the man’s brother and did the same. He stood and looked up to meet the man’s eyes, which was something he rarely had to do. Raphael was well over six feet, very tall for a man in his time and still now. But the former slave was taller than he was by several inches. “What’s your name?” he asked.

  The big man blinked, as if no one had asked him that simple question in a very long time. “Juro,” he said finally. “And my brother is Ken’ichi.”

  Raphael tilted his head curiously. “Japanese,” he identified. “Does your brother speak?” He’d known mutes before, men of average or better intellect who, for one reason or another, couldn’t speak out loud.

  Juro nodded. “He talks when there’s something worth saying.”

  “You’re twins?”

  He nodded again.

  “Your English is quite good.”

  “I’m a good listener.”

  Raphael smiled. “Are you coming with me?”

  “We owe you our lives.”

  “That’s not what I asked, and there is no debt, regardless. If you come with me, I can promise you a better life and honest work as free men.”

  Juro studied him for a long moment, then glanced at his brother and back again. “You’re more than you seem, and I’m a curious man. We’ll go with you, at least until we are, all of us, safe.”

  “Fair enough. Is there anything you need from your quarters, anything you want to bring with you?”

  Juro shook his head. “We have nothing.”

  He said it with such finality that Raphael knew he meant it literally. They owned nothing. “All right. There’s a wagon harnessed and waiting for us. The cook’s wagon, I’m told. We should go before someone notices.”

  “Stealing wagons?” Juro observed as they started walking. “That doesn’t seem very noble.”

  Raphael snorted. “Whoever said I was noble?”

  Juro stared. “Your clothes, your speech . . .”

  “A clever disguise. Can you drive the horses?”

  “Ken’ichi can. He has a way with animals.”

  “Good. You and I will ride in the back. The others are waiting for us at the southern edge of the city. There’s a stable, first left off the main road, once—”

  “The horses will lead the way,” Ken’ichi interrupted quietly, speaking for the first time. “They’ll sense the others and hurry to join them.”

  Raphael studied him a moment. He wasn’t accustomed to being interrupted. But then he shrugged. “Let’s hope they all get along, then. We’ve a long journey ahead of us.”

  JURO SAT IN THE back of the wagon, watching the stranger, the vampire, who’d rescued him and his brother. The man—for vampire or not, he was clearly also a man—certainly had an air of authority about him. He’d seen the way the other man, probably also a vampire, had deferred to this one, though there’d been a good measure of respect and affection mixed in there, too. The vampire—Raphael, he’d said his name was—leaned against the side wall of the closed wagon, his eyes closed, and with no sign of the fangs he’d displayed with great effect to Vernon. It made sense that the fangs could be retracted into the gums. How else could they hide among regular humans? What surprised Juro the most was that, despite his terrible injuries and the obvious weakness that resulted, Raphael hadn’t consumed any blood. He’d killed Vernon, but he’d never bitten him. The actual killing was another mystery for Juro to solve. Raphael had killed the brutal human without ever touching him. Magic. It had to be.

  Juro believed in magic. His people in Japan were ardent believers in the existence of demons and ghosts, and other similar spirits. Vampires fell nicely into that belief system. In Japanese lore, demons were creatures who wandered between life and death, and who possessed the power to affect the natural world. Some were evil, some good.

  Juro considered himself a good judge of men. He’d seen a lot during his years as a slave. Men tended to forget he and his brother were there, or, at least, to forget they were human. Vernon’s so-called business associates ignored them as one would a cow or horse. That meant Juro had seen the darkest nature of these men, and, sometimes, the virtuous nature of others. For eight years, he and Ken’ichi had watched and learned, and Juro believed, to the depths of his soul, that this Raphael was a good man. But a good man who was capable of terrible cruelty when it served him.

  “It’s not much farther,” Raphael said, surprising Juro. He’d thought the man asleep.

  “I’m fine,” Juro replied, looking around the bare walls of the wagon. They’d stripped the interior of the cook’s equipment and personal belongings, until there was nothing left but a wooden box with deep benches on both sides. And they’d left the narrow door open between the compartments, so they could hear Ken’ichi if he called. “This is far better than our previous accommodations,” Juro added.

  Raphael’s eyes opened, and they seemed to glow, as if they were lined with silver. “How long?” he asked, pinning Juro with those strange eyes.

  Juro didn’t even consider lying, or pretending not to understand the question. He owed Raphael too much to disrespect him with games. “Eight years,” he said, keeping his voice flat and emotionless.

  Raphael studied him a moment longer. “How? You and your brother are big, strong men. How did a worm like Vernon manage to capture and keep you?”

  Juro smiled bitterly. “We weren’t captured, we volunteered. We came to this country as children, with our parents. They worked hard to build a new life here, but the money was never enough. So, Ken’ichi and I worked, too. In the fields at first, but we grew too fast and too big. Our bodies were no longer suited for that work. We were on our way to a lumber mill when a man from the circus saw us walking on the road.”

  “Vernon?”

  “No, he came later. This man dressed like a gentleman, a man of means. He claimed to own a large circus that traveled from one coast to the next, performing in all the big cities to huge crowds. He told us people would pay to see us demonstrate how strong we were. He made much of the fact that we were twins, and said it would only bring in more money.” Juro shook his head, remembering. “Ken’ichi and I dreamed of sending money back to our parents, rescuing them from a life of backbreaking work. We saw ourselves in fine clothes, traveling the continent, seeing all the marvels this new world had to offer.” He fell silent.

  “What happened?” Raphael asked finally.

  “We were idiots. People paid to see us, but we didn’t see any of that money. We were chained like animals and treated the same way. When our benefactor grew tired of traveling and retired to his fine life, the circus was broken up and the pieces sold, including us. But you heard that part from Vernon. Our price was low, because the cost of keeping us was too high. We ate as much as the bears and elephants, but weren’t as popular with the crowds.”

  Raphael’s attention shifted without warning, his expression intent and focused somewhere that Juro couldn’t see. A moment later, the wagon jolted to a stop, but the vampire was already on his feet and out the door. Juro followed, but the moment his feet hit the ground, he felt something slam into his chest. He stumbled back, thinking he’d been shot, but there was nothing.

  “Where
the hell were you when he was being attacked? Hiding behind your fucking circus tent?” The other man—the one who’d been with Raphael earlier—practically flew through the air as he jumped off his horse and strode up to Juro, his eyes giving off golden sparks on the unlit road.

  Vampire. Juro was sure of it. But vampire or not, he didn’t get to call Juro a coward. Juro lowered his head and glared through half-lidded eyes. He’d had years of learning to control his anger, years when he’d been chained like an animal and beaten if he fought back. But he wasn’t an animal, and he wasn’t chained anymore. He didn’t care what vampire strength this bastard had. Juro had size on his side.

  But Raphael was holding out a hand, silently asking him to wait. And because it was Raphael asking, Juro waited.

  “Lucas,” Raphael said quietly. “I’m fine.”

  The two vampires were both big men by most standards. Not compared to Juro and his brother, but they were larger than most. They stood only inches apart, and there was so much emotion between them. Lucas was studying every bit of Raphael, his face contorted with worry, while Raphael seemed to be trying to evoke calm, to reassure Lucas that he truly was well.

  “But you weren’t,” the vampire Lucas insisted. “I felt it, Sire. I felt the bullet nick your heart. You nearly died, because you’d given your blood to him.” He spat the last word, glaring his condemnation at Juro.

  “But I didn’t die. And it wasn’t Juro’s fault—he took none of my blood. It was what I gave to Bennie and Agnes that left me vulnerable—especially Agnes. She was weakened to the point of death when we found her. I was foolish not to have fed well before we began this venture.”