When the first flash of lightning and crack of thunder broke in front of the cavern’s opening, the horse flinched. “Shh,” he cooed. “I’m right here.” When the second came, the horse barely acknowledged it.
The storm passed through as quickly as it had arrived, and they had faced it together. When he was sure it was truly gone, Dramos got the mare back up and saddled. He pulled the duster back on and led the horse out into the canyon. The ground had been hard packed with nothing to soak up the rain, leaving the path before them thick and muddy. They’d seen worse.
2
It was half past eight in the evening when Dramos rode into the town of Jagged Rock. The General Store was lit up as was the Hotel and the Saloon. A few people milled about, though for the most part, the streets themselves were empty of pedestrians. From somewhere in the darkness Dramos heard an upbeat rendition of Amazing Grace sung in a thick Irish brogue, accompanied by a banjo.
The source of the hymn was a man dressed in black, sitting in front of the hotel, his hat placed on the ground before him, collecting donations. At the late hour it was doubtful he’d have taken in much for his work.
Once he made eye contact with the man behind the music, Dramos held the horse still and nodded his head in appreciation.
Suddenly the lyrics switched from English to Italian, all traces of the Irish brogue gone, without missing a note. Dramos was stunned. He hadn’t heard those lyrics in Italian since he’d left his homeland, and he’d never heard them accompanied by a banjo. The man, sensing his joy, continued to sing in perfect Italian.
Mesmerized, Dramos closed his eyes and let the memories of his homeland flow through him. When the music ended, he dug a gold coin from his pocket and tossed it down into the man’s hat. “Much obliged, Sir,” he said softly.
“Much obliged to you, Sir,” the man said, the Irish returning to his voice. “I take it you’d be Italian by birth.”
“I be,” Dramos agreed. “But how could you know?”
“Tis a gift the Lord bestowed upon me,” he said. “I’m good at faces and their heritage.”
“You’re good with language, too,” Dramos said. “You sang as naturally as my own Grandfather used to when I was a child.” As Dramos slid down off the mare, his duster opened to reveal the two Navy Colts he had tied to his side.
“Another gift,” the Irishman said as he stood. Smiling, he stuck out his hand. “Patrick O’Dea, originally of Ireland, then of Boston, and now a rambler of the West.”
After tying the horse off to the hotel’s post, Dramos reached for the man’s hand. “Dramos,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
The moment their hands locked together, Dramos felt a tingling pass through his hand into the Irishman. It was unlike anything he’d ever felt before.
Patrick’s eyes widened a moment, then reverted to normal. He broke the handshake. “You be more than you appear, Dramos.” He said. “I’m sensing inner strength, fairness and control, but also a measure of fury, the likes of which I’ve never come across before.” He shrugged and smiled. “Another gift,” he offered in way of an explanation.
“This fury,” Dramos said, “are you not concerned?”
“Should I be?”
Dramos considered that for a moment before saying, “I do not believe so. This fury you sense is for someone else.”
“An old debt, I’d wager.”
“And you’d be right.” Dramos tipped his hat back and stared into the Irishman’s eyes. “And what about you, Patrick? I’d wager you are more than a traveling preacher.”
“Oh, I’m not a man of the cloth,” he said. “Not anymore.” A wistful look passed over his eyes. “I was, once,” he said. “But when I was unable to save me own family from evil, I no longer felt worthy of bringing God’s children home.”
“Then why sing hymns in the street?”
Patrick smiled. “They bring me comfort, and at times like this, they bring comfort to new friends.” He paused to stare directly into the gunslinger’s eyes. “And God is not the only Supreme Being that needs his children sent home.”
“In that case, my new friend, how long has it been since you’ve eaten a good meal?” Dramos asked.
“Why do ye ask?”
Dramos pointed toward the Saloon across the street. “I believe I will be meeting some men in there, and if the Saloon offers it, I would be more than happy to buy you a steak.”
“As chance be havin’ it,” Patrick said, “I’ve been watching that particular building meself as I too await the possible arrival of certain men. However, me frugal takings of the day have prohibited me from getting any closer than the street.”
“Then it is settled,” Dramos said, “Let us sup together and discuss our reasons for being here.”
“The Lord does not leave room for coincidence, Dramos,” Patrick said. “I believe it is our destiny to meet tonight.”
3
In spite of the Saloon being filled to near capacity, Dramos noticed a large table covered with a red and white checkered tablecloth sitting empty at the back. Two smaller tables flanking the larger one also sat empty. Obviously the large table was reserved for someone important and no one wanted to sit anywhere near them. He led the way to the nearest empty table to the right of the large one. As they sat down he made sure to catch the eye of the barmaid nearby.
“Who do you suppose the fancy setup is for?” Patrick asked as they sat down.
“Most likely the man I come to see,” Dramos said flatly.
“And who might that be?”
“Don’t rightly know.”
The barmaid approached, silencing their conversation. “Evenin’ Gents. What’ll it be?” she asked, eyeing up Dramos. She’d seen trouble before, and always recognized it when it made another appearance.
“Beer,” Dramos said, looking at Patrick who nodded. “Two. And a bottle of whiskey. The good stuff, not the rotgut you serve these cowpokes. Bring me the stuff the man who sits at the big table gets.”
“That’s gonna cost ya,” she said.
Removing a gold coin from his pocket, Dramos said, “I’d expect it would.” He placed the coin in front of her on the table. “You serve steak here?”
“We do at that.”
“Two steak dinners then.” He motioned to the big table. “The cuts you serve that table.” When the barmaid glanced at the table, he added, “I know, it costs extra.”
She turned her attention to Dramos, but not before he saw a slight twitch cross her left eye. “How would you like them steaks cooked?”
Looking at Patrick, Dramos paused for his answer. “Well done,” the Irishman said, “but not burnt.”
“Run mine through the fire, then bring it to me,” Dramos said with a trace of a smile.
“One well done not burnt,” she said. “No guarantees and no refunds on that. And one rare. I’m sure the cook can manage that. Will that be all?”
“For now,” Dramos said and placed another gold coin on the table.
When she left the two men sat in silence, each realizing what they had to discuss was not meant for other ears. When she returned, she was carrying two mugs of beer and an unopened bottle of whiskey with two shot glasses.
“Boss said you gotta pay upfront for the whiskey,” she said, setting her load down on the table.
Sliding two more gold coins across, Dramos asked, “This cover it?”
“It will, with some to spare.”
“The change belongs to you, uhh…”
“Jennie,” she said.
“Jennie,” Dramos said, “who is the fancy table next to us for?”
“Mr. Whitford, of course,” she answered.
“He the man who runs things around here?”
“Most things.”
“How about you?”
“No man runs me. Besides, by this time next year, I’ll be gone.”
“To where?”
“Got my eye on a Saloon over in Purgatory Junction.�
�
Realizing the bartender was watching from across the room, Dramos reached for the whiskey bottle and slid his chair slightly as he did. From his new location, Jennie was blocking the bartender’s view. Dramos reached into his pocket and pulled out his bankroll and quickly peeled off five one hundred dollar bills. “Maybe you should consider moving sooner,” he said, slipping the money to Jennie’s hand.
With a smooth practiced ease, Jennie slid the money into her bustier and it disappeared down between her breasts. “What’s this for?” she asked.
“A signal when Whitford arrives.”
“You just wasted your money.”
“Why’s that?”
Jennie smiled. “I’ve never seen The King of England enter a room,” she said, “but I’d imagine it’s a lot like the way Whitford does.” She turned to go. “Them steaks should be ready soon,” she said as she walked off.
“Pretty girl,” Patrick said.
“I thought you were a man of the cloth,” Dramos said with a chuckle.
“Was a man of the cloth,” he reminded him. “Just pointing out God’s good work,” he added with a grin.
When Jennie returned later carrying a tray with their food, she sat the plates down and spoke in a hushed tone. “Figured for five hundred I owe you a bit of information, but I have to be quick, Charlie’s watchin’ at the bar. Whitford came to town two years ago. Word is he murdered the original owner of the ranch he now owns. Everyone in town pays money to keep their business safe. Problem is, it’s his men he’s keeping us safe from. You can tell his men because they all wear a red bandana around their necks, like some sort of brand. Some of his men come to town in the day, but Whitford and four others are only seen at night. Lots of whispers about him. Men that have gone to the ranch seeking work never return. If he were to die, no one here would care. I hope that helps you.”
“The Sheriff?”
“Paid for. Whatever your interest in Whitford is, I wish you luck.” With that, Jennie picked up her empty tray and left.
Dramos cut into his steak and watched admiringly as the blood ran across the plate.
“Lord A’mighty,” Patrick said. “Did they even cook that thing?”
“Enough for me,” Dramos said, chewing his first bite. “How’s yours?”
Patrick cut into his steak. Though there was some pink in the very center, he was relieved to see no blood draining from it. He quickly cut a bite off and brought it to his mouth. “Tis perfect,” he said. “In fact it be the finest meal I’ve had in a long time. I must be thankin’ ya.”
“You do look a tad underfed,” Dramos said in between bites.
“I don’t know how I could be repayin’ ya, Dramos.”
“You could tell me why you left the pulpit. As for me, I’m here to kill a vampire.”
Patrick stopped chewing for a moment, staring into the gunslinger’s eyes. A heartbeat passed before he swallowed the morsel in his mouth. “I’d judge you to be tellin’ the truth,” he finally said. “I must admit I am here for the same reason.”
“Explain, please,” Dramos said between bites.
Patrick paused. He had never spoken his story to a living soul before and felt hesitant to do so now. Then again, as the Catholics were wont to say, Confession is good for the soul. “Twas about three years back, give or take,” he began. “I was a pastor in a wee village in Massachusetts. I had a wonderful wife n’ two beautiful children: a boy of six and a girl of five. It was early fall and I had been gone all day, ministering to several members of my congregation who had fallen unexplainably ill. For reasons no one knew, two families had taken sickly, weak and anemic, unable to tend for themselves. I had taken food me Betsy had prepared and other supplies to each household.
“Twas past nightfall when I returned to me own home, cold, tired and hungry. I had expected to find me family ready for dinner. Instead, when I opened the door I found three men, three demons from hell itself, feasting on me family.
“I not be ignorant of such things, although I never personally experienced such in me life. On instinct I began quotin’ the scriptures, holding me Bible out before me. All three of the hell spawn screamed in agony and crashed through the windows outside. In all that was going on before me eyes, I did think I recognized one of the faces: a trapper who lived up the hill a bit.”
Patrick stopped, feeling a weight lifted from his own soul. Perhaps the Catholics were right all along.
“Your family?” Dramos asked.
“Dead,” Patrick replied. “Or undead as it were. I only had legends to educate me. Fearing they would rise and hunger for blood themselves, I busted a chair and drove wooden stakes through their hearts, and then burnt our cabin to the ground before I left.”
“Where did you go?” Dramos asked. He had never met a mortal vampire slayer in this country before. For all her knowledge, America was full of naive people who thought themselves too enlightened for such beliefs.
“I went to the cabin of the man whose face I had recognized and waited until after daybreak before goin’ in. The cabin’s windows had been boarded up on the inside and the only light came through the door I had forced open. I found him in his undead slumber beneath the bed he’d once slept in.”
“Did you kill him?”
“Eventually, yes. But not until I had forced him to give me the names of the other two.”
“Wait,” Dramos ordered. Now he was even more curious. “You made a vampire give you information?” In all his years he hadn’t managed that. He’d broken bones, tore off limbs, even set the creatures on fire, but it always ended with them taking their secrets to the grave with them.
“I did,” Patrick said. “And I still do. Every vampire I’ve killed has told me of at least one other. There be a trail of vampire corpses from Massachusetts to here behind me”
Patrick cut into his steak. “I’ve worked up a powerful hunger,” he said. “As you have finished your meal, perhaps you would be kind enough to share your story.”
“How do you make them confess their own?”
“When you have told me your story,” the Irishman said around a mouthful of steak, which he promptly washed down with the last of his beer.
Dramos nodded as he pulled out his tobacco fixing and rolled a cigarette. “That’d be a fair trade.”
Jennie appeared with two fresh beers, silencing both men. “Whitford should arrive soon,” she said quietly as she turned to leave.
When the barmaid was out of earshot, Dramos lit his cigarette. “As you figured, I am from Italy,” he began. “In my small mountain village an onslaught of vampires nearly destroyed every living thing before the remaining townsfolk overcame the creatures and banished them for good. Their leader, a creature named Tarczali, took flight to America, and I followed him. Many good people were killed in my village and I had taken a vow to avenge their deaths.
“It took many years in this vast country, but eventually I found the creature and destroyed it. In my travels I learned a Vampire King, an ancient creature once named Pierre Durie, had come to this new world with his blackened heart set on conquering it. I love this country, and I have made it my mission to see that doesn’t happen.”
Patrick considered this. “And how long have ye been in America?”
“Near forty years.”
Confused, Patrick looked into the eyes of the man seated across from him. “Impossible,” he said. “Ye can’t be more than mid-thirties yerself.”
Before Patrick could question this further, the doors to the Saloon swung open and a well-dressed older man surrounded by four hired guns entered. The loud good-natured chatter from the patrons of the Saloon paused at once, as if the entire room suddenly suffered a hitch in their collective breaths. Then, at a much quieter level, the talk continued.
Dramos shot a look across the room to Jennie, who nodded slightly to his silent question. As the men neared, Dramos looked at Patrick. “So,” he said, tell me about Ireland.” He uncorked the whiskey bottle and po
ured them each a shot.
Catching on quickly, Patrick began to drone on about his homeland. Even though he appeared to be looking straight at Dramos, his eyes cut side to side, awaiting the appearance of the men coming to the big table.
As the five men drew closer, Dramos felt the hair on the back of his neck bristle. He was glad he had finished his steak. The stench of death coming from the men might go unnoticed by everyone else in the room, but it would have ruined his meal. He’d have eaten it, but he wouldn’t have enjoyed it. When they had first entered he thought the vampire had brought slaves, but it smelled as if they were all bloodsuckers. That could propose a problem in the crowded room.
The group had no more than sat down when Jennie appeared and placed a bottle of whiskey and five shot glasses on the table. “Will there be anything else, Mr. Whitford?” she asked, a slight quiver in her voice.
“Not now,” he said, grabbing her wrist. “Perhaps later.”
When Jennie had gone Dramos could see the whiskey bottle without obstructions. He was glad to see it carried the same label as his own. Whitford caught him staring and smiled, nodding his head, the tips of pointed teeth barely visible.
Picking up his bottle, Dramos showed Whitford it was from his private stock. With a smile of his own he poured two more shots for himself and Patrick. “Toast them,” he whispered to Patrick.
Patrick turned to face the opposing table and raised his glass in salute along with Dramos. Whitford glared at them, obviously not happy they were drinking his whiskey. He covered his mouth and whispered something to his men.
“Once more,” Dramos said under his breath, while he refilled the glasses. Together he and Patrick saluted the vampire’s table again.
“Let’s go,” Dramos said, setting his glass down on the table. Patrick eyed the bottle. “Will ye be leavin’ that here? Seems too fine a whiskey to leave behind, being as you paid for the whole bottle.”
Morbid Metamorphosis Page 14
