The Comanche Vampire

by The Comanche Vampire [Evernight] (mobi)

  Ned headed home, quelling the urge to drive as fast as he’d ridden earlier. Even in his rural setting, he mourned the loss of absolute darkness and loathed the paved road. He didn’t like the ugliness of the utility poles bringing wire over distances, even though he actually enjoyed some of the modern comforts. Once he arrived he changed into a worn pair of buckskins and headed deep into his property.

  Along the winding waters of Medicine Creek, he kept a traditional lodge. Ned went there and built a fire. He sat alone in the night, shielded from most of the modern world, and purged Anne from his mind.

  The task wasn’t an easy one. The red-haired woman returned to his thoughts and Ned forced himself to go over all the reasons why anything further was impossible. If the fact he happened to be an undead vampire, an old soul trapped within a virile young man’s body while Anne lived, fully human, wasn’t enough, he considered the differences. She might teach history, but he’d lived it.

  As Pea’hocso he’d raided and killed with blood lust. Like any Comanche warrior from the 19th century, he had raped and looted with abandon. Unlike most of the others, however, he’d taken care and time with the women. Their shrieks, their terror-filled eyes bothered Pea’hocso so he’d been slow, even gentle as he ravished them. He’d brought a few back to the village as captives and if his wife hadn’t been crazy jealous he might’ve kept one around, made her a second wife. Ned doubted Anne would understand the killing or the rape or the concept of more than one wife. No matter how much she’d studied the Comanche or Native Americans, the truth would pack a hard punch through Anne’s reality.

  Once, he’d hated all whites but his emotions tempered over time. Ned learned a few hard lessons along the way and understood now what he hadn’t then. Under the skin, the taibo were people too. Their ways were different but beyond all else, they lived, they laughed, they shit, they fucked, and loved. Whites grieved their dead, loved and spoiled their children, and could be both good and evil.

  He and Anne were old and young, Comanche and white, educated and ignorant, cultured and wild. Too many extremes lay between them and even if they could come together, which would be nothing short of a miracle, the truth still remained. Blood flowed through her veins and her heart beat with life. He existed, dead but sustained through drinking blood. Should they manage to reconcile everything else, the fact he’d been a vampire since 1875 would put a swift end to anything between them. With two worlds, two diverse times and too extreme beliefs, human and night creature could never meet and become one.

  Ned accepted it as much as he could. Through the long night, punctuated with the sound of distant coyotes howling at a full moon, beneath the timeless stars, he stared into the fire and surrendered any hope of Anne. By dawn, he felt better. He could think and function without her image filling his head, her scent entering his nose. Maybe she’d witched him, but maybe he’d broken whatever enchantment might have been conjured.

  When evening came Ned reported to work at the casino and reclaimed his place. The moment he walked into the smoky interior, moved among the people, and stood at the tables, he became Ned Big Eagle. Pea’hocso retreated into memories and Ned existed in this time.

  Gary greeted him, asked after his health and Ned lied. “I had the screaming shits,” he told his buddy. “Must’ve been something I ate, but I’m good now.”

  “All right!” Gary grinned and slapped Ned’s palm in a high-five. “So we’re still on for the powwow tomorrow night?”

  Damn. He’d almost forgotten, but nodded. “Yeah, sure, we are.”

  He’d endure it, and pretend to enjoy it. At dinner break, Ned treated himself to a rare, tender steak. He savored the taste and thought if it’d been buffalo, it’d be perfect.

  A few times he caught himself watching the crowds for a glimpse of Anne, but she never appeared. Maybe she’d done some thinking too, and realized the college professor and the dealer had no future. He hoped she had so he wouldn’t bear the burden alone for killing what could have been.

  The hours passed slowly despite the Friday crowds. Once Ned caught a whiff of a similar perfume but with his heightened senses, classic in vampire lore, he knew it wasn’t Anne. Every human possessed an individual scent and no matter how much cologne or perfume masked it, once he’d smelled it, he knew it. For a Comanche hunter, it wasn’t so much of a stretch or skill.

  Accustomed to being alone, Ned found himself lonely. His shift loomed empty and when he headed home he wandered aimlessly through the house. After tending the horses, he rejected riding and tried to fill the hours until Gary would arrive.

  He passed the time but with no real purpose and although he lacked enthusiasm for the powwow, Ned perked up when he heard Gary’s truck rattle down the drive, weary of boredom. He gathered up a long-sleeved shirt, well aware it might grow cooler by morning, then tucked smokes and wallet into his pockets. By the time Gary tooted the horn, Ned was halfway through the front door. A different place might be what he needed to shake his thoughts away from Anne.

  “Hey, man, thanks,” he said as he swung into the cab of the pickup. Gary, face already painted, wore fancy dress. The bright costume boasted both feathers and beads. It suited Gary and to anyone but Ned, it probably looked authentic … but it was a far cry from what he recalled. Ancient songs issued from the truck’s stereo system and Ned recognized the sound of a group called Southern Thunder. He liked their sound although they did songs and chants from many tribes. They managed to sound authentic because he could shut his eyes and imagine the old times.

  “I’m glad you came,” Gary said. “It’s going to be awesome tonight.”

  He turned his attention from the road for long enough to stare at Ned. He must’ve noticed Ned’s daytime pallor because he frowned. “You doin’ all right? You look kinda pale.”

  “I’m good,” Ned replied. If he cast a reflection, he’d check it in the rear view mirror to see how bad he appeared, but he didn’t so he couldn’t.

  “Glad to hear it. I thought maybe your trouble came back or something.”

  “No, I’m feelin’ fine.”

  On the way up to Anadarko, Gary sang aloud to some of the familiar chants. Ned watched the play of sunlight over the open land as they sailed along the highway. He enjoyed the speed and he found the vistas he viewed nothing short of amazing. It reminded him of what a hawk soaring high in the sky must see. The two men talked in between as well, their topics alternating between history and sports. Ned could chat about history all day or night and offer his unique perspective, but he struggled with sports.

  He saw echoes of ancient tribal rivalries there, and the wild loyalties fans often displayed disturbed him. Fighting for your people, home or way of life was one thing but getting frenzied or violent over a ballgame was beyond Ned’s understanding. But men talked sports and so he’d learned to dissemble enough to talk any sport in season. The one positive thing he saw in professional games was that no one died.

  Even a warrior, he reflected, grew weary of blood and death.

  As soon as the two men stepped down from the truck at the powwow’s park-like setting, Ned heard the singers and the drum. The beat of it resonated through his soul, as if he even owned one, and remained the one thing about powwows he loved. The drum spoke to him and he felt each thump. They’d known it as the people’s heartbeat, the sound of the world, the heart of the earth and sky and wind. Nothing touched him more or felt holier.

  His feet wanted to dance the steps and he wished now he’d brought his seldom-used regalia to dance. A rush of happiness soared through Ned and he grinned, something he rarely did. Gary noted it and smiled. “You’re glad you came, I bet.”

  “Yeah,” Ned admitted. His friend shook his head. “I don’t get you, man. I just about have to drag your ass kicking and screaming to get you to go anywhere and do something. Otherwise, it’d be just work and sleep for you.”

  Work, sleep, and blood. Ned didn’t speak it aloud but the thought robbed some of the sparkle from his mome
ntary joy. He grabbed his lawn chair and headed for a spot beneath some tall shade trees. Gary followed. Once they’d set up, Gary headed off to join other dancers and left Ned to his own devices. Ned settled into the seat, glad of the shade. In it, he wouldn’t look so washed out. Evening shadows had begun to gather and it wouldn’t be long until dark. The smell of hot fry bread wafted on the slight breeze and he thought about buying some. Other stands offered up everything from cold soft drinks to hot dogs and cheap, China-made, faux Indian goods.

  If he wanted, Ned could buy a new hand tooled belt or a buckle, feathers or even a Cherokee ribbon shirt. Somewhere in the distance he heard kids at play, dogs barking, and someone singing, probably practicing for a dance. If Ned shut his eyes, he could almost summon up the past and pretend it was an evening in his village, before everything went bad.

  Several people greeted him, shook hands and paused to talk. In between, Ned decided he’d have some fry bread so he went over to buy it. He ate it as he wandered around, checking out the goods for sale. When he saw two red-tailed hawk feathers and some leather thongs for sale at one spot, Ned decided to buy both. He’d worn such in his hair as a warrior and though he couldn’t wear them at work, he wanted to wear them now. After finishing his fry bread, Ned braided his hair in two plaits and used the thongs to tie them. He worked the feathers into his hair so they stood up in back at a jaunty angle. Ned worked them until they leaned in opposite directions. He’d heard them sold and called ‘scalp feathers’. Once they’d meant the wearer had taken scalps, as he had, but now they were mere decoration and affectation. He might be the sole warrior present who had the right to wear them, and the idea pleased him very much.

  He sat down to watch the grand entry, sucking on a bottle of water. Listening to the drum, and watching the first dancers come onto the field wasn’t such a bad way to spend an evening, at least not in this modern age. Ned preferred fishing or riding one of his ponies or walking into the Wichita Mountains, but sitting at powwow was better than other pastimes. Grand Entry hearkened to something deep within. The chiefs and important people came first with the flags including the American stars and stripes. Then the elders, the male dancers in order from traditional to fancy, then the women, the younger boys, the girls, and the smallest of all. By the time all dancers were on the field and in motion, Ned almost wished he were among them. Then the powwow began and he watched. About the time he settled into the rhythm of things, as relaxed as he ever became, the back of his neck prickled.

  What some called a sixth sense, Ned termed intuition and he never ignored it. Awareness grew. If he’d been out riding in open country, there’d been a time when such a ripple would’ve warned of approaching danger, an enemy or a predator. Here, Ned knew what it portended and his senses reacted with mingled pleasure and terror. He knew where she stood before he turned his head to acknowledge her and smelled her sweet fragrance. When he did deign to look, Anne stood ten feet behind him on his right, her back against a tree. She wore faded blue denim and a spaghetti strap top. The emerald green garment left little to imagination, baring her shoulders and the top of her breasts. Ned watched as she chattered to another woman, older, grayer, and less flamboyant. He considered ignoring her but decided he couldn’t. If he did, she’d approach him.

  Ned found his feet and sauntered over to Anne. Although she appeared to be deep in conversation, he noticed the pink blush on her cheeks, which expanded as he came close. The nonchalant way she flipped her wild mane of hair over one shoulder indicated her awareness. Until he halted before her, he’d never thought about what to say.

  “Hello, Anne,” he said, with quiet dignity.

  Her dark eyes lit with fire. “Hi, Ned! I wondered if you might be here.”

  “I came with a buddy. He’s dancing tonight, but I’m not.”

  Her lips slanted into a smile. “I like your scalp feathers. They suit you.”

  “Do they?”

  Anne nodded. “It makes you look like a wild Comanche from the plains.”

  What could he say to her? Yes, that’s exactly what I am. He didn’t think so and said nothing.

  She studied him with a frown and then snapped her fingers. “That’s it,” she cried.

  “What?”

  “You reminded me of something when I met you the other night. I thought you looked familiar and now I’ve placed it. You look a lot like Pea’hocso, one of the last Comanche to surrender with Quanah Parker at Fort Sill. I’ll have to get the picture out now and see how much, but I’d swear you look close enough to be his twin.”

  Ned’s body tensed. No one ever pegged him for Pea’hocso from a photograph before but he’d heard the same thing, long ago. After the surrender, when he’d first become a vampire, he moved out near where he now called home and kept to himself. No one found it strange, but when he didn’t age and the others who knew him like their own hand did, he’d had to leave the area for a while.

  He returned after Teddy Roosevelt deemed it as a refuge and national grasslands. Quanah Parker had been on hand to greet the buffalo donated by a zoo back east and when he saw Pea’hocso, he cried out. “How is it, my friend, you have remained young and I have not? Is it magic?”

  “I am the son of Pea’hocso,” Ned had replied. Shame at his lie gnawed within. The truth, however, couldn’t be told. “I’m called Ned Big Eagle.”

  Over the decades, Ned came and went from the Lawton area. He took the first name of Edward, chosen from a man who treated him with kindness somewhere in New Mexico. Ned used his name translated into English as a surname. Sometimes he’d been Ned, his personal preference but at other times, he’d been Ed, Edward, and Eddie. Every ten or fifteen years, Ned left Oklahoma for a while. He returned when he thought he could pass as the next generation or as a younger brother to the man people might remember. It was one of many reasons why he kept solitary. The fewer who knew him, the fewer who’d recall he hadn’t changed when he came back after a long absence. Anne picked him out of an old picture and he wondered what to tell her. He hesitated a few moments too long, because her frown increased.

  “Are you all right?” she asked. A faint line between her eyebrows cut deeper. “You look pale, like you’ve seen a ghost. Or did I say something wrong?”

  “No, you didn’t and I’m good,” Ned answered. “You surprised me, that’s all. Pea’hocso is my ancestor, my three times great-grandpa.” He hoped he had the generations close enough to make it plausible.

  “Are you serious? That’s awesome,” Anne said with enthusiasm. “I’d love to talk with you sometime about your family history. Maybe you could share any stories that might’ve been handed down. I think I mentioned my specialty is Native American studies, but I did my thesis on Quanah Parker. Your ancestor would’ve been part of the Quohada too.”

  I was, he wanted to say. I can tell you anything you want to know. I was there. I am Pea’hocso. But Ned couldn’t. He should walk away now, unscathed and leave Anne undamaged. He’d bring her nothing but trouble and pain. “Sure, we can talk sometime. I know a lot of the old stories.”

  “Great! Give me your number and I’ll call you sometime.”

  “I don’t have a phone.” Ned didn’t, not a landline or a cell. With few friends and a near reclusive life, he’d never needed one. Anne pursed her lips. “Okay, so give me your email address.”

  Ned laughed. “I don’t have one of those either.”

  She stared at him and then she laughed too. “Do you live in the Stone Age or what?”

  “Just the age of the Comanches,” Ned said before he thought. Then he added, “I have a television, a microwave, and a stereo. I just haven’t had any use for a phone or computer.”

  “Then how I can get in touch?”

  “You can always find me at the casino.”

  “I came back, Thursday night. You weren’t there.” Disappointment darkened her tone. He couldn’t believe she’d returned. “I was sick,” he said but the lie sounded lame.

  Anne curled her hand
into a fist and touched his face with the finger side. “I hope you feel better now,” she told him and sounded like she cared. No one had given a shit about him in so long and the possibility she did evoked tenderness deep within. Ned covered her hand with his. “I’m fine. Would you like to sit with me and watch the dancing for a while? Gary brought a chair but he’s not using it.”

  “Haa,” she said in Comanche, her voice offering the right guttural sound. “Yes, I’d like to, Ned.”

  “What about your friend?” he asked, remembering the woman he’d seen her talking with.

  “I came alone,” Anne said. He’d probably just made the biggest mistake in at least a century, but Ned lacked the willpower to change it. “Let’s go,” he said as she slipped her hand into his. It fit, warm against his coolness and they walked together to sit down as the drum pounded its rhythm in his sluggish blood. He felt alive and for the moment, nothing else mattered.

  Chapter Three

  He’d never been seen at powwow or anywhere else in recent memory holding hands with a woman. Once, Ned knew they would’ve turned heads: a Comanche man with a white woman, but no one stared or paid any attention. In his original time, they would’ve shocked the socks off anyone of either race but here he saw natural blondes among the gathered crowd and faces ranging from African-American to Asian. He, however, was as aware of Anne’s hand as he would’ve been if he carried a writhing rattlesnake. Every detail etched into his consciousness, the heat of her skin and how soft it felt against his big paw. Her scent wafted from her hair and body into his nose, stronger than the aroma of fry bread and hot grease.

  Anne sat in Gary’s battered brown folding canvas chair and smiled. They watched the gourd dance, one of Ned’s favorites. The dancers wore everything from simple street clothes, little different from what he had on, to Native dress. All the men, from grandfathers to young men still in high school, carried rattles and moved with the same steps. Anne watched with interest, her eyes lit. From the comments Anne made, it was evident she understood what she saw. “Do you ever dance?” she asked.